Sleeping Dogs

by Tony Vanderwarker

  “Made it through hurricane season pretty well this time, Lucien,” Straub says. A series of disastrous hurricanes had forced the resignation of his predecessor.

  “I take that as a compliment, Winn.”

  “Absolutely, I wouldn’t have meant it any other way.”

  “What’s up? Why all the hocus pocus? You CIA guys are something else.”

  “When you hear what I have to tell you, you’ll understand. I’ve got a proposition.”

  “Since when does the CIA do deals with the Department of Homeland Security?”

  “This is off the books, just between the two of us.”

  Jimmick’s new to the Washington scene. Imported from Miami where he was tsar of the city’s anti-terrorist operation, he did such an outstanding job he was an easy pick when the DHS job opened up. Five years ago Straub worked with him on a case involving a gang of Chechens who were running guns from Azerbaijan to Central America through Miami. Bad dudes. Shot up a houseful of Salvadorians trying to siphon off profits. Women, children, a real bloodbath. Jimmick never lost his composure, handling the case expertly. Together, they cooperated in shutting down the operation. Though they haven’t stayed in close touch, Straub has kept an eye on him.

  He holds Jimmick in high regard but he doesn’t envy his challenge at DHS. Straub remembered reading a reporter’s description of the Department of Homeland Security as an “ineffectual behemoth.” Cobbled together from other agencies in the days after 9/11, Homeland Security is a gigantic jumble of disparate operations with a wide array of critical responsibilities—protecting the ports and coastlines, handling natural disasters, running airport security, policing the borders and guarding the president.

  “Let’s hear it,” Jimmick asks.

  “I know you’re not getting a lot of cooperation from the Pentagon.”

  Jimmick snorts, “When you’re dealing with an eight-hundred-pound gorilla, you keep your head down and hang on like hell to what you have.”

  “What if I told you that I’ve found a soft spot over there? You might even call it an Achilles’ heel.”

  “At the Pentagon?” Jimmick says, salivating at the prospect.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Straub sees someone coming down the path. In an instant, he reaches out and places a hand on Jimmick’s arm with just enough pressure to convey his message. A tall dude in a parka and baseball cap is walking toward them. Baseball caps always attract Straub’s attention. Too studied an attempt at looking casual. The two men watch as he ambles by.

  No problem, Straub decides, recognizing his shoes, Nike. He must be a soccer coach at American, that or lacrosse, designed for either sport.

  When he’s passed, Jimmick can’t wait to say, “Tell me about it.”

  When it comes to intelligence, Straub knows Jimmick is chafing at being under the Pentagon’s thumb. With little intel capability, Homeland Security is limited to raising a red, yellow or orange flag when the Pentagon gives the alert. The color-coded system has been the butt of jokes inside the Beltway since it was first announced. Jimmick’s first move in his new job was to permanently shelve the color-coding.

  “Potentially the two of us could team up to pull off a major national security coup.”

  “And the Pentagon would take the hit?”

  “You got it.”

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer bunch of guys. What’s the deal?”

  “Let’s just say it concerns missing nuclear materials.”

  Jimmick sits up. “Russian?”

  “No—ours.”

  Jimmick’s eyes widen. When he was in Miami he wrote a series of articles for the Herald on the threat nuclear materials stored in vulnerable locations posed to our national security.

  “You mean nuclear waste, spent fuel rods?”

  “That’s garden variety, I’m talking the real thing.”

  “A weapon?”

  Straub doesn’t have to do more than slightly incline his head to cause Jimmick’s mouth to drop open.

  “You don’t mean it—missing from inventory?”

  “Not from our arsenal. An H-bomb on the loose.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “Dropped from a B-52 years ago.”

  “Jesus, you don’t mean it? In the continental US?”

  “Yup.”

  “Where?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “One of those nukes that were never accounted for? That the Pentagon keeps saying present no problem?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Does the Pentagon have any idea of what you’re up to? They’d have a shitfit.”

