The Unexpected Spy

by Tracy Walder

  The day wore on and I continued to cable. With each missive, I added more information, including the man’s heinous crimes against women and children.

  Finally, a simply worded one-line cable dinged in from an intelligence operative of the country where he’d soon be. No one works on Sunday, she said. And so this man, whose motives I knew so well, would get in a cab and virtually disappear into the landscape. Another terrorist to keep me awake at night.

  SEVEN

  ONE WORLD

  Europe Winter 2002

  There was a meeting of many Western intelligence services, and our team was invited. The purpose of the meeting was to share information, discuss problems, and come up with solutions. Everyone working together with the same goal: shut down terrorists and stop terror plots before they’re executed. We were in the post-9/11, pre–Iraq invasion era when al-Qaeda was ramping things up and the United States was determined to stop them no matter where in the world they planned to attack.

  Three of us from the CTC/WMD teams went. The most senior CIA invitee was Victor. I liked traveling with Victor, with his huge head of hair and sharp suits. He made each person feel important, as if we all were integral parts of a puzzle in which every piece held equal value. Bernard was the third person traveling with us, though he would be arriving a day later, as he had a newborn baby at home. In his thirties, Bernard dressed as if he were playing a dad on a sitcom: every day a sweater over a button-down shirt, his small belly puffing out. I’m sure the people Bernard encountered at dinner parties or Lamaze class could never imagine that this soft-spoken, cardigan-wearing man was a razor-sharp analyst in the nukes department. I, of course, was there to speak for the WMD group. On many trips we were cross-represented like that: an analyst (Bernard), an operative (me), and a boss (Victor).

  I had three goals for this visit: 1. To impart the invaluable information I had to the proper people, people who would utilize this information in the right way. 2. To gather as much information from the foreign agencies as possible. 3. To create productive alliances with intelligence officers from other countries.

  The men and women who would be present at these meetings would be the heads of each intelligence agency along with those who were most effective on the ground. Either way, these were resources who could help. I was still struggling to forge relationships with operatives from a few European countries. Unfortunately, the closer we drew to the invasion of Iraq, the harder this was proving to be. Americans, and America, weren’t adored by Europeans at the time. In our dogged and relentless tracking of terrorists, terrorist cells, and WMDs, along with our presence in Afghanistan, it appeared we were perceived as bullies. Even though we were trying to save the whole wide world. No exceptions.

  Still, I was one woman. One Californian. One former sorority girl who was utterly determined to be seen as the individual resource I was rather than the government I represented. I was hopeful that because the “top” members of the intelligence communities would be there, I’d have more success in finding someone who would put world safety above politics.

  We arrived the day before the meetings started. Our only obligation was to have dinner at the home of an associate in the city we were in. In the cab on the way to her apartment, my head was whipping from side to side as I looked out the windows. There were sparkling lights everywhere. It was as if the snowy world outside my window was in a constant glittering shimmer. The sun had set hours ago, while I had been in the hotel unpacking my bags. Darkness, coupled with below-zero temperatures, usually makes me want to hunker down in bed and watch reality TV. That’s clearly not how the people of this country feel. The streets had plenty of bustling activity. There were open shops and restaurants that looked crowded and full of energy as we swooshed past them in the cab. Bicyclists were on the street, too, not one of them wearing a helmet.

  I pointed out the window to a helmetless bike rider passing the cab. Victor, who had spent a lot of time there, said, “They don’t worry here. About anything.”

  “Not even al-Qaeda?” I had recently tracked one of Zarqawi’s most devoted followers to a city near here. In fact, many terrorists were relocating to Europe for the same reason you or I would go: generous health care, good public transportation, a baguette for less than a euro. Also, there was the internet. It had been banned by Taliban rule and Sharia law in some places in the Middle East. Plotting a poison attack and finding followers is much easier when you can meet up in a chat room rather than in a gritty, cold cave that might take days to get to.

  “No, they’re not worried about al-Qaeda. Look—” Victor pointed out the window where three prams were lined up outside a cafe. “They leave their babies outside.”

