The Unexpected Spy
Page 6
Jenny pulled into the parking lot of her apartment complex just as I did. I could see her punching off her radio as I shut down Sting. We got out of our cars, walked toward each other, and hugged. Neither of us spoke.
“Shit,” she finally said.
“I know,” I said. She was on a different floor of the CIA, and we hadn’t seen each other or talked all day.
I followed Jenny into her apartment. She turned on the TV before she even took off her shoes. I sat on the small couch and kicked off my peep-toe pumps. How could I ever wear those shoes again, or look at them even, without thinking of this day?
We stayed on that couch, in front of CNN, for hours. There were few other people I could have been with, for who else could understand the bolts of guilt that ran through me every time the news mentioned that it was believed to be (though not yet confirmed) al-Qaeda fighters, under the leadership of bin Laden, who had flown those jets? Jenny and I both knew that confirmation of these facts would be coming shortly.
Jenny didn’t even get off the couch to order Chinese food, she just pulled out her cell phone and dialed the restaurant across the street. It was a number she’d memorized, she told me, after only two weeks in the CIA. I don’t remember who paid for the food, but I do remember that it was a time when you could scarcely care about who paid for the food. Our nation was under attack. At this point the score was bin Laden 1, America 0. Little else seemed to matter.
Around midnight I drove to my apartment in Alexandria. I should have put Sting back in the CD player, but my mind wouldn’t let go, and, instead, I listened to the news on the radio. As they talked about terrorists, I saw shadows in my mind, images from the satellite photos of grainy figures assembled in the training camps.
When I got home, I peeled off my clothes and let them drop to the floor. Then I pulled on pajama bottoms and a tank top, got into bed, and turned on the TV.
“Sleep,” I commanded myself, then turned down the volume with the hope that the humming drone of voices would let me drift off.
Sleep never came. At 5:00 a.m., I got out of bed, showered, and dressed. I wore pants with a belt, just so I could thread it through that beeper. I wasn’t sure how the thing worked, or what I was to do when it did beep. But I figured Anton would go over it that day.
Before 6:30 a.m., I was with my colleagues in the ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~. Every one of us had shown up early. I felt wide awake. Alert. Focused.
I was ready to even the score.
FOUR
THE VAULT
Langley, Virginia September 2001–January 2002
I never made it up to the seventh floor of the CIA headquarters. I didn’t need to. Because the seventh floor came to me.
It was midnight, my third night in The Vault, when I first met George Tenet, the director of the CIA. I wasn’t used to the 11:30 p.m. shift yet and was feeling a little dazed in spite of the thermos of coffee I was chugging. There were three people working in the tiny room, lit blue by the screens on the wall at which we were all staring. Unlike most countries in the Middle East, which are usually eight hours ahead of the United States, the one I was watching then was eight and a half hours ahead. A small thing, I know, but that 30-minute tilt only seemed to magnify how off-kilter this place was.
Tenet stepped into the dark room, said hello to everyone, and then stepped out again. My heart raced, and I took a few sips of coffee. He was back within seconds, rolling in a chair from the adjoining room where we had meetings, or ate, or just took a break with the lights on.
“Tracy, right?” he asked, and he pushed that chair next to mine, sat down, lifted his feet, and crossed them on the table.
“Yeah!” I smiled and moved my thermos to make more room for his giant wingtips. There was no way I was going to call him George, though that’s how my boss, Anton, referred to him.
“How are you tonight, sir?” Brayden, my colleague, asked. Brayden had gone to a boarding school where he wore a tie every day and then Georgetown, where he got straight As studying foreign policy. I thought I was straight, but Brayden made me look like a feral woman. I bet he’d never even gotten a parking ticket.
“Good, good,” Tenet said. There was an unlit cigar in his mouth, and it bobbed up and down when he spoke. The room was always a little bit chilly, probably to keep the equipment cool, and I was in a light blue fleece. Tenet had on a bomber jacket. I didn’t know it then, but he was often in that bomber jacket and usually had a dry cigar hanging from his mouth.
“What are you looking at there?” Tenet brought his feet down, half-stood, sat again, and moved the chair forward.
I handed him the binder that had a file on Muhammad B., someone I felt I knew intimately. He was in bin Laden’s inner circle, having grown up with him in Saudi Arabia. Unlike most of al-Qaeda, which then was young, undereducated, disadvantaged boys, Muhammad B. came from a family with money, and had gone to college in the United States.
“A training camp. I’m working toward being certain that that guy in the center front is Muhammad B.”
“He’s been in and out, sir,” Brayden said. “When he walks, others walk behind.”
The third person working in the room, an Air Force guy named Bill, glanced toward us and then back to the screen. He was friendly, as the Air Force liaisons always were. But he kept to himself, mostly, and never wanted to go to breakfast with me or anyone else when the shift was over.
