The Unexpected Spy

by Tracy Walder

  Of course Director Tenet showed up regularly, with that cigar in his mouth and the bomber jacket straining at his bulky shoulders. Just a quick visit from Tenet, who remembered everyone’s name, always made you feel like you were on the right team and fighting for the greater good.

  By mid-November the war in Afghanistan was on and Kabul had fallen. All of us in the group were working six days a week and wearing those beepers whenever we weren’t in The Vault. My beeper only went off once. A guy named Andy was vomiting on every break. He had a fever. I had to rush over to Langley and get my eyes in that room before Andy was allowed to go home and just be sick.

  Right before the third week of November, schedules were shifted, and I was asked to work on Thanksgiving Day. My family was in California, so I wouldn’t be seeing them anyway, as there was no time to fly home, even for 24 hours.

  That day, I focused as hard as ever on the screens, never allowing my attention to waver. But each time I took a break, I felt great pangs of sadness. I had just turned twenty-three, and I had never spent my favorite holiday away from my parents and my brother. Instead of sitting down with the people I loved and eating a good, long meal, I was in a tiny, windowless room with a member of the Air Force whose name I can no longer remember, and Brayden, the straightest man in the CIA.

  I felt lonely. And sad. And I was hungry because I had refused to pack a lunch, since I knew that eating that lunch would only remind me that I wasn’t eating Thanksgiving dinner.

  And then George Tenet stepped into the room.

  “How you doing? Tracy? Brayden?” He didn’t know the Air Force guy’s name and just nodded at him.

  “Fine, sir,” Brayden said.

  “Anything I should know here?” Tenet pointed to the screens. “Anything new?”

  “Looks like more people are showing up—” I pointed toward the screen on the left where there were mountains. It was night there, cold and barren in a place with the lovely rhythmic name Tora Bora. No one was outside, but we’d seen a few guys arrive on foot earlier.

  “Yup, let them keep showing up. ’Cause we sure as hell are gonna show up, too.” Tenet pointed at the screens. “Listen, I really appreciate what you all are doing here. I’m honestly thankful for you three sitting in this dark room while everyone else is off eating.”

  “I’m happy to be here, sir,” Brayden said, and I just nodded.

  “The whole country’s staring at a TV screen right now, watching a football game and eating pie with whipped cream, while you three are looking at that damn place until your eyes must hurt.”

  “My eyes are pretty used to it by now,” I said. They were. It was amazing how long I could follow even minimal movement: an hour straight with just one guy walking out to pee in the rocks.

  “Well, I stole some food off my own table and stuck it out there in the other room for all of you. There should be plenty for the bunch of you. Maybe even leftovers, too.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Brayden said.

  The Air Force guy and I thanked him, too. At this point I was so hungry, I wanted to run out of that room and start eating. But I played it calm, casual. I didn’t go fix myself a plate until Tenet was gone.

  The food was amazing. I never asked if he made it or his wife made it, or some other person came to his house and made it. But it tasted homemade, and there was a rumor going around The Vault that his wife was a great cook. That meal didn’t just feed me; it made me feel like it was okay to be away from my family for one holiday. The work was important, and these people—even the guy whose name I can’t remember—were my family for the time being. And when the head of this makeshift family showed he cared enough to leave his own house just so that we would have a proper Thanksgiving meal, I was glad to be a part of it.

  * * *

  In the first week of December, CIA agents on the ground in Afghanistan were able to confirm bin Laden’s presence in the caves of Tora Bora. The caves had been formed from streams that had eroded the soft limestone rock of the White Mountains. In the eighties, the Americans, the Afghan rebel force (Mujahadeen), and bin Laden and his team fought side by side against the Russians, who had invaded Afghanistan. These caves were put to use as a fortress then. They’d been tunneled and built out, with meeting rooms, bunk rooms, and ammunition storage rooms. Some of the build-out had been done with American dollars. But much of it, including a road carved straight through the White Mountains, had been financed by the bin Laden family business. This was before bin Laden wanted to kill Americans. In fact, he’d even praised them back then. Once he’d turned into the terrorist he was, his family and his country of residence—Saudi Arabia—disowned him and wanted nothing to do with him.

