by Tracy Walder
Only seconds after the flight took off, both Graham and Ben conked out. I was too scared of losing the ~~~~~~ to sleep, though I did doze off and on with my arms crossed over the ~~~~~, which rested against my belly. I was used to operating on very little sleep, however, and was fully ready to save the world, or at least save the people who would be unlucky enough to find themselves in the terrorists’ target zone.
* * *
As we approached the headquarters of the local secret service agency, I wanted to stop the cab, jump out, and take a picture. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I glanced toward Graham, and he was reading through papers. Ben’s eyes were closed, though he wasn’t sleeping. He might have been going over things in his head. I knew I’d have to play the part of tourist and get a picture of this spectacular place later.
Graham was not someone who had to get credit for everything or anything his team did. He was happy to let others take the spotlight and the glory. So it was entirely like him to suggest that, at the opening meeting, I present all that we had discovered about the plot. He wanted me to take the credit. Of course, Graham had no way of knowing that I am an introvert and am always more comfortable when I’m invisible rather than when I’m seen. But I couldn’t say no. And I knew that in order to do my job right, I had to get over my fear of public speaking, get over my fear of being the center of attention, and just do what had been asked of me. I decided that I would pretend I was speaking in the morning meeting in the office, something that had initially terrified me but to which I had quickly acclimated.
The room in which we all met looked out over a river and toward a spectacular government building on the other side. The exterior didn’t betray the interior: modern and clean, with all sorts of screens, buttons, and panels on the walls. This was a little sexier than the CIA offices at Langley; it reminded me of a set from a James Bond movie. The group of 25 or so people sat around a massive table. Everyone had notebooks and pens, though I knew there was a microphone somewhere in the room that was recording everything that was being said.
When Graham indicated it was my turn to speak, I felt breathless for a second. I looked around the table, and then inhaled deeply to gather courage. The group waited for me with polite, thin smiles. They were impeccable in their pin-striped suits with pocket handkerchiefs and cuff links. There was only one other woman present, and her hair, skin, and eyes seemed to be a single color, making her a beige blur in the room.
The information I’d been carrying in the ~~~~~ had been removed and was now sitting in front of me in a stack. I knew it all so well that I didn’t have to look down. All I had to do was speak. Something I’d done since before I even walked! I pictured myself standing by my cubicle with my team—I fixated on that image when everything poured out of me. It was as if my brain were operating outside my fear, relaying the information with a demanding accuracy and specificity. When I was done, there was silence for a moment. And then the questions began. They were taking me seriously. They were taking my words seriously. We were accomplishing something.
Over the week, Graham made several presentations, and Ben made one, too. We took many meetings with smaller groups of people, each of whom worked in a specialized area. They seemed as determined as we were to shut down the ~~~~~~~~~~ masters living in their capital.
Every night, the three of us were taken to a different elegant, expensive restaurant where there was a lot of wine poured and several courses served. I’m not a very picky eater, but even in the nicest restaurants the food was … well, it was often bland and tasteless to the point of being inedible. I’d cut things into bits, spread them out, and push them around my plate to make it look as if I was enjoying this meal, compliments of our hosts.
After all the talk, the food, and the wine, Graham and Ben always went to their rooms to sleep in preparation for the next day of meetings. It was my first time in this city, however, and I didn’t know if I’d ever be back, so I usually took off walking around, mostly just looking, as things closed down fairly early.
One night, when I had skipped dinner, I walked from the hotel to an area that used to be inhabited by Jews. It was where, my mother had told me, her father’s family had lived. My maternal grandfather, Jack Davis, was my biggest champion, supporting me and cheering me on in all I did with great enthusiasm. I’ve come to realize that everyone needs at least one person like this in their life. We need an audience of some sort, an admirer who fully, openly, and unabashedly adores us and is always happy for us. For me, it was my grandpa. No one was more proud of the various certificates and medals I was awarded in school, and eventually in the CIA, than he. Often it seemed like the only point in getting a certificate or award was so that I could take it home and show my grandpa.
But as proud as he was of me, I was also proud of him. Jack Davis fought in the Second World War, eventually opened a travel agency in Newport Beach, California, and was kind and helpful to everyone. Oh, everyone except the one boyfriend I brought home to meet him. That was a side of my grandpa that I’d never seen before, but one that only reinforced the idea that he irrationally believed I was better than everyone else.
Grandpa Jack’s old neighborhood had clearly gone through many incarnations—originally it had been where the tanneries, breweries, and slaughterhouses had been. A famous serial murderer had also lived there; I looked for his house but never found it. I did see the homes of three of his five victims. Yeah. Five. I wondered what the people of his era would think of the thousands of murders committed by members of al-Qaeda. Terrorists were out-serial-killing even the most notorious serial killers by far.