“Any sign of bin Laden?” Tenet asked.
“No, sir,” Brayden answered.
“I saw three people following a guy in white robes yesterday … or, last night, you know, last night here, yesterday there, well, actually, today there—”
Tenet laughed, and I immediately relaxed.
“Yeah, I know what you’re saying, go on,” Tenet said.
“Well, he looked too short,” I said. “The guy in the white robe.”
“So not the madman we’re after?” Bin Laden had been identified as somewhere between six-three and six-five. For a Middle Easterner, that’s like being a human high-rise.
“No, sir,” Brayden said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Of the three guys near him, two were taller and the other was the same height, so there’s just no way. These boys don’t eat well enough to grow so much.”
“Yup,” Tenet said. “It’s no damn basketball team, that’s for sure.”
We were quiet as we continued to watch the screens. I sipped my coffee.
After a few minutes, Tenet asked, “What d’you got in there?”
“Black coffee,” I said. “Dark roast.”
“Keep you awake?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Or maybe it has a paradoxical effect on me. I feel calm when I drink it.”
“I get that.” Tenet nodded. Then he looked to Brayden and asked, “What about you?”
“I don’t drink coffee, sir,” he said. “I’ve trained my body to be on full alert without it.”
Tenet smiled, leaned forward, and gave Brayden a little pat on the shoulder. He stayed another few minutes, and then said he had to get home to his very patient wife and his sleeping son.
At seven the next morning, 30 minutes before my shift would end, Tenet showed up in the room again, with a single Starbucks black coffee and two bottles of water.
“There’s a box of doughnuts out there for all of you.” He nodded toward the other room, gave the water to the men, and handed me the Starbucks. “I ordered a dozen but I ate two in the car on the way over here.” He smiled, and I laughed nervously.
“Ten doughnuts is plenty for the three of us.” Brayden nodded without even the smallest grin. “And thank you for the water.”
It was only a few days later, around 6:30 in the morning, when President Bush came into The Vault. I’d been working that night with a guy named Phillip, who’d grown up in Lincoln, Nebraska. He was maybe the first person I’d ever met from Nebraska. Phillip was a little more relaxed than Brayden, and he noticed the smallest things that could make a
difference—a hat that had to have originated in Jordan, for example. Phillip’s sharp eye made him one of my favorite people to be paired with. We were identifying places, camps, chemical labs that might be eliminated on our shift. It was a focus, a task that I felt from my toes to my hair. I never took off my shoes, I never kicked my feet up onto the desk, and I rarely slouched in my seat. But I was slouching at the end of that shift, when President Bush walked into The Vault.
“How y’all doin’ this morning?” he asked, and I immediately sat up straight.
Phillip and an Air Force guy, Timmy, both stood. I wasn’t sure if I should stand or not, but since they had already, I did, too.
Timmy stuck out his hand and shook Bush’s hand.
“What’s your name, son?” Bush asked, and Timmy told him.
He moved on to Phillip, who gave him his full name and then added, “from Lincoln, Nebraska.”
“You don’t say,” Bush said. “Cornhuskers! One of the best teams in college football.”
“Go ’huskers!” Phillip said, and his face flushed red.
“And you are?” Bush put his hand toward me and I shook it.
“Tracy Schandler.” I smiled and nodded my head.
“Well, thank you Timmy, Phillip from Nebraska, and Tracy Schandler for your hard work. Now y’all get back to it and don’t mind me, I’m just gonna stand here and watch for a minute.” Bush crossed his arms and squinted at the screens. Every now and then he’d ask a question or say something. The longer he stood there, the more comfortable I felt. He was one of those people who puts everyone around him at ease. It was like he was thinking about and aware of how other people felt.
It seemed that at least one person from the seventh floor, the administration, or Congress visited The Vault every day. The country was still shocked by the events of September 11. The rubble of the towers was months from being cleared out. And the work we were doing was both active and visible. People wanted to witness the response to the attacks—they wanted to know for sure that something was being done.
The reaction was often the same. The visitor would watch the ~~~~~~~~~~~ and then say, “It’s like playing a video game, isn’t it?” Though most of our visitors weren’t of the generation who played video games, they all had kids or grandkids who did and so had seen plenty of video game action.
That video game action felt nothing like a game on October 20, the night before my twenty-third birthday and the very first time the ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~. We had just confirmed the location of Mullah Omar’s compound in Afghanistan. Mullah Omar was the founder of the Taliban, the supreme leader of a murderous troupe, and one of bin Laden’s protectors. The men and women on the ground, around two hundred of them, established that Mullah Omar himself was not in the compound but many of his Taliban leaders were. If we took out the compound, it would not only eliminate much of Mullah Omar’s leadership, but it would be a show of strength and power. To the terrorists, it might even be a show of magic, in a sense, as no one outside of those in the ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ knew how immense our capabilities were. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I watched the rising cloud of dust and rubble bloom and then dissipate. And then I continued to watch as soldiers on the ground entered the destroyed shell of the compound. I didn’t tell anyone that my birthday was approaching within minutes. It seemed silly just then to mention it, but I thought about it: the simple fact that I was alive. And that I wished to live for many more years to come, hopefully in a safer world.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ We must have seemed like vengeful gods.