  The caves held great meaning for bin Laden, who liked to model himself after the Prophet Mohammed, who had taken refuge in a cave. Even bin Laden’s rejection of material luxuries was done in the spirit of Mohammed. This would have been admirable if his mission hadn’t been to kill all Westerners, particularly “Jews, Christians, and their agents.” In fact, it had been somewhere near the caves of Tora Bora where Peter Bergen conducted the first American interview with bin Laden, which brought him to my attention in 1997. It was also in these caves, in 1996, that bin Laden agreed to meet with Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, the uncle of Ramzi Yousef, the man who had bombed the World Trade Center in 1993. During this meeting, ideas were brought forth that eventually percolated into the attacks of September 11.

  Now, in 2001, Tora Bora was a terrorist clubhouse, with bin Laden as the scoutmaster. His troops were snuggled in close to him, along with stores of American Stinger missiles, which had been left behind from the Soviet invasion. I imagine bin Laden as happy then, in his element, camping out with his boy-pack and waiting for his followers to kill so they could earn his warped idea of scout badges.

  It was Ramadan, the monthlong daylight fast practiced by millions of Muslims worldwide. Ramadan is said to be a period of swelling religious feelings and frequent praying; a time to reflect on one’s devotion and piety. It is also a communal time, with large meals taken together once the sun has gone down, or before the sun has come up. In a war, however, it would be a time when Muslim soldiers would be weaker during the day as they refused both water and food. Bin Laden was devout in his word (certainly not in his practice, as the Quran states that Muslims should not commit murder or suicide) and insisted his men be his kind of devout as well. His army would be fasting in Tora Bora, and this could give us an edge.

  The plan was to take out Osama bin Laden by taking out the caves. The problem was, it was difficult to get to Tora Bora, especially in the snowy winter, and especially when one wasn’t used to the terrain or the thin air at an altitude of 14,000 feet. There were no paved roads, only the unpaved one plowed out years ago. And there was very little cover in the rocky, snow-covered slopes leading up to Tora Bora. Anyone approaching would be an easy target to those in the caves looking down.

  As I’d spent more than 50 hours that week visually and mentally flying over Tora Bora, I knew the terrain way better than I knew D.C. or Virginia. It was clear to me, and to everyone else in The Vault, that an aerial bombing would be the best way to flush al-Qaeda out of the caves. Once they’d been flushed out, however, they’d have to be captured. To enclose and nab this ragtag, armed mob would take manpower. We needed to create a wall around them, a lasso, so that none of bin Laden’s guerrillas could escape to Pakistan, only 20 miles away. It was like a giant game of hide-and-seek, with Pakistan as the home base that the terrorists could run to, tag, and call, “Free!”

  Tenet explained the situation to General Franks, President Bush, Secretary of Defense Rumsfeld, and others. He explained it again, stressing the fact that CIA agents on the ground had confirmed that America’s most wanted man was there. As Tenet was making our case, the New York Times and other newspapers got ahold of the information that we knew bin Laden was there. Within a matter of days, this news was published and now bin Laden knew we had found him. Time was running out
.

  And yet the manpower to create the lasso wasn’t granted.

  I could speculate as to why the thousands of soldiers in the area weren’t handed over when needed, but from where I sat it really would be speculation. I do know this: Bush, Cheney, and Rumsfeld were preparing for the invasion of Iraq. Much of their energy was directed toward connecting Saddam Hussein with weapons of mass destruction. Also, there were tensions between the CIA and the administration because the threats that we knew were real and poised to launch were not being taken as seriously as the threats that they were searching for.

  Still, even without the requested troops, General Franks, under the command of George W. Bush, okayed the attack, as this was the first time since September 11 that bin Laden’s presence had been pinpointed.

