In July of 2001, I convinced Carlton to send me to Florida and allow me to do a liaison with the FBI to see what the Saudi was doing on American soil. However, by the time the Agency had finished all the paperwork required for such an operation, the al-Qaeda operative had flown an American Airlines plane into one of the Twin Towers.
When Carlton called Danny Jarrar and me into his office one week after 9/11, I expected him to send us to Florida to ferret out some intelligence—albeit too late—on the Saudi. Instead, he sent us back to Norman, Oklahoma to check out the Arab community we’d reported on several years earlier.
Within a week of our arrival in Norman, we discovered some of the 19 hijackers had been enrolled at the Airmen Flight School, an aeronautical training school affiliated with the University of Oklahoma. In fact, by researching the activities of Zacarias Moussaoui, a Moroccan student who had been dismissed from the flight school, we determined al-Qaeda had been using universities as a conduit to bring operatives into the United States and to recruit other students to their Islamic cause.
Danny used his own Arabic heritage—his father was from Lebanon—to make friends with some of the Muslim students at OU. I stayed in the shadows and ran him as my asset. We obtained several bits of intel using this method. Carlton was especially pleased when we delivered Moussaoui’s roommate, Hussein al-Atlas, over to the FBI for questioning.
During the two months Danny and I were living in Norman, I discovered how difficult it was for me to adjust to a “normal” American lifestyle. I felt as uncomfortable attending a football game or shopping at a Wal-Mart, as I’m sure some suburban factory worker would have felt had he been placed in Cairo, Egypt for two months.
On the other hand, Danny enjoyed our stay in Oklahoma. In fact, I caught him talking to Carlton about getting our time in the area extended. When I confronted him about it, he said he’d fallen in love with Michelle, a waitress he was dating, and he wanted to stick around the city because of her. I had threatened to tell the DDO’s office he was violating procedures, and, although I wouldn’t have ratted on him, my threat got his attention, and we were back at Langley within the week.
Now, remembering my stateside experiences in Oklahoma, I decided if the Deputy Director ended up firing me, I would need to find a place to live overseas, preferably, a large city.
As I rolled out of bed, someone knocked on my bedroom door.
“Hey, Titus. Can I come in?”
I slipped on a pair of jeans and opened the door. Greg was standing outside with a cell phone.
He handed it to me, whispering, “It’s Mr. Carlton.”
I was still processing my conversation with Carlton when I took the elevator down to the bottom level of The Gray. He told me to report to his office by two o’clock in the afternoon. He’d given me no details about our upcoming meeting—details he so stringently required of others—and I was trying to decipher what it meant when he told me we were meeting in his office and not with the DDO.
Perhaps his office was simply my first stopover, and I would go upstairs to face DDO Robert Ira alone. However, since he also told me to get started with my physical therapy, I wondered if I still had a future with the Agency. Conversely, if I was going to be let go, maybe he was simply giving me one last chance to use the Agency’s expensive facilities.
Despite my highly rated processing skills, when I entered the rehab room, the only thing I knew for certain was that my first session of physical therapy was about to begin. Possibly, after my upcoming meeting with Carlton, it would also be my last session.
As soon as I closed the door, a woman stuck her head around an office door and said, “Hi, Titus. I’m Janice, your physical therapist. I’ll be with you in just one minute.”
She ducked back inside the room and then reappeared in a few minutes, carrying some papers in her hand. She waved them at me. “Dr. Howard sent me over a set of recommendations to get your leg back in shape.”
“Did he mention I only needed physical therapy after he examined my leg?”
She laughed lightly. “After a few sessions with me, you won’t need this anymore.” She leaned over and took the cane out of my hand, treating it as if it were a disgusting piece of trash. “If you’ll just take a seat, I’ll evaluate your leg. After that, we can get started with your therapy.”
Janice was in her mid-fifties with short, curly, blond hair and brown eyes. She proved to be a no-nonsense kind of woman and refused to pay any attention to the grunts and grimaces I uttered when I was doing her exercises. However, she did reassure me several times that the workout was going to benefit my leg—eventually.
I decided to take her word for that.
After massaging and exercising my sore limb, she had me use a recumbent bicycle, instructing me to pedal backwards. I found the task easier when I focused on something else—like formulating some kind of plea I might make to the DDO to spare my career at the Agency.
Would a desk job really be that bad?
In the midst of my reverie, I glanced over at Janice. She was putting away a set of weights I’d been using earlier, and, as she did so, a gold necklace swung free from her workout jacket. Suspended from the chain was a big gold cross.
Although I wasn’t a gregarious type of guy, seeing the cross struck a chord with me, so I stopped pedaling and asked her, “Why do you wear that?”
She ran her fingers around the edges of the cross. “Because it’s a reminder.”
“A reminder of your faith?”
“Not exactly.” She appeared thoughtful for moment. “It’s a constant reminder of the one in whom I put my faith.”
I thought back to that night in the safe house. I nodded. “I think I get that.”
My last night in Tehran, after Rahim and I had finalized the details of our trip across Iran, Javad had come to sit with me in the living room of their small house.
