“I always thought you hated reporters.”
“I do. They’re losers. But I like you.”
Ferris shook his head, thinking of all the braggarts and armchair generals he had worked with at Time. The news business was still riding high when he had joined the magazine in 1991. They had sent him to Detroit to cover what was left of the American auto industry. He had been bored stiff and was going to quit after a year, but the barons of Time were interested in sending him abroad eventually because of his Arabic, so they brought him back to New York to cover Wall Street. That was worse than Detroit, and Ferris was going to quit for sure when Time assigned him to do a short piece on the radical Muslims who had surfaced in the 1991 attempt to bomb the World Trade Center. Ferris began reading the Arabic papers and visiting mosques. The more he talked to the sheiks, the more obvious it became: These people hate us. They don’t want to negotiate anything. They want to kill us. Ferris knew he had stumbled into something important, but Time only ran a thousand words and when he complained, his editor lectured him about being a “team player.” Ferris thought of writing a book about radical Islam, but he couldn’t find a publisher who would give him an advance.
So he quit and went to graduate school. That was the only way he could follow what had become an obsession. His Arabic professors at Columbia were happy to have him back, although they disapproved of his studying Islamic extremism, as opposed to writing love letters to the downtrodden Palestinians. And then, six months in, there occurred one of those accidental encounters that in retrospect seem preordained: A former dean who had taken an interest in Ferris invited him to lunch. He beat around the bush for a while and at last, over coffee, asked Ferris if he ever thought of working for the Central Intelligence Agency. At first Ferris laughed. Thought about it? Hell, he’d been running away from it his whole life. Then it occurred to him: Stop running. This is who you are. And now, a decade later, he was in a hospital bed, with a steel pin in his leg, pleading to get back in the field.
Hoffman was smiling at him. “You remember what you said to me at that first meeting?”
Ferris tried to remember. The day he had graduated from The Farm, the director of training had summoned him and said that the head of the Near East Division wanted to meet with him. Right away. He made it sound like a very big deal. Ferris had been planning to spend a week in Florida, baking in the sun and drinking beer, but evidently that was out. He drove like a maniac up I-95, playing loud music the whole way, thinking how cool he was. When he got to Headquarters, the guard sent him to an office on the fourth floor. There was an ordinariness about the place that was suddenly obvious, now that Ferris was in. There were bulletin boards with notices of after-hours meetings that reminded him of high school. And there were little signs on the doors—“Electrical Closet,” “Utility Closet”—as if they were worried that people would stumble into the wrong one by accident. At The Farm, they had told the Clandestine Service trainees they were joining the most elite intelligence organization in the world. But looking at the lumpy, hollow-eyed men and women plying the halls at headquarters, Ferris knew that could not possibly be true. He was wondering if he had made the biggest mistake in his life.
And then he met Ed Hoffman. What struck him in that first encounter was Hoffman’s size. He wasn’t overweight, just bulky, one of those people who took up a lot of space even when he was sitting at his desk. He kept his hair in a buzz cut, like a Marine recruit, but he was probably in his early fifties. He peered over the top of his reading glasses when Ferris entered the room, in a look that suggested surprise and impatience, as if he had forgotten that he had summoned Ferris. But that wasn’t it. He was curious.
Hoffman was still sitting next to his hospital bed at Walter Reed, waiting for an answer. He was a little bigger now, a little softer in the middle. But he hadn’t lost that surprising twinkle in his eye, the nimbleness that didn’t fit with the heavy body.
“To be honest, Ed, I don’t remember anything I said that day, except, ‘Yes, sir,’ and ‘No, sir.’ I was trying to make a good impression. I remember you told me we had something in common. You said we were both related to CIA washouts. I’d never heard my dad described that way, although it was true enough. And you told me about your uncle Frank, who was station chief in Beirut until he got mad at his boss and quit. I liked that. Where is he now, your uncle Frank?”