  “That’s why I’m talking to you.”

  “This could blow up in their face.”

  “That’s why it has to be kept between us. They’ve already been sniffing around to see what I know.”

  “So that’s the reason for the spy stuff.”

  “They’ve been watching me for four days, I feel like I’m back in Belgrade.”

  “How did you find out about this?”

  “I have a connection.”

  The gears in Jimmick’s brain are grinding. “Wait a minute. Does this by any chance have anything to do with that character who stirred things up at the Pentagon a while ago? What’s his name?”

  “Howard Collyer?”

  “Yes, that’s it. Resigned a year or so ago?”

  “You got it. Collyer was my college roommate.”

  All Jimmick can do is let out a quiet puff of air from between his tightly pursed lips. Then he asks, “What kind of time frame are we talking about?”

  “It could break anytime in the next two to three days. Too loaded to keep quiet much longer.”

  “So if your old buddy Howie Collyer can put his finger on one of these missing weapons, it will look like the Pentagon hasn’t been minding the store.”

  “Worse than that. If they can’t ride herd on the weapons they have, Congress will be reluctant to fund more. That whole program they are trying to push to rebuild our nuclear arsenal will go down in flames. Not to mention exposing the sloppy situation at Savannah, the mess at Rocky Flats, botching the Yucca Mountain project—all that stuff you wrote about.”

  “Can you give me any idea where it’s at?”

  Straub shakes his head.

  “But you know?”

  Straub puts on a poker face. “I have a good idea, okay?”

  “I have the Coast Guard under my command. I’m gearing it up for domestic ops and getting some really good people on board.” Just as Straub expected, Jimmick is falling all over himself to volunteer his services.

  “We might need them.”

  “I can have them mobilized like that.” Jimmick snaps his fingers. “So who else knows about this? Have you clued in Dickson yet?”

  Straub shakes his head. Abner Dickson is his boss—the CIA director. A political appointee, he spends more time on the links at Congressional than in his office at Langley, which is fine with CIA staffers since they end run him on most of their business anyway.

  “So far, no one’s in the loop but you and me. We have to keep it that way for as long as possible.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “How secure is your home?”

  “Debugged just last week.”

  “Find anything?”

  Jimmick nods.

  “Have it searched again. I’ll contact you there. We’ll go have a drink somewhere.”

  “In some noisy bar.”

  “You bet. A Georgetown hangout full of students looking to get lucky.”

  “But we’re the ones who will get lucky.”

  “It will be a woman who will call you.”

  Jimmick winces. “Do we have to go there?”

  “People will be less likely to suspect anything. It’ll look like you’re up to your old tricks again.”

  Jimmick gives him a begrudging smile, “The anti-terrorism expert who can’t keep it in his pants. You’re a master, S
traub.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.” Straub rolls back his cuff to check the time. “I’ve got to get going, Lucien. I’ll be in touch with you soon. Her name will be Susie.”

  They stand and shake hands.

  “Appreciate the opportunity to help, Winn.”

  Straub wants to say, Don’t thank me, thank Howie Collyer. But instead he turns, waves, says, “Don’t mention it,” and heads toward Ward Circle to scare up a cab.

  21

  Solo, Indonesia, Thursday evening EST + 12 hours

  Time is running out for Abu El-Khadr. The message came down from a heavily camouflaged and fortified outpost in the barren, mountainous region of northwest Pakistan. Though the last sentence was incomplete, it left an unmistakable impression.

  The English translation was more indicative of his leader’s attitude than the Arabic: “If you let this opportunity slip between our fingers—” For three years they have been keeping Collyer under close scrutiny, either waiting for something to break on his website or for him to take the first step. Just when Collyer makes his move, they lose him. The implications are clear. It is imperative that Collyer be found.

