by Tracy Walder
I talked to myself quietly as I went through what I knew and what I wanted to know about YY, an African man I’d recently tracked from his family village in Africa to Europe. He had a terrifying nickname, which revealed his desires and intentions. The equivalent would be if Jeffrey Dahmer had called himself Boy Rape-Murderer. The intel I was gathering from the CIA operatives on the ground in Europe had led me to believe that YY was manufacturing chemical weapons in an apartment in a European capital. Not only that, but he appeared to be the head of an al-Qaeda arm in that country and was recruiting new members every week. His fishing hole was the displaced and virtually homeless population of boys and men from his homeland. People who felt that they had no rightful place on any continent and were loyal to extremist Islam above all else.
Several European countries at that time weren’t taking terrorism even half as seriously as they take it now. And no matter how I approached them (pal-like, sternly, matter-of-factly), I was having no success in getting them as worked up about these guys as I was. I sent cables to different agencies, informing them of YY’s presence in Europe while detailing his power and influence with the untethered boys in the city where he was residing.
In spite of the intense racism against Africans in much of Europe, the Europeans like to think of themselves as more open-minded than the “racist Americans.” Or they pretended to be more open-minded as they responded to my cables as if I were asking to do a root canal on each of their agents. The usual response was, Show me that this really needs to be taken seriously.
The more Europe threw up blockades to my progress in tracking ~~~~~~, the more determined I became to declare myself ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~. It occurred to me that if I couldn’t get Europe to work with me in tracking African terrorists, maybe I could get the Africans to help. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Lucky me, though, a new CIA station had recently opened, giving Victor and me a home base from which we could work. Also, we could create liaisons with the local operatives; something that would help both our nations. Or help the whole world, really. After all, the greatest number of casualties from al-Qaeda’s quest to rid the Arab world of Westerners was, and remains, Muslims themselves. Only a small percentage of al-Qaeda’s casualties were, and are, Westerners.
After organizing everything in my mind, I got up to shower. When I flicked on the bathroom light, darting scratches of black cockroaches fled into gaps behind the sink and in the floorboards. That moment was my first in dealing with real-life, running-for-cover roaches. They weren’t as awful as I’d imagined. And they seemed appropriate in this hotel that appeared to be a tremor away from total collapse.
A couple hours after we’d checked in, I threw a pashmina over my head, and Victor and I took a cab to the new CIA office. I’d recently been communicating in cables with the head of this station, Patty, and already respected and liked her. Cable communication can be like internet dating, though. Who you meet electronically might not be who you meet in person. Fortunately, this was not the case. Patty was an impressive woman. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Her office was almost as run-down as the hotel. There was mold on the ceiling and growing down the walls in the shapes of continents. Every window had a small air-conditioning unit jammed into place, with thick, brownish, rubbery-looking glue lines around it.
Victor and I updated her on the chart we’d made, which showed the leaders of each of al-Qaeda’s poison cells. We went over what information we’d discuss with the local intelligence operatives. When the business part of our meeting was done, Patty and I covered our heads with shawls, and the three of us went outside, where her driver was waiting with a car.
Surrounded by the dusty ruins of this city, Patty’s home was startlingly lovely. It reminded me of a hammam, with Arabic-style vaulted ceilings decorated with intricate geometric patterns. Everything was a muted green, muddy red, and rusty brown. The floors were tiled with the same colors and patterns.
She had a larger staff in her house than in her office. Cocktails and appetizers were set out in the living room, where we sat and talked. When I got up to use the bathroom, she directed me, “It’s down the hall, past the panic room, and then to your left.”
I assumed the metal bulletproof door led to the impenetrable panic room—the place where Patty would hole up, like a jewel in a safe, if there ever was a home invasion.
* * *
That night, Victor and I dined with five men from the country’s intelligence community in a restaurant that looked like a cement bunker. The men were friendly, almost jovial. The ravages of war and poverty were written on their faces with missing teeth, craggy scars, and hairlines that seemed to be receding prematurely. I had less than half a glass of wine, and I don’t think Victor drank much at all. We were still on guard, trying to assess if these really were people we could trust. Without a team based here, assets other than these foreign intelligence workers would be almost impossible to acquire. In other words, we needed them, but we couldn’t use them unless we trusted them to have the same goals as us.
Over the evening, it became apparent that these men were highly motivated to help us. After what they’d gone through in the war, they were outraged, incensed, and impatient to capture the same people we wanted and all their known associates. Their country had been destroyed by Islamic extremists over many years. Americans had one day of being attacked, on September 11. Imagine thousands of days of that and you can see how these guys, and most of their compatriots, would be furious. Enraged. Determined. Eventually, Victor and I both came to understand that not only did they want to catch every terrorist who stepped on their soil, they wanted to kill them.
There was a wedding going on in a room next to the one where we were eating. I wanted to peer in for a moment—see what the bride was wearing and if they were dancing to the music and on-beat clapping I’d been hearing. Victor was an excellent traveling companion, as he was just as curious as I. When we were leaving, he nodded toward the doorway and the two of us stood there for a moment, looking in. The couple was dressed in elaborate traditional wedding clothes. The bride’s veil was both a hijab and an ornately jeweled crown. The groom’s embroidered shirt had a Nehru collar and fell to his knees. It was a boisterous affair with lots of noise, singing, and dancing. There was the joyfulness of any great wedding, in any country.
The next day, by the time Victor and I arrived at the local intelligence headquarters, I was used to the postwar ravages of this country and thought nothing could surprise me. Yet I was completely taken aback when we took a meeting with five agents at a square table in a ground-floor room with an open door and open windows. There were no air conditioners glued into place as at the local CIA office, just a breeze passing through the room.