The streets were narrow, with crowded, cobblestone streets. Most of the residents were immigrants. The area was fascinating to me but not a place that attracted a lot of tourists.
I paused in front of a tilting row house, glancing in the illuminated windows, trying to imagine what kind of house my grandfather’s family had lived in, when a cab pulled over. The window went down, and the cabby called to me. I approached his window. He had a broad forehead, pale eyes, and an Eastern European accent.
“A girl like you cannot walk here alone at night!” he said.
“I’ll be fine.” I started to walk away.
“It’s not safe!” he yelled out the window. When I kept walking, he threw up his hands and drove away. Because of September 11, my time in The Vault, and then my immediate immersion in the search for WMDs, I hadn’t gone to “The Farm” yet, the place where CIA operatives learn to crash cars, survive being taken hostage, and handle firearms. My work was so intensive that I would do The Farm training in bits and pieces over the coming months. It was no matter to me at the time. I certainly didn’t need a gun to walk where I was. I did feel powerful, and I did feel safe. I knew where the terrorists lived, and they weren’t in this area.
Later that night, around 11, on my way back to the hotel, another cab pulled over. This time I was standing at the edge of the river, finally getting a photo of the beautiful high-tech building where we’d been having our meetings.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” the cabby said.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“America! Don’t be silly. Get in my cab and I’ll take you to your hotel for free.” When he smiled, I could see the silver nubs that replaced some of his teeth.
“Honestly,” I said, “I’m happy where I am.” By my guess, I was safer on the street than in a free ride in a cab.
* * *
Not long after we returned from this trip, the local law enforcement raided hal
f a dozen safe houses and arrested all the men whose names we’d passed along to them. A few more people were arrested two days later. They were charged with possessing articles for the preparation, instigation, and commission of terrorist acts. As news of the planned attack emerged, a liquor company canceled its ad campaign that was to include billboards that would waft the smell of almonds. Ricin is odorless. But cyanide smells like almonds. Scented public ads were a clever idea that I knew would never again be possible to execute.
We were now fully in the new age of terror.
SIX
MR. TOAD’S WILD RIDE
Africa September 2002
It was like I was at Disneyland on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride—the attraction where you’re carted around in a fast-moving vehicle that comes a hairbreadth away from hitting something (a brick wall, etc.) or being hit (by a train, etc.). Victor, the assistant chief of WMD, and I were being driven from an airport in an African capital to a hotel in the middle of the hillside city. Every moment presented new possible disasters as we darted around moving objects—people, cars, dogs, children—and they leapt to safety away from us.
Victor, with his perfectly coiffed helmet of thick hair, sat in the front seat, as instructed by our driver. I was just behind him in the back. I’d packed a pashmina to throw over my head but couldn’t get to it as our bags had been whisked away at the airport by another member of the country’s intelligence service.
“Too many guns,” our driver had said when he rushed us to the car. “They see Americans, blond lady, and…” He lifted his hand and did a pointer-finger blow to his temple.
I couldn’t see the speedometer, but we were going far too fast for the poorly paved and sometimes cobblestone streets that wound up and down and often turned in hairpin curves. The car must have been from the eighties and surely didn’t have any airbags. The windows had cranks to roll them, but the crank on my side was missing, as was the inside paneling of the door. I wasn’t worried about dying so much as I was about my back if we were thrown into a sudden stop. And there were many sudden stops, as the people of the town seemed to walk in thick crowds directly into traffic. But we never stopped for long, and never when we were supposed to, as our driver rejected all traffic signals. He found a way around every stop and more than once pulled right up onto the sidewalk, forcing the crowds to part like the Red Sea as he barreled through.
The sparkling blue sea was on one side or the other—depending which way we were turned. It popped into view whenever there was a gap between the crumbling buildings of the city, and again when we were high enough to see over the rooftops. Other than the few mosques I saw, the place looked more European than Arab. There were small wrought-iron balconies, or balconettes, off every window. Most of the buildings were a dirty shade of white. It was as if a decorator had swooped in, looked at the sea, and declared, “Blue and white, those are our colors!” Some of the roofs were red tile, though many weren’t. I wondered if they had all started out with tile, but none had been replaced over the years. There was a layer of black, sooty grit everywhere and a crumbling, sagging, distressed look. Ripped awnings waved in the breeze; chunks of masonry were missing, like bits of a body blown off; air conditioners precariously balanced out of windows. Most of the signs were in two languages, and when our driver and the men who removed our bags had spoken, I had heard a mixture of the two: trilling, fluid words punctuating and blending into the throatier Arabic. I was trying to learn words and phrases when I could, but still, English was—and remains—my only language.