“Hammid,” Javad had said, kneeling down beside my bed, “before you leave, I must ask you a very important question.”
I already knew what that question would be because, during my confinement, our main topic of conversation had been the importance of his faith in Jesus Christ. Often, he would retrieve a worn Bible from a hidden panel in the wall and read aloud to me, stopping often to explain—as if I were a child—about sin, about forgiveness, and about how much God loved me.
I had politely replied. “Okay, Javad, ask me your question.”
“Will you make a commitment to become a follower of Jesus Christ?”
“Yes, Javad, I will.”
He didn’t seem surprised.
Following physical therapy, I went back upstairs to my bedroom and found the items I’d asked Greg to purchase for me after my phone call from Carlton.
My instructions had been simple: “Go to the nearest department store and buy me the most expensive suit and dress shirt you can find.”
In addition to the suit and dress shirt, a couple of silk ties were laid out on the bed. Although I hadn’t included the ties in my instructions, Greg obviously knew my head was on the chopping block at the Agency, and he wanted me to look my best when I stood on the guillotine.
With Greg as my chauffeur, I headed over to CIA headquarters at Langley shortly after one o’clock.
A few minutes after leaving the residential area, Greg looked over at me in the passenger seat and said, “Man, you look nice.”
“Well, thanks. I clean up pretty good.”
“An expensive suit helps, though.”
“True. How much do I owe you?”
“It’s an Armani. It set you back almost two thousand dollars.” He glanced over at me to see my reaction to this news.
Knowing he was expecting it, I feigned surprise. “Wow, that much?”
Arriving in Tehran as Hammid Salimi, I’d been carrying a suitcase full of suits, some of them much more expensive than the Armani. Of course, on that mission—as well as many others—Support had clothed me free of charge.
Even so, I’d accum
ulated enough paychecks to have a hefty bank balance, so purchasing a nice suit wasn’t going to break me. Perhaps, I might even need it in my next career, whatever that might be.
“When I get access to my bank account, I’ll reimburse you.”
“No hurry,” he replied. “I put it on my credit card.”
We rode along quietly for a few minutes.
Then he blurted out, “You could use a good haircut, though.”
I considered his advice. I decided I might as well go out in style, if I was about to be given the “opportunity” to resign. “You’re right. Let’s find a place to get my hair cut.”
“Are you sure?” he asked. “My instructions were to deliver you to Langley. There might be a problem if we stopped somewhere else.”
I tried to reassure him. “No, it’s okay. My debrief is over. I’m not in quarantine anymore.” I pointed to a sign displaying a pair of gigantic scissors, “Pull in here.”
For a moment, I thought he wasn’t going to stop, but at the last minute, he reluctantly made the turn and parked in front of Anne’s Styling Salon. After lending me some cash, he reminded me it wouldn’t look good if I showed up late for my appointment with Carlton.
Jim had been right about Greg; he was a twitchy kind of guy. I promised him I would hurry, though.
Inside the salon, I was draped in a black cape by a young blond stylist with short, spiky hair.
She asked, “What kind of cut would you like?”
It was the hardest question I’d been asked in a long time.
During my time at the safe house in Tehran, my hair had grown very long—something unacceptable for men in Iran—so Rahim had insisted on cutting some of it off before we started our cross-country trek. Although he had planned for me to spend the journey huddled in the trunk of his car and out of sight, he said making me presentable was a necessary precaution in case something unforeseen happened, and I had to be seen in public. In that event, he didn’t want my long hair to draw any extra attention to the two of us. After he presented his arguments, I allowed him to whack off as much of my hair as he wanted.
However, the scissors Rahim had used had been ill suited to the task, and, even if they had been razor sharp, I seriously doubted Rahim would have made it as a hairstylist at Anne’s Styling Salon.
The spiky-haired lady continued to brandish her shears in front of me, waiting for an answer to her styling question.
I finally said, “I’ll let you decide.”
She spoke to my reflection in the mirror. “I hope you’re not offended, but whoever cut your hair the last time did a really lousy job.”
“I’m not offended.”
She ran her fingers through my hair several times. “It won’t be hard to get this in shape again. You’ve got really good hair.”
When she finished cutting and styling my good hair to her satisfaction, she said, “If you want to come back some day when you have more time, I’ll take care of the gray that’s beginning to show up here on the sides.”
“Uh …”
She quickly added, “Not that it looks that bad for a man your age, but I just thought you might not want that salt and pepper look just yet.”
“Maybe next time.”
I grabbed my cane and slowly hobbled back out to Greg’s car.
I left her a modest tip—for a man my age.
CHAPTER 8
Even though he had all the right credentials, it took Greg several minutes to get through the CIA’s security gates at its headquarters in Langley, Virginia.
Then, he dropped me off at the OHB or Old Headquarters Building and drove over to the parking lot of the NHB or New Headquarters Building, where Support Services was located.
Back in the 1990’s, a new administration building was constructed behind the CIA’s original structure. The decision was made to distinguish between the old and new buildings by simply calling them the old and new buildings. While this nomenclature may have demonstrated a lack of creativity on someone’s part, I liked to believe this vanilla identification indicated the Agency had more urgent matters than naming buildings.