  * * *

  On December 3, 2001, anyone who had an office on the seventh floor of the CIA was in The Vault. That unlit cigar was in George Tenet’s mouth, and he was wearing his bomber jacket, but he was almost unrecognizable in his seriousness and focus.

  The president and some senators were also moving in and out of the room. That day, The Vault felt like it was the beating heart of the war, the muscle pumping to keep the system going.

  The temperature in Tora Bora fell well below zero at night; daytime wasn’t much warmer. A light snow was falling. In my mind’s eye I could see bin Laden and his truculent crew deep in their limestone bunks, burrowing like prairie dogs. Prairie dogs who would soon have to pop out of their holes.

  There were around 100 newspeople covering the war in the area of Tora Bora. There were only five dozen American troops fighting that battle. Risking their lives alongside them were a few special forces troops from Great Britain and Germany. Soldiers from the Afghan military and German special forces—though not many—were in charge of securing the escape routes along the border to Pakistan. With so few people guarding the borders, trying to hold the terrorists in Afghanistan was like trying to hold water in a colander. Yeah, there are places where the water can’t get out, but there are so many holes that it’s going to get out anyway. Still, we were going to try to flush out and capture as many backward-murderous boy scouts as possible before they could make it to those holes.

  From the start of the battle, those of us in The Vault were in continuous conversation with the Air Force. The missiles they were using were nicknamed Daisy Cutters. It’s a delicate name for a high-precision, laser-guided missile that can cut straight through stone. The Air Force needed our eyes to plant those missiles in the right places.

  The work was so intense, the missile drops and explosions so continuous, that members of the team took 30-minute shifts: 30 on, 30 off. Even during those free minutes, when I sat with others in the adjoining room, there was near silence. I could feel tension like a chain-mail suit pushing straight through my skin to my bones. When I shut my eyes, I saw the missile drops all over again: the flash of a red fireball in the center, which dies and then rises again in the shape of billowing dust balls that dissipate like an aerosol spray. I don’t think I can say that I understood what it would be like to be a soldier on that day, for my life at that particular moment wasn’t in danger. But I did understand part of what it might feel like to be a soldier in general: the immense responsibility in making lightning-quick life-and-death decisions while trying to act for the greatest good of the greatest number of people. And there was also the feeling of being an integral part of a larger unit. It was apparent right then that each individual was important, but also that each individual wasn’t really an individual; rather, she or he was part of a bigger machine in which every piece needed to work perfectly for the whole to properly do its job. I was at once immensely important and utterly insignificant.

  Each time I stepped back into that room, I took a deep breath, shoring up for what was to come. I wanted to do my part exactly right, so the Air Force and the few men on the ground could do their parts exactly right.

  For 56 hours straight the Air Force dropped its missiles. By the end of those 56 hours, we knew—though it wouldn’t be confirmed for another few days—that Osama bin Laden had eluded us. Once we acknowledged that he was gone, it felt like the room was a sinkhole and we were all dropping straight down through mud. People barely spoke. Directions were given with single words. The group heartbeat behind this attack felt like a group heartbreak. It kept thumping, but it was a painful, grieving thump.

  There are many reasons, from many different angles, given about why we didn’t capture bin Laden in Tora Bora. I think that in the end, it had to do with manpower. To attack during Ramadan seemed wise, as bin Laden’s soldiers would be weakened. What no one took into account, though, was that the Afghan forces who were helping us were also practicing Muslims. Many of them, if not all, left their posts after sunset to break the fast with their families. This left even more holes in the already flimsy wall of people who guarded the border. Even so, 220 of bin Laden’s men were killed in the battle, and we captured 52 others as well.

