I tossed and turned through the night, unable to solve the puzzle, which I didn’t really expect to do. Nor could I clear it away and lull myself to sleep. I snuck a look at the clock at two and gave up. One of the liberating things about living alone was being able to switch on the lights or the television without disturbing your partner. Turning over in bed had been enough to wake my ex and foul her mood for the day. This little bit of freedom was much appreciated. What I didn’t appreciate was staring at the tube in the middle of the night. I surfed around once and, on the second turn, lucked onto a newsmagazine doing a piece on terrorist cells in Yemen. It was mostly old footage slapped together with a bunch of talking heads and a very British narrator, but it got my attention. What we were looking at was a pattern that was a perfect fit with al-Qaeda of the Arabian Peninsula, AQAP. Their routine had evolved to using mundane objects filled with powerful explosives undetectable by scanning. Why not breast implants, why not anthrax? It was exactly what Alison had postulated, but I had been infected enough by her disinformation to become resistant.
Yemen is a raw and beautiful place. It is poorly developed and known to be corrupt despite having the only semi-republican-style government in the Arab states, if you don’t count Egypt. Yemen has been strongly pro-American and hadn’t been on the terror map prior to the attack on the USS Cole in the port of Aden in 2000. After that, and then 9/11, we leaned on them hard and virtually destroyed al-Qaeda in Yemen. The terrorists seemed down for the count until 2006, when twenty-three of their operatives escaped from a Yemeni prison. Their leader, Nasser al-Wahishi vowed to rebuild al-Qaeda from the ashes, and he was as good as his word. The radical Yemeni-American cleric Anwar al-Awlaki helped the cause, and so did the dozens of Yemeni al-Qaeda members released from Guantanamo right back to their Yemeni cell. Al-Awlaki was in the thick of it. He is the guy that counseled an American major—a psychiatrist, no less—to kill thirteen comrades at Fort Hood. It was a big blow for them. But what struck me most of all was their schemes to export terror in the form of explosives concealed in other items. They had gotten more sophisticated, and they were smart. They stuck to what they knew. In the fall of 2010, good fieldwork interrupted the shipment of explosive copier cartridges destined for Chicago in the airports of Dubai and Britain. The bombs were meant to explode and take down the planes carrying them. It was close. They had become increasingly good at the task, and it was becoming their trademark. That wasn’t the way Pakistani cells operated. We were looking at an AQAP operation. Then we took al-Awlaki and a couple of his deputies out. Maybe this is retribution. Let us know they hadn’t gone away.
I wanted to share my epiphany, but it was four a.m.—still too early for Secret Service boys, who didn’t hit the gym till near daylight.
26
When Thomas Lee bought 2,800 Northern Virginia acres from Lord Fairfax, he named his new farm Langley, after his ancestral home in England. By 1953, Allen Dulles, brother of Secretary of State John Foster Dulles and director of the CIA, had convinced the government to buy a large piece of the property to house his new security service, the Central Intelligence Agency, successor to the OSS of the war years. Langley was it. Harrison and Abramowitz, the architects of the United Nations building, were chosen for the project, which is interesting to ponder. Pretty soon the original buildings were outgrown. The facility expanded, and a visitors center and museum were added to the campus.
There are other offices now and other buildings, and Langley is almost as well known as the Pentagon, and nearly as dysfunctional. Layers of employees separate the people of the clandestine services from the Disneyland atmosphere. My contact with the agency has been zero, but I knew that an important clandestine activities office at 7 World Trade Center was destroyed during the terrorist attack. There are other, more visible offices in the city, but talking to them is a joke. I called a couple of numbers in New York and finally Langley. I learned more than I needed to about job opportunities and visitor hours, but I couldn’t get through to the proper desk to get a line on Alison’s story. Far too secret. It was as though their real operations were meant to be unspoken. I knew I could do it the hard way as a walk-in, but I didn’t have days of interrogation to waste. The way I saw it, the country might not have much time to waste, either.
I thought about the bureau and Homeland—they were real possibilities—but going in cold is like walking up to a film star at a party and expecting to be taken seriously. I needed an introduction, a name. Of course, I had a name; I had a handful of them. I had visions of the World Trade Center. Ten years had flown by. Anyone that had been down there would never forget it. We worked, and cried, and dug, and prayed together, and then we went our separate ways. But Cranford had become a deputy director of the Secret Service, and the Secret Service is part of Homeland. He had to be a big-time insider now. He’s my man. I hit the address book on my phone and found his e-mail address and phone number. It was a 202 area code, and I hoped it was his cell.
I punched send, got out of my chair, and paced while the connection cranked up. Tonto figured we were going out, and actually got off the chair. He yawned and hopped back to his spot as soon as he heard me begin a voice message.
My cell phone rang less than five minutes later.
“Wendell, Dell Cranford. How are you, man?”
“Dell, thanks for getting back to me so fast. I’m well. Don’t need a Secret Service detail. How’s the family, and how are you, big shot?”