  Their cells in the United States have stayed under cover—he is ninety-nine percent certain the Americans may surmise that they are in the country but they have not a shred of hard evidence, not even leads, only a sneaking suspicion that sleeper cells exist. Now is the time to take risks. Though the American monster is awake, only one eye is open.

  El-Khadr has left his office twice to check on Naguib’s progress. So far, so good.

  In his first assignment, Naguib is understandably nervous. He still shudders when he thinks of the incident in the WC. The panicked look in the man’s eyes as he stared up at the gun barrel in Naguib’s hand. His body jerking around as the rounds tore into him. Blood splattered on the walls, all the way back to the call center the sound of the shots reverberated in his head.

  Though El-Khadr’s instructions were vague, he follows their intent to the letter. Come up with a way to locate Collyer without tipping their hand. It can’t come across as a wanted poster, El-Khadr stressed. Instead, he must create a cover story that will motivate his special list of Muslims in the Northeast to be on the lookout.

  Naguib discards ten approaches before he comes up with the answer. A homemade flier publicizing the misdeeds of an adulterous husband, deliberately crude, with misspelled words and unsophisticated graphics. Naguib designs it so it looks like a handbill one would see pasted on a neighborhood lamppost—an appeal from a jilted wife about her perfidious husband, his picture at the top with the wife’s emotional message below. Except the photo is not of an unfaithful Middle Eastern husband but of a former Pentagon staffer.

  Lifting Collyer’s picture from his homepage, he gives Collyer a Yemeni name and crafts copy written from the wife’s point of view. Laying it on thick, he weaves a tale rivaling any soap opera, The husband dishonored her by having a string of affairs, including her niece and closest friend, then added insult to injury by absconding with her family’s treasures, including her grandmother’s jewelry and a rare early copy of the Koran. The copy rambles on, finally ending with, I beg you to notify my brothers if you see this faithless rogue so they can deliver him the punishment he so richly deserves.

  Naguib is putting on a finishing touch, creating a headscarf to set on Collyer’s head when El-Khadr stalks out and positions himself behind Naguib. He peers down at his console, adjusting his glasses so he can see the image on the screen. Using his mouse, Naguib moves the kaffiya over onto the picture of Collyer and sets it on his head. Naguib smiles at his handiwork. It fits perfectly. With his head covered, Collyer looks like he could be from mixed parentage, enough like an Arab so he won’t arouse suspicion.

  El-Khadr cracks a thin smile. His new protégé has created a one-page potboiler, a perfect screen for an appeal to Muslim Americans to help them track down Collyer. The woman’s outrage screams off the page. Hamil could never have created such a masterpiece, he was a mere technician. Naguib has the scientific knowhow but he complements it with a quality Hamil lacked—imagination.

  Naguib’s heart races as he waits for El-Khadr’s reaction. From over his shoulder, he is relieved to hear El-Khadr saying, “Good work. Send it out as soon as it is finished. The email list is here.” El-Khadr takes a flash drive out of his pocket and hands it to him. On it is his Who’s Who of Muslims on the East Coast, carefully culled to include those who, though they would never openly express sympathy for the jihadist cause, have become increasingly radicalized in the years since 9/11.

  There are too many stories about people who were yanked out of lines at airport security for wearing a chador or whose houses were raided in the middle of the night because they had an Arabic name. Muslims, increasingly under scrutiny, feel a need to band together. He’s used the list twice in the past, once to raise funds for his front organization, again to attract potential mujahideen to his cause. Both times the response was positive. He’s hoping the flier will have the same appeal and people will forward it to others, casting an even wider net.

  El-Khadr is aware the vast web of American intelligence may intercept it. But will anyone recognize Collyer? If they do, will they be shrewd enough to suspect who is behind it? Hopefully it will sit in a pile on someone’s desk for a few days before any action is taken. Or maybe it will get backed up waiting for translation. Whatever the outcome, El-Khadr knows he has no choice.