“Playing golf in Florida with everyone else. You’re avoiding my question, Roger. Do you remember what you said at the end of our meeting, after I had quizzed you about the Islamic groups, and we had talked about bin Laden? You were the only person around Headquarters who seemed to know who he was, and you hadn’t even gotten your first real paycheck yet. Do you remember what you said at the end of that meeting, when I told you I was sending you to Yemen to work on Al Qaeda? You remember your response?”
“Honestly I don’t, Ed. It was a long time ago.”
“Well, I remember. You looked me in the eye and said: ‘This has to work.’ I never forgot that. When 9/11 happened, I thought, Get me that Ferris kid. Get him back from Yemen and make him my executive officer. I jumped you over about thirty people, did you know that? September eleven was a disaster for America, but for you, my friend, it was a good career move.”
“Give me a break, Ed. I’m lying in a hospital bed with half my leg shot off.”
Hoffman ignored him. “What you said back then is still true—now that we have Suleiman in our sights, now that you’re heading out to Amman. These people are killers. They want to bring this war to every shopping mall and supermarket in America. So I’ll play it back to you, Roger. This has to work.”
GRETCHEN FERRIS visited her husband every few days in the hospital. She was a dark-haired beauty, with a voluptuous figure that made the other men in the hospital stare at her and shake their heads. She never stayed very long. She always had to get back to the Justice Department. But she was devoted to Ferris, in her organized way. They had met as undergraduates at Columbia. She was smarter than him, at least by the conventional measures. She had nailed her law boards and sailed through Columbia Law School while Ferris was horsing around at Time. When he joined the CIA, she had come to Washington to clerk with a conservative circuit court judge, and when the Republicans took office, she was offered a job at Justice. She asked Ferris whether that would be a problem, both of them working for the government, and he said no. He was proud of her, just as she was proud of him.
She was a believer. That was the difference between them. For Ferris, most assumptions about life were inductive and open to revision. Gretchen worked the other way, from principle to practice. Maybe she had been less certain about things before, when they were younger, or maybe it was Ferris who had lost his bearings. The gap had worried Ferris a little before he went to Iraq, and it had grown wider. Gretchen didn’t want to know things that would upset her. When Ferris tried to explain what had been so disturbing about Iraq, she would shake her head, as if Ferris weren’t trying hard enough.
Whatever their differences, Gretchen knew how they might be bridged. Her appetite for sex was remarkable and, in a way, creative. It was something that set her apart from anyone’s stereotype of a conservative lawyer. When she visited him in the hospital the first time, she opened her raincoat to reveal a bra, a garter belt, and milky white skin. She wanted to give him a blow job. Ferris resisted at first, feeling that he was betraying all the wounded Joes on the ward, but not for very long.
When Ferris told her that he was going to Amman, she got tears in her eyes—not just about missing him, but about the nobility of what he was doing. She talked about how they were both fighting in the same war, and how they were sacrificing their personal happiness for a greater cause. That’s crazy, Ferris thought. Nobody stays married because it’s the right thing for the country. Already he was beginning to wonder if it would last. He had become a hero to her, rather than a real person. At the airport the day he left, Ferris tried to explain that he wasn’t sure he could stay fa
ithful, being so far away for such a long time. But she cut him off. “Just don’t ever tell me about it, and we’ll be fine,” she said. She kissed him and told him she loved him, and she meant it. Ferris said the words back, “I love you,” but in his mind they sounded hollow.
6
AMMAN
FERRIS PAID A CALL ON Hani Salaam at the General Intelligence Department the day after he returned from Berlin. A guard at the checkpoint stopped his armored SUV at the entrance to the complex and then waved him through. The word had evidently gotten around that he was a friend of the pasha. That was the thing about a country like Jordan, where life revolved around a royal court: Gossip flowed as freely as water; all the courtiers shared the same information, and everybody instantly seemed to know everything. The palace knew within a few days, for example, that Ferris had become acting chief of station a few weeks after his arrival, when Francis Alderson was expelled. That was supposed to be a big secret, but this was a company town, in more ways than one.