Cranford laughed. “Fine. We’re all fine. Liz and the kids are all at college. She’s getting her master’s, the twins are joining fraternities and drinking, and I’m working my ass off. All is right with our world. What gives with you? You didn’t call at six thirty to say hello, not after . . . what is it, maybe five or six years?”
“I was busy.”
“Asshole.”
“What about you? Government doesn’t have phones?”
“I have a family and a president to take care of.”
“Truce.”
Dell and I met an hour and thirty-two minutes after the second tower was hit on 9/11. At the time, he was assistant to the agent in charge of the New York region of the bureau. We arrived after the firefighters and the first wave of responders were trapped in the rubble. The second tower had fallen, and the air was thick as oatmeal and it was impossible to breathe. The grit between your teeth and on your tongue—sand, cement, ash—made your mouth dry and speaking a chore. It was impossible to speak anyway. Getting there was swimming upstream against the masses of people fleeing the area for safety and air. Traffic stood still. Cops were trying to unravel every intersection, and sirens were lost in an orchestra of untuned wails. We drove on the sidewalks when we had to and inched our way downtown. People scattered but understood and encouraged us. Our unmarked car was filled with doctors and nurses. We had a dome light, a siren, and a honking horn. Just like everyone else, it seemed.
Dell may have been a big wheel in the bureau, but he was as lost as the rest of us in the horror of the scene. Surgical masks helped against the toxic air and the stench of burning flesh, and everyone stopped by the ambulances and first-aid stations for a few seconds of oxygen. I was outside the NYPD command center when Dell stumbled by, coughing and unable to catch his breath. He was red-faced, choking, and drenched in perspiration beneath the dark nylon jacket emblazoned with FBI. I led him into one of the makeshift triage areas, washed out his eyes, and hooked him up to an oxygen mask until he could calm down and assume a normal color. He didn’t say a word as I talked him down. Then he made a gesture at the carnage around us and began to cry. And then I did. When we regained control, we chatted for a while, then went about our jobs. Twelve hours later he came by to thank me, and we took a dinner break together. We shared a lot that week and hung out quite a bit as things settled down. Something happened to all of us that day, that week, and we were able to talk about things that men rarely discussed. I knew less about Dell’s professional life than I did about his parents, his marriag
e, and how his religion sustained his morality and his faith in humanity. No man ever told me about his dreams before. The intrusion of . . . I guess it was mortality, and the unthinkable destruction gave us both a sense of proportion and an understanding of how little space we occupied in the big scheme. I spilled my guts out as well. We stayed in pretty close touch for a while, until he moved back to D.C., but there was a special bond between us.
“Dell, I’m sniffing around the edge of something that I think could be very serious,” I said, and then I told him the story as concisely as I could, trying not to forget any details or color the events with my interpretation. I found myself switching ears, cranking my neck, moving the cell phone between my fingers, and generally fidgeting uncomfortably. I pressed on. Dell listened, interrupted a few times when I wasn’t quite clear, and heard me out.
“Okay. This is out of my jurisdiction, but somebody in our shop may know something. I’m far from being on the inside, but generally speaking, it does smell like a Yemeni al-Qaeda–type operation.”
I thought to caution him against spreading the word but stopped myself. I had no reason to keep the lid on anything, and I trusted his judgment. Dell Cranford was about as white-hat, and white-bread, as anyone I knew. And he was smart. He continued. “Our lines of responsibility have blurred a lot. Keeping track of foreign intelligence services, including MI6, was bureau business in the old days; now everybody does a little of everything. Secret Service is under Homeland now, so is ICE and customs. The bureau, the DEA, and Washington Interpol are still at Justice. I’ll start here, then I’ll try the others. My buds at the bureau are the big cheeses now. Somebody has to know something.”
I thanked him and felt much relieved. We were still in the dark, but if anyone could get to the people with answers, it would be Dell Cranford. And since I wasn’t dumb enough to make the same mistake twice in as many days, I called Deuce and left the quick version on his voice mail. He didn’t know Dell, but I suspected that he would soon enough.
I put my cell phone down on the desk, massaged my neck, got up, and headed to the door. Tonto wasn’t convinced of my intentions. He lifted his head above his crossed paws and watched until I reached the door. Then he slithered down from the chair, stretched front and back, and trotted to my side. I always assume he’s thinking some wiseass thoughts about my behavior, and it made me smile.
27
I wasn’t rested or refreshed. Neither a lousy night’s sleep nor my conversation with Dell did anything to calm my hunger. There wasn’t much on hand, but I mangled four oranges in the juicer, brewed some strong coffee, and then searched around for something to toast. I settled for another old bagel from the freezer, defrosted it in the microwave, and sliced and toasted it. It was too much work for too little bagel, but with butter and salt it satisfied my craving. I checked my e-mail, looked at the newspaper online—no terrorist attacks—walked Tonto, and headed for the garage.
“No car here, doc. I heard you had an accident or something,” the morning attendant answered.
“Oh, man. Sorry, Louis. I forgot.”