  Returning to his office, he checks his email. In seconds the flier has zipped around the globe and come full circle. Opening it, he admires his new assistant’s work. This will work. He gets up and goes over to the rug aligned so it points west. But I will say a few prayers—just in case. Dotty Cubbidge has worked for the National Security Agency for three years. Fresh out of Georgetown’s Arab Studies program, she was recruited by the NSA to shore up their Arabic translation section. Barricaded behind triple razor-wire fences and thick concrete walls, Cubbidge and her eighteen thousand co-workers at Fort Meade and another twenty around the globe are the eyes and ears of America’s intelligence network.

  The NSA has been scrambling to staff up with enough analysts and translators to keep up with the burgeoning flood of incoming data— guesstimated to be the equivalent of a thousand books a minute. Cubbidge is one of the new recruits they threw money at to come on board. Now she deals with the torrent of incoming information on a daily basis. Sitting in her cubicle seven hours a day monitoring Arabic conversations from around the world, after only a few months on the job Cubbidge readily admits to her close friends that, even with four years of intensive Arabic, a lot of it goes over her head.

  Before it became the subject of intense interest and scrutiny over its domestic intelligence activities, so little was known about the National Security Agency that its acronym was jokingly interpreted as: No Such Agency or Never Say Anything. Headquartered at Fort Meade, Maryland, in two multi-storied black glass boxes with its own exit off the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, every day Cubbidge drives past the large sign posted on the shoulder alongside the turnoff that leaves little doubt about the goings-on there: “NSA Employees Only.”

  Cubbidge likes to boast to her friends that the NSA has more math PhDs on staff than any other organization in the world—in addition to cryptographers, analysts and specialists in every conceivable form of communication. And while its budget and operations are classified, public record shows that the thousands of computers whirring night and day at Fort Meade make it the second largest consumer of electricity in Maryland.

  Fifteen years ago NSA’s main worry was a Russian with his finger on the nuclear trigger. Today it’s a lone Islamic extremist with a rocket launcher and a chip on his shoulder standing inside the perimeter of an airport ready to take down a 747 with six hundred people on board.

  Journalists have reported that two messages in Arabic intercepted by the NSA on September 10, 2001—tomorrow is zero hour, and the match begins tomorrow—
might have provided a clue to the debacle that was to take place the next day if only they had been translated in time. Flagged by computers as originating from al Qaeda and awaiting translation, NSA faced such a backlog of al Qaeda intercepts that Arabic translators were not able to get to the critical messages until two days later.

  More than once Cubbidge has found herself griping, “Each day I come across hundreds of names, many of which are foreign enough to start with, but then when they start talking about their uncle who is related to their wife’s brother-in-law, I lose track of who’s who and my head starts swimming. But every once in a while, I’ll be monitoring chatter or reading through emails and I’ll see or hear a few phrases or sentences that will scare the living crap out of me.”

  Early Wednesday morning, Cubbidge is working the graveyard shift to bank some extra vacation days. No one would know it’s 3 a.m. as the lights are blazing and the activity is as intense as it would be in the middle of the day. As they say around NSA, SIGINT (signals intelligence, NSA’s stock in trade) keeps no hours.

  It is proving to be just another day at the office when the agency’s top-secret software flags the flier of the missing husband posted by his anxious wife and pops it up on Cubbidge’s screen. The photo’s a man wearing a kaffiya. The copy is from the wife’s point of view, ranting about her cheating husband. Cubbidge is about to dismiss it as an oddity when a detail catches her eye.

  Something’s odd here, she thinks. Quickly zooming into the top of the photograph, she examines the folds of the headscarf. She keeps clicking in until the crown of the man’s head fills the screen. Normally one would expect a thin shadow at the point where the headscarf meets the forehead—an indication that the two surfaces are different, one skin, one cloth, the two unconnected, the kaffiya casting a faint outline where it sits folded over the forehead. But there is no shadow. The two surfaces are butted together.