The GID’s headquarters stood atop a steep bluff in Abdoun, not far from the U.S. Embassy. The building was hidden from the road, but when you turned a corner, it loomed suddenly like a stone castle. Inside the inner courtyard flew the ominous black flag of the Moukhabarat, bearing the Arabic script that translated: “Justice Has Come.” On a clear night, the lights of Jerusalem were visible in the far distance. The GID was vast. Nobody knew how many people were on the payroll of the secret police, so they imagined the worst. Was the person sitting next to you in the restaurant an informant? What about the bawab who guarded your apartment building, or the person in the next office at work? Probably all of them, and a dozen more who circumscribed every point of your life, but nobody knew. Young Jordanians sometimes played a game in bars, trying to guess who was from the Moukhabarat, but they dared to do so only if Daddy was rich enough to fix things if someone overheard. This was Hani’s power, that in the absence of real knowledge, people imagined his men were everywhere.
Ferris was carrying a locked briefcase containing a set of NSA intercepts, chronicling the conversations of some members of the king’s family who had lately been demanding more money from the palace. The intercepts were Hoffman’s idea. They were an offering to Hani, to be presented as soon as Ferris could arrange an appointment. The message was: We deliver. Now you deliver.
Hani’s secretary was waiting for Ferris at the front door and escorted him upstairs. Ferris walked past a bright mural on the first floor depicting the young king and his family, and then up a grand stairway. It was a bit like a fancy hotel lobby, decorated in lustrous teak and polished chrome. The elegant interior would have surprised most Jordanians, who imagined the intelligence headquarters as a Kafkaesque prison. But GID officers historically had treated themselves to the good life, sometimes to excess. One of Hani’s predecessors had gone to prison after it was alleged that he been steering contracts to friends who, in their gratitude, had been depositing large sums in a secret bank account.
Ferris was escorted to the office of Hani’s genial deputy, who proffered tea and made small talk. The director would be free in a few minutes, he said. Eventually an aide announced that the great man was ready, and Ferris was marched down the hall to a large office decorated with pictures of the young king and his father. Hani rose from his desk and strode toward the American.
“Salaam aleikum, Hani Pasha!” said Ferris. The American leaned toward the Jordanian and kissed him on both cheeks. Hani seemed amused at the show of respect. He took a puff of the cigarette in his hand and blew a perfect smoke ring in Ferris’s direction.
“You are most welcome, Roger. We are sure you must be an Arab. You have such good manners. That is why we like you so much.”
“I’m not an Arab. Just an American who can speak the language.”
“Perhaps a little bit, long ago.” Hani smiled. “A grandmother. A distant grandfather. I know it. I am never wrong.”
“This time you are.” Ferris smiled amiably. He never talked about his background. The agency frowned on giving away too many details, but it wasn’t just that. Ferris didn’t think his personal life was anyone else’s business.
“Y’allah! Come sit down.” Hani motioned for him to sit on the couch. He looked especially like Dean Martin this morning. He was dressed in a tweed jacket, an open-neck shirt and an elegant new pair of suede loafers he must have bought on a recent trip to London.
“You look well,” said Ferris. It was true. The man was in the bloom of good health. He must have treated himself to a very high-class hooker in Berlin as a reward for his exploits.
“How is your leg, my dear? You were limping in Berlin. You tried to hide it, but I could see. I hope you are healed. I worry about you.”
“I’m fine. All the better for seeing you, Hani Pasha.”
“I got back yesterday from Germany. An excellent country, but they do not have an intelligence service. I don’t think they ever realized I was there. When I got home, my people told me you wanted to see me. Right away!” Hani raised his eyebrows.
“It’s Milan. The Europeans are going crazy. The White House is going crazy. And everybody’s screaming at us.”
“And at me.” Hani threw up his hands. “I have put off liaison meetings with the Italians, French and British this morning, so that I could see you. Everyone wants results tomorrow. I think they do not understand intelligence very well. It is not a microwave oven. Ed Hoffman understands. He knows that what is done quickly is not done well.”