“Hey, I get it. You got a routine, it’s hard to break.” He was right. I wheeled around, waved as I turned, and climbed up the ramp. Even when I drove it, I often wondered if the angle of the ramp was steeper than the fifteen-degree max on the treadmill. Fast-walking it, my thighs were burning by the top. I caught a taxi right out front and was planning my day when my phone rang. It was an unfamiliar 202 number with a lot of zeroes. The main switchboard of some government agency.
“Wendell, got a minute?” I recognized Dell’s voice.
“Hey. I’m in a cab. What have you got?”
“Mucho, my friend, mucho. To begin with, you are on the money about Alison. They’ve had her since she showed up here last year, though her real name may still be in doubt. You’re probably so confused already that her name doesn’t matter. But she’s definitely an asset working here. Most of what we do has been pretty much bilateral. Information-sharing is our lifeline. We have the same international agendas, or at least we’re targets of the same enemies. The UK has a longer history of a sizable Muslim population than we do, and they’re more influenced by the radical cells than Muslims here. Anyway, we trade information on a daily basis, and apparently the flow is mutual and free and at all levels. That said, we have assets there, as in every country, and they do the same. It’s the way intelligence services work. We avert our eyes, so do they. Not only do both sides know it goes on, but we can usually identify the assets. There’s not much call for us to do real spying on each other. The rules have changed. We’re on the same side on about every significant issue, and we both find our security challenged by the same people. We are definitely in this together, and no one wants to upset a system that works.
“Anyway, your Alison has had no presence at the Farm or in diplomatic circles down here, but the local office of the bureau knows her well.”
“In D.C.?”
“No, New York. She was in to see them last week. My guys remember her well because what she was doing was out of protocol—and because she was hot.”
“I figured. What was she seeing them about?”
“Well, she was going pretty much where you were. Threat. Terrorist cell in the UK. Target in New York. What made no sense was why it didn’t come down through channels. Urgent information gets a good look. I mean, if the embassy, or the MI5, or MI6 liaison officer sent us the memo, we would have to give it a hard look, even if it was farfetched. And we would have had to take a position and answer for it.”
“You mean to cover your ass.”
“Correct.”
“So they thought she was blowing smoke?”
“No, not really. It was just that there was no hard evidence, and she was operating out of channels. It was a little freaky.”
“Yeah, but this is going down. Two people have died for it, and whatever is going to happen is going to happen soon. Very soon.” As I said that, a wave of concern rushed over me as I caught the eyes of the driver locked on mine. He looked away and I glanced at his New York City Taxi and Limousine Commission license, having no idea what nationality he represented. The guilt of lumping the innocent into a large, dirty bag shamed me, but the reality of my fear made me measure my words. Which I should have done under any circumstances.
“And how do you know that?” Dell asked.
“It’s obvious. The thing is coming to a head, like a cyst full of pus.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Doctor talk.”
“Gross.” He sounded like one of his teenage children.
“Really, Dell, it’s now,” I said, fairly evenly. The driver had already looked away, aware that his eavesdropping had not gone unnoticed.
“I understand the urgency, but there isn’t enough evidence for anything but observation. I can get some people on it today, but it will be investigative, not interventional. No action. That’s outside my job description.”
“Jesus, Dell.”
“Think clearly, man. What do we know? Who are we supposed to arrest? Agents of friendly foreign powers don’t act the way Alison did. Her information came from the Firm, yet she was bypassing them. How should we respond to that? Well, let me tell you how we responded. They tried to draw her with the usual ‘we will look into it’ routine, but she knew it was the brush-off. She probably wasn’t surprised when they called the boys in London to check.”
“What was their take in London?” I asked, already pretty sure the news would not be well received.
“Good agent, mixed up. Please have her call in when next you see her. No one saw her again. Obviously, she got it.”
Dell wasn’t going to be a lot of help, at least not at this point. But it was important to get serious people on the job.
I was happy to get out of the taxi, and I tipped my way out of feeling like a bigot. Wondering what had gone through the driver’s mind when the address I had given him was buzzing with police cars, barriers, che
ckpoints, and blue uniforms, I smiled my embarrassment away.
Getting back to routine has its benefits, and the day passed pleasantly, if uninterestingly. Nothing short of apocalypse seemed out of the ordinary anymore. And then Alison called.
28
My conversation with Alison was brief. She didn’t need more than a mention of my call to Dell to put it all together and enter the “I can explain everything” mode. She was good. Or it was true. Governments are bureaucracies, and bureaucracies are sometimes slow as glaciers and dumb as stones. This might be one of those times. I was convinced even without hearing the passion in her voice, and we agreed to meet at the end of the day. I was sensitized enough to Alison’s outsider status to avoid home, and I scrambled for someplace where observation or listening-in was unlikely. Of course, avoiding scrutiny has its disadvantages. If your cover is blown, there is no talking your way out of it. Avoiding scrutiny invites scrutiny, but hiding in plain sight wasn’t an option when an intelligence service, a narcotics cop, and maybe a killing crew had made some assumptions. I only wish I understood what they assumed.
Wendell Black, MD Page 12