Our car stopped short and I slammed into the back of Victor’s seat. He turned, looked at me, and then pointed at a seatbelt beside me. I picked it up and waved it at him. There was a band but no buckle.
Then we were off again, weaving through the crowds. Two women in jeans, long half-dress tops, and hijabs held hands as they jumped out of the way.
“They are going to university,” the driver said, as if he hadn’t been only inches away from maiming or killing them. “In my country our women are educated. Intelligent!”
For a few meters we had two side wheels on the sidewalk of a street so narrow it was a wonder the entire car would fit. A ripple of people pulled their bodies back against the storefronts as we passed. We wound up and down past the numerous staircases that striped this vertical city and finally landed—with no bodies in our wake—at a hotel that looked as welcoming as a half-blown-up munitions storehouse.
This country ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~. There were no official numbers for how many people had been killed, but it was certainly over a hundred thousand. The conflict was essentially between the government and various extremist Islamic groups that rejected the secularism of the past few generations. It was a turbulent and violent war, with bands of extremists raiding and killing entire villages in nighttime massacres. Journalists, Westerners, feminists, diplomats, anyone who worked for the government, and children were also hunted down and killed. The brutality seemed to have no bounds.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Osama bin Laden, and particularly Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, his head of chemical warfare, knew exactly what the ravages of this war had left behind: hundreds of thousands of poor, disillusioned, disenfranchised, angry, frustrated, uneducated, and often orphaned young men. In other words, prime potential al-Qaeda recruits. And recruit they did. Rather successfully, too.
Following September 11, 2001, most of the intelligence agencies of the world—most of the world, in fact—had been looking at the Middle East as a terrorist training ground. Of the 19 men involved in the 9/11 attack, 15 were citizens of Saudi Arabia, 2 were from the United Arab Emirates, 1 was Lebanese, and 1 was Egyptian. Bin Laden was from Saudi Arabia, though his family was originally from Yemen. But the intel was pointing more and more to Africa. And the men from this country, in particular, were dominating the chemical warfare scene. Like all African countries that had once been colonized by European countries, many of these people shared languages with Europe and had easier access to Europe than most Middle Easterners.
* * *
Our driver informed us that his agency had already checked us into the hotel. He then handed us each our room keys, which were actual keys hanging from a plastic diamond-shaped key ring. We walked past the front desk—which looked about as sturdy as a homemade lemonade stand—and then to a stairway with filthy once-white walls that curved out of sight.
“Second floor,” he said.
“We’re probably the first Westerners this hotel has seen in over ten years,” Victor said as we climbed the stairs.
“Looks more like we’re the first of any
kind of people this hotel has seen in over ten years,” I said.
We walked down a dark corridor. The lights blinked, signaling a power outage. Our rooms were across the hall from each other. We each put our keys in the keyholes, which seemed large enough to spy through. Victor was jiggling his key. He stopped and turned toward me.
“Ninety minutes to shower and nap and then meet in the lobby,” he said.
“Okay,” I said, though I knew I wouldn’t nap. I never did. To nap meant I wouldn’t sleep at night, and I needed that night sleep.
The room was small but bright. The curtains were open, and light flooded in, illuminating my bag on the bed. It was unzipped and open. The clothes I had ironed and either folded or rolled were now exclusively folded. And organized, too. Pants in one stack, tops in another. On top of the bag was what I took as a gift: a colored-sand picture of two Bedouins on camels crossing the desert. I ran my fingers over it, feeling the nubby surface, and then propped it up on the dresser. It really was lovely, and I was happy to have it.
Next, I went through my neatly folded clothes, feeling around in the collars and checking the pockets to make sure I hadn’t forgotten something. It was like doing a breast exam, tiny palpations with my fingers. But no, there was nothing I’d left behind. I’d been exceedingly cautious, as I didn’t want anything on me that might reveal my real address or details about my life in Virginia. Not even a gym membership card, or a receipt for granola from Whole Foods. The less information anyone had about me, the safer I was.
This was my first trip traveling under my alias ID. A couple weeks before my flight I’d gone to the CIA’s Office of Technical Services, ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~. I repacked my suitcase and moved it to the luggage stand in the closet. I refused to nap, but I did want to lie down for a moment, so I yanked down the thin, faded bedspread and lay on the bed. I wanted to laugh, but didn’t. The ceiling looked like it had been hacked out with an ax. I could see pipes, beams, wiring, essentially the guts of the hotel. I don’t know why I didn’t suspect there was a camera or microphone up there. Maybe I was just too tired to think it through. I was fairly sure, though not certain, that the reason they had gone through my luggage was simply to make sure I was who I had said I was. Which, of course, I wasn’t.