“Your Berlin operation definitely got Mr. Hoffman’s attention. He asked me to congratulate you. I think he was very impressed.” Ferris stopped. He was on the verge of lying.
“Tell Ed that I am grateful for his praise. Someone else, I would think it was just flattery, because he wants something.” He offered a thin smile, which rippled his lips like a shark’s fin breaking water.
“We want to move fast on this, Hani Pasha. As you can imagine, Mr. Hoffman has lots of questions about the man we met in Berlin, Mustafa Karami.”
“Oh yes, I can imagine.”
“Specifically, Mr. Hoffman wanted to know how your second meeting went.” Ferris didn’t want to seem pushy, getting to the point so quickly, but you never knew how much time you had with Hani. The king had a habit of showing up at odd times, causing the intelligence chief to disappear for hours on end.
“The case is complicated,” answered Hani. “It’s a good case, but complicated.”
“Why? You had that guy cold. ‘Talk to your mother.’ Best pitch I’ve ever seen. And you’re going in a direction that interests us.” Ferris left the thread out there for Hani to pick up, but he did no more than register Ferris’s praise.
“We do have him ‘cold,’ as you say. The second meeting went well, and so did a third one I had just before leaving. He is our boy now. We own him, most certainly. But it’s still complicated.”
Ferris waited for Hani to explain, and when he didn’t, he asked again, “Why is it complicated?”
“Because Al Qaeda is complicated. There are layers and layers and layers. Anyone who tries to move from one layer to another is suspect. You don’t do anything on your own, you wait to be asked.”
“But we can’t wait. You know that. Especially after Milan. We hope you’ll put Mustafa in play quickly.”
“We can’t wait, I agree. Waiting could get more people killed. But then, on the other hand, we must wait. I am a patient man, even when I am in a hurry. I took too much time setting up this operation to be rushed now. Even if Ed Hoffman wants me to move quickly.”
Ferris paused before responding. Hani was being so careful. This was the right time to offer the gift he had brought along.
“Mr. Hoffman wanted me to give you something. You’ve been asking for these, I think. They’re transcripts of phone calls in Europe and America from some of the members of the royal family who have been…worrying the king. You will be interested especially in the ones with the Lebanese banker in Paris who is handlin
g some of the royal accounts.” Ferris opened his briefcase and handed Hani the stack of transcripts.
“Ah yes.” Hani glanced at a few pages and then closed the folder. He narrowed his gaze. “Well, that is very nice. His Majesty will be interested, I am sure. How nice of Ed to be so generous.” Hani seemed slightly miffed at the gift, although Ferris wasn’t sure why. The king himself had muttered to the director about his wayward siblings the last time he came to Washington.
“He wants to see you. He’s coming to Amman.”
“Yes, I know. He needs something, and I am wondering what it is.” Hani smiled and lit another cigarette. Ferris didn’t ask how he knew. Maybe Hoffman had told him; maybe he was only pretending he knew. It didn’t matter.
“He’s going to want to talk about the case,” said Ferris.
“He is welcome. Ahlan wa sahlan. Just so long as he doesn’t try to run the operation. He will make mistakes. That is why we like you, Ferris. You know what you don’t know. You are young, you are smart, you speak Arabic, you respect your elders. You are a secret Arab.” Hani gave him a wink.
“Can we get your debriefing of Karami?” asked Ferris. “That would help me with Hoffman.”
“No. I am very sorry. That would not be appropriate. But I will summarize for you what he told us. Karami has contact with a man who was in the training camp in Afghanistan. This man is based in Madrid. They meet in Budapest. A man in Dubai who sends him money gets it from someone in Karachi, but we don’t know his name yet. Karami was a courier in the USS Cole operation in 2000. He traveled once to Yemen, but they haven’t used him on any operations since then. He’s a sleeper. They’re keeping him in place for something. Or maybe they’ve forgotten about him. I am sorry to say, habibi, this man by himself is not going to take us inside the tent. If he tries to go see the big men, they will say no. But I have another idea for him.”
Body of Lies Page 6