Carlton’s office was located on the fourth floor of the OHB. After passing through two more security checkpoints in the massive lobby, I got on the elevator and hit the button for the fourth floor. However, on my way up, I changed my mind and got off on the second floor. As I made my way down a long corridor with offices on each side, I found myself savoring the musty smell of the old facility. A lot had changed at the Agency since the day I’d first stepped inside the building, but the distinctive odor of aging wood and the aura of timeless secrets had not.
Even though the badge swinging from my neck indicated I was a restricted access employee, no one paid much attention to me. I felt certain their inattentiveness meant I had the look of an executive who knew where he was going.
That was true enough.
I was headed for an alcove—my definition for it—created when the building was remodeled a few years after I had joined the Agency. Back then, computers were being installed in every room, and the installers had instructed the construction workers to leave an area through which they could conveniently access the hard wiring in the wall behind a second floor workroom. This indentation was just big enough for two people to slip inside and have a conversation without fear of being seen or overhead from the corridor.
After Simon Wassermann had shown me the alcove, we’d met there to get our stories straight on the Russian agent he’d killed in Lebanon. Since that time, I’d occasionally used the tiny space if I needed to have a private conversation with an analyst or a fellow operative, or if I just wanted to have a moment to myself.
That was what I wanted now—a moment to myself before my appointment with Carlton.
I couldn’t continue wrestling with whether I should embrace a new career or not. I needed to make a decision.
Did the commitment I’d made in Tehran necessitate getting out of the Agency? How could my new life fit in with my old life?
Being a covert operative meant living a life of lies and deception. I was trained to be a con artist and a thief. How was that going to work if I was trying to follow the teachings of Jesus?
However, was I really ready to leave my clandestine life behind and find a new career?
If the DDO fired me, the decision to stay or go was out of my control. However, making a decision about my future before I entered Carlton’s office put me back in control. Control was a pretty big issue for me.
When I reached the alcove, I slipped inside and asked for guidance.
A few minutes later, I had my answer.
The key card I’d been issued at the gate gave me access to the reception room outside Carlton’s office. As I entered it, Sally Jo Hartford, Carlton’s secretary, was on the telephone. However, she gave me a quick smile and motioned me inside.
I sat down in a leather armchair and waited.
Carlton’s outer office was decorated in muted tones of burgundy and forest green, and there were paintings of blurry pastoral landscapes hanging on opposite walls. Two leather guest chairs faced Sally Jo’s desk.
As usual, her desk was uncluttered and, except for the requisite telephone and computer, held little else. It was hard for me to decide if Sally Jo’s longevity as Carlton’s gatekeeper was because of their shared affinity for order and symmetry or because Sally Jo related to everyone as a beneficent grandmother.
She hung up the telephone and looked me over. “Wow,” she said in a soft Southern accent, “you really look spiffy!”
“Thanks. I just got my hair cut.”
She continued to appraise me. “Well, it looks very modern. I expected you to show up looking half-dead today, but here you are all decked out like you’re ready for a board meeting. The cane certainly adds a nice touch too.”
“I just wanted to impress you, Sally Jo.”
She gave me a wink, but then her expression turned serious when she pointed to the door leading to Carlton�
��s office. “You’d better be trying to score some points with him instead. He’s been upstairs in Deputy Ira’s office all morning, and he’s the one looking half-dead now.”
She picked up the telephone and told her boss I was here.
“You can go in now.” She wagged her finger at me, “And remember, Titus, he doesn’t like it when you call me by my first name.”
The décor in Carlton’s office reflected his expensive tastes. There was a seating area on the right side of the room where guests had their choice of a damask print sofa or two matching armchairs. They were arranged in a semi-circle around a dark cherry wood coffee table. On the left side of the room was a small round cherry wood conference table with four padded brown leather chairs.
If Carlton invited a guest to sit on the right side of the room, it usually meant there would be some small talk, perhaps a commendation, and the visit would be over quickly. If Carlton invited a guest to sit on the left side of the room, it usually meant there wasn’t going to be any small talk, the discussion would be serious, and the guest might wish the visit were over sooner than it would be.
Bookcases lined two sides of the room with each book perfectly in line with the one next to it. The knickknacks placed on various surfaces were understated, elegant, and classy. A dark wooden pedestal globe of the world, bathed in light from the wall of windows facing the doorway, sat in one corner of the room.
In the center of the office was Carlton’s desk. It appeared heavy, solidly built, and looked even more massive than usual today because sitting alone atop the desk was a single stack of documents.
As I entered the room, Carlton was taking a sheet of paper off the stack, carefully reading it, attaching his signature without hesitation, and placing it back down, forming a second stack beside the first.
He barely looked up when I shut the door.
“Take a seat over there, Titus.”
Carlton pointed to the left side of the room and went back to studying the documents. Suddenly, his head jerked up, and he stared at me for a few seconds.
One Night in Tehran: A Titus Ray Thriller Page 7