G.I. Joe broke up with me only a few weeks into my rotation in The Vault. No matter how much he pestered me, I wouldn’t tell him what I was doing on these night shifts. The experience pushed me away from ever again getting in too deep with any agency men. Though others had more manageable egos, none of them lasted long enough to be mentioned in these pages.
The entirety of my social life while I worked in the The Vault consisted of going to the Silver Diner in McLean, Virginia, with whomever I’d covered the night shift with and a few other people from Langley who were also on night shifts. We’d grab a booth and order up like we hadn’t eaten in days. Often I was the only woman, but that never seemed to matter to anyone. And it only mattered to me in that I believe any operation of any kind—including running a diner—could always be improved by bringing in different kinds of people and different perspectives. That said, there were women in the CIA, just not where I was working right then.
The guys always ordered things with bacon on the side: pancakes and bacon, eggs and bacon, huevos rancheros and bacon. Once I saw someone order fried chicken with a side of bacon. I usually ordered whole wheat toast and egg whites, a fruit bowl, and sometimes a half grapefruit on the side because I feared that my odd hours would lead to odd illnesses like scurvy.
When I got home to my apartment, the plan was to work out in the gym and watch anything that wasn’t the news so that mentally I could leave work for a few hours. Sometimes I made it to the gym. Usually, I put on pajama bottoms and a tank top, lay in bed, and waited for sleep to overcome me. My bedroom was so sunny, just the cracks of light on the edges of the roller shades made it bright enough to read. If I didn’t fall right asleep, I’d get up and gather a bunch of charcoal-colored bath towels from the bathroom. I’d throw them up toward the window shades in my bedroom, trying to hook them over the edges so they’d block the light. They never failed to fall down, and I’d spend the first 20 minutes of attempted sleep getting up and down as I’d re-fling those towels until they were hooked well enough to stay.
Often I’d stay asleep for three hours. If I was lucky, I’d sleep for four. When I got up, I tended to the business of daily life: grocery shopping for one, touching up my roots when they looked too brown, calling my mother, and cleaning the apartment. I’d try to nab another hour or two of sleep if I could from 4:00 to 6:00 p.m., while most people were starting their commute home from work. Whether I’d slept again or not, I prepared dinner for myself each night. I liked to cook, so I’d actually make a real, grown-up-human meal—something like roasted chicken, sautéed asparagus, and Israeli couscous. I’d eat in front of the TV, watching the most shallow, materialistic, consumer-obsessed reality show I could find. Turned out that once I was living the news—thinking, dreaming, working, and creating it—I just couldn’t bear to watch it on TV.
Every day, things seemed to be intensifying in The Vault. National Security Advisor Condoleezza Rice,
in nifty pantsuits, came in regularly. She never spoke to me, or anyone else in the room, other than to ask a simple question, something like, “What are you looking at?” Once she was in The Vault when the Muslim call to prayer played out in the room. We had programmed one of the computers to sound the call—a man singing—whenever it sounded in the place we were watching. The rule was that no one would be attacked while praying.
Rice looked at me, her brow crimped into worry lines. “What’s that?”
“The adhan,” I said. “The call to prayer.” I had loved the mystical, plangent, almost-haunting sound of it from the first time I heard it. Most people working in The Vault enjoyed the adhan. Even if you’re not going to pray, it does make you stop and think or reflect.
“Does someone in here pray?” Rice asked.
“I do, ma’am,” Matthew, an Air Force guy, said.
“You’re Muslim?” Rice asked.
“Christian,” he said. “I just pray when it sounds.”
A few minutes later, the iqama sounded from the computer.
“Now what?” Rice asked.
“The first one was calling everyone to the mosque,” I said. “And this one says that it’s actually time to pray.”
She had no further questions, but I could see her eyes were trained on Matthew to see if he was praying.
Vice President Dick Cheney came in The Vault a few times, though nothing memorable ever happened when he was around. Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld never came in on my shift. Maybe he only worked regular hours and so was never around early enough or late enough to be there when I was. Secretary of State Colin Powell came in regularly. He was very serious. Upright. He stared intensely at the screens without even seeming to blink. President Bush continued to drop in on us. He was always kind and cracked jokes, even as the tension mounted. His mood, his energy, and his support bolstered everyone in that room. I have voted Democrat in every election since my eighteenth birthday. But if Bush had been running during the three months I was in The Vault, I would have voted for him.