  What we didn’t realize at the time was that al-Qaeda was turning into a starfish: cut off one arm, and another grows back. Or maybe it was more alien and sinister than that: cut off one arm, two grow back. No matter how many people we took out in one way or another, nothing would actually die. Al-Qaeda was, is, an ideology, a belief system, a life choice. Each arm we eliminated did take something away, but it also fed the growing mythos on which al-Qaeda thrived and continues to thrive.

  FIVE

  POISON SCHOOL

  United States and Western Europe 2001, 2002

  Before the fourth month of my tour of duty in The Vault was over, I applied for, and was accepted into, the position of staff operations officer in the Weapons of Mass Destruction office of the Counterterrorism Center (CTC). This new position would keep me in Counterterrorism and would entail a lot of traveling. I’d get to engage firsthand with the people I was trying to bring down.

  I was in charge of Europe and North Africa, which thrilled me, as that was where all the action was. I’ve always liked being in the eye of the storm, the quiet, hidden center of it all, rather than with the crowds outside observing.

  Before I could get to work on any of that, I had to go to poison school for two weeks to learn as much as the boys and men in al-Qaeda knew about how to make and disperse poisons.

  Unfortunately, poison school operated from 9 to 6 in a building far from CIA headquarters. This meant I had to drive during rush-hour traffic. Also, with no food court in the training building, I had to pack a lunch. I realize this is what most American men and women do every single day; I’m not saying I should have it better than anyone else. But part of the appeal of the CIA, and part of what I’d enjoyed in the ~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~, was living a life off the regular grid, being part of a different universe in a way. Anyone who works a night shift anywhere knows what I’m talking about here.

  Fortunately, there’s lots of great music in the world, so I listened to CDs during the drive, usually Sting, or Train, or the Dave Matthews Band.

  There were 13 of us in poison school, all from different branches of defense and intelligence. My friend Virginia was also from the CIA and also joining Counterterrorism. Virginia was an overachiever, a world-class swimmer who spoke three languages, one from each of her foreign-born parents (Turkish and Chinese) and English, of course. We sat together every day; both of us were eager, enthusiastic students.

  The poison courses were taught in a plain, white-walled classroom with long tables and blue plastic chairs. I wanted it to look more lab-like than it did; instead, the entire building reminded me of any American middle school: functional and with little aesthetic value. Our courses were taught by a woman named Jean who wore khaki pants and a polo shirt just about every day. She was no-nonsense, humorless, and a leading expert in the field. Jean had come from a government agency where they developed the most lethal pathogens in the world in order to figure out how to undo the damage that would be inflicted on civilians w
ere the wrong people to create these poisons. It was a futuristic death center with biohazard suits, goggles, and gloves, and where no one, so far, had ever died. Jean’s assistant, Gary, was a slim man who silently did the grunt work for all of us: setting up labs, handing out petri dishes, helping us with gloves and masks.

  During the initial hour of training Gary gave each of us pages from an al-Qaeda manual on creating WMDs. Jean told us that before the end of this course we would have memorized the entire document, something that proved to be true. The wording and tone in the manual wasn’t dry corporate-speak. It was high-drama, end-of-the-world stuff; the crazed rhetoric of any extremist organization: the alt-right or the KKK.

  By the end of that first day, I knew three things for sure: 1. Making bio-weapons was relatively easy and could be done with very little money. 2. If these guys who lived and died with a wish to kill Westerners could learn this stuff, then I would have to master it all beyond what they knew. 3. It wasn’t going to be enough for me to sit in Langley and acquire information, I had to eventually get out to the places where both the poisons and the plots to poison were being developed and shut them down.

  There were no tests, quizzes, or grades in poison school. But everyone seemed enthusiastic and appeared to be doing A+ work as we dove into the chemistry of it all. I found it fascinating, sometimes comical, disgusting, and compelling. I can never look at raw meat now without thinking about how if it sat on a plate in the sun and spoiled, eventually there would be enough ingredients for the botulinum bacteria. From the botulinum one can create eight different types of neurotoxins that can be deadly even in microscopic amounts. At their lowest dose, they can merely cause paralysis.