I had never once given information, or asked for information, in a space with an open door or window. It was unheard of in the CIA. But there we were, with no choice but to talk and hope that no one was standing beneath those windows, or outside that doorway, listening in or recording us.
The conversation that had started at dinner intensified at the office. The agents were willing to go to any length to help us nab the men who had destroyed their homeland. If anything, we had to talk them down—convince them that it was worth keeping these men alive. Each terrorist we got would lead us to two or three more, and so on. If they killed one, that was the end of the line. Whether or not the terrorist would be a loss to humankind was deb
atable, but each death would absolutely be a loss to information gathering.
These men did have several embedded assets on the ground. And they were willing to let us use them, too. That is, we could ask them questions or for specific intel or contacts, and they would find us the answers through their embedded assets. We, in turn, could provide them with names and bits of other information about the people they despised. All the information we held was in my head, memorized. Each time I threw out the name and last-known location of a member of ~~~~, it was like throwing bloody chum to sharks. The men became even more ravenous to capture these guys, and I couldn’t have been more thrilled.
When there was a brief moment of working out logistics, when I wouldn’t miss any life-or-death information, I stood to excuse myself so I could use the bathroom. Our hosts had graciously offered us traditional coffee in glass espresso-sized cups during the meeting. It’s considered an insult to refuse it, and so I had been drinking it throughout our talks: glass after glass of thick, milky, gritty, sweet coffee. By late afternoon, I had to pee so badly, my teeth were hurting.
One of the men from the table got up to escort me to the toilet. We walked down a dark, grubby hall, and then he opened a door and pointed into what looked like a broom closet. There was no sink. There was no toilet. There was only a large white bucket with a bare unlit lightbulb hanging above it. The man reached up and screwed the bulb in tighter to light it.
“It is all we have.” He shrugged apologetically before leaving me to do my business.
If I could have held it, I would have. Instead, I dropped my Banana Republic pants to the dusty floor, and did a squat over that bucket. I never looked in. I didn’t want to see what it already held. There was no toilet paper, of course. I drip-dried for as long as my thighs could hold the hover, then pulled up my pants and hurried out of there.
Back at the table in the meeting room, I looked at the plate of fig cookies on the table. I’d only had one, to be polite. But surely whoever had put them there hadn’t washed their hands after using the bucket. And how were they making the coffee? Bottled water and an electric kettle poured over a press was my guess.
“Where’s the restroom?” Victor whispered in my ear.
“Bucket,” I whispered.
“What?”
“No restroom. Just a bucket.”
Victor nodded and adjusted himself in his seat. He’d hold it, of course. Men, as far as I’ve seen, all seem to be related to dromedaries.
* * *
Over the following few days, as we met with the African intelligence officers, I grew more and more confident that this would be an excellent working relationship. Of course, as with all relationships, there was much to balance among honesty, openness, and a certain amount of manipulation and subterfuge. These guys wanted the names of every single terrorist connected to the al-Qaeda network chart we’d made. But we had to pretend that we didn’t have the names or the whereabouts of everyone. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Loyalty in the intelligence world resembles loyalty in love, marriage, and friendship. It’s impossible to be entirely faithful when more than two parties are involved.
* * *
On our last night in Africa, Victor and I went to dinner with the men whom I now considered our teammates. Unlike every place else I’d seen, this restaurant didn’t look like it had survived a bombing. Our hosts insisted on ordering the house specialty for us. There aren’t too many things I won’t eat, so I wasn’t worried about what might show up on my plate. I was taken aback, however, when the waiter rolled out our meal. On the wheeled table, like a body on a skirted hospital gurney, was the largest fish I’d ever seen outside of a sporting show on television. It was the length of a kitchen island. As wide as my hips. The sound of it being violently gutted—the spine yanked out with a sucking, slushing sound—made my stomach roll and tumble like the sea. It was then that I decided I’d bring cases of PowerBars whenever I traveled. I didn’t have time for food poisoning. I didn’t have time to be sick. I’d seen people get sent back to the States for what appeared to be incurable dysentery. I was never going to be one of those people.
* * *
I’d heard officers at the CIA refer to Air France as Air Chance. When I returned from Africa, I found out why. My luggage didn’t return to Dulles when I did. At the lost luggage office where I went to do the paperwork, the Air France employees insisted that when my bag was found it must be sent to me—the “me” on my passport and luggage tags—rather than held at the airport to be picked up. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ After much bargaining and negotiating, more difficult than anything I’d gone through with the foreign intelligence officers, Air Chance agreed to send the luggage to “my best friend, Tracy Schandler,” with whom I said I was staying for a while. Thankfully, this worked.
Not long after I’d returned, I went into the office on Saturday to catch up on some work. While there, I was cabled a lead from a source abroad. My source had specific information on a notorious terrorist who was now trying to make a name for himself in the chemical warfare world. He was currently on a plane flying from a country that was protecting him to a country that wouldn’t protect him. After hours of flying and a layover, he would be landing Sunday morning. If I could get local operatives to tail him once he’d disembarked, it might be like following a bee back to the hive.
Immediately, I started sending cables to my contacts at the intelligence agency in the city where he was headed. I sent one after another, each with information of who this man was, what he’d done, and what I had surmised he was planning to do soon in a Western country. I checked my inbox every few minutes, waiting for a reply. By the time two hours had passed I was feeling like a desperate internet dater, just hoping anyone would respond to me. (If this had been a dating site, I would have scared away all semi-sane suitors with my relentlessness.)