  “In this weather?!” It took years before my mother would let me walk to 7-Eleven alone. And that was in the dry sunshine of Southern California.

  “In this weather, in any weather. They’re bundled up. Kids nap outside, too. Always. Really. No matter what the weather.” Victor shrugged and smiled.

  “And no one gets kidnapped?”

  “The only thing that gets stolen here are bikes,” Victor said.

  It occurred to me then that fear is often a choice. There are kidnappings and bike crashes and suicide bombers. And you can spend your life trying to avoid them all. Or you can live exactly as you please and enjoy each moment—drinking a beer while your kid naps outside, feeling the snow in your hair as you pedal down the road, taking an American Airlines flight to anywhere interesting and exciting. I’d always had a certain fearlessness anyway, but now I was thinking of it as European. I would adopt it as my outlook when I traveled, ate new foods, took in all the world has to offer, without fear. And, in the meantime, I’d try to get rid of the people who wanted to poison and kill us all.

  I slid out of the cab while Victor paid. It had been cold in Langley that winter, so I was adequately prepared with my long, hooded down jacket. Black, of course, because I wanted it to go with everything. I’d recently splurged on a pair of warm leather gloves, and I hadn’t left the house that winter without the cashmere scarf my parents had given me for Hanukkah.

  Victor paused in front of the building. It looked stately and elegant, and I wondered what it would be like to live in a place like that, in a country like this. Then Victor put his hand on my puffy down shoulder and said, “She knows nothing about our operations.” I wanted to laugh. I knew the work was important, and I felt confident that I was doing a good job, but it seemed almost comical to me that at twenty-three years old, I’d outrank someone who had been doing this longer than I.

  “So do we just talk about … the darkness?” My friendships in the mid-Atlantic still hadn’t branched out past the CIA. I rarely had conversations where I couldn’t mention my work.

  Victor smiled. “Follow my lead and you’ll be fine.”

  The apartment was beautiful, tasteful, elegant, with antiques that were approachable and touchable. When I sat in an armchair, I felt like I had been tucked into a nest. There were lit candles on the mantel and the table, and a fire burning in the fireplace. The associate herself was every bit as elegant as the apartment. I dealt with men so often at work, and even more so when I interacted with other agencies in Europe and Africa, that it felt special to see a woman abroad in a position of power. I hadn’t thought much about representation until then—I’d been busy working, doing, thinking, trying to learn as much as I could. But this, seeing a woman, made me realize how impactful it is for anyone of any group to see a version of themselves represented. It makes you feel included. It makes you feel like there are possibilities beyond what you already know.

  The dinner conversation could have gone on without me, but I was very happy to sit and listen. I did learn about the local customs, local foods, and how the people in that country lived in a very relaxed, no-pressure way. It was as if the place was populated by surfery Californians. But instead of riding waves, they rode bikes.

  * * *

  The following morning, Victor and I took
a cab to that country’s intelligence headquarters. Just as I had on my last trip, I wanted to jump out of the cab and take a picture. ~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~​~~ Our purpose there was simply to meet other operatives and let them know we were in town. It’s an unwritten rule in the intelligence community that when you’re in another country, you announce yourself as a way of saying, “Hey, I’m not spying on you while I’m here.” I’d had many meetings in Langley with operatives from other countries who were letting us know they were in the States. The only time someone wasn’t expected to announce her- or himself was when traveling under an alias.

  I was looking forward to talking to people from the intelligence community of this country. Unlike many other Europeans, these euro-Californians didn’t appear to be actively hating me because of Bush’s planned invasion of Iraq. Also, they understood the enormity of the chemical terrorism threats. They were willing to work on a Sunday.

  After getting to know the locals, Victor and I spent the day separately, gathering and analyzing information from various sources. Because terror cells are like pulse points on an entire circulatory system, it takes a broader point of view, and lots of different perspectives, to really hone in on what you’re seeing. In short, we were trying to make our web of information bigger than al-Qaeda’s web of terror. We needed to encircle and contain them.

  At the end of the day, Victor and I met up again to cross-reference our discoveries. Together, we were able to zero in on YY, and track his movements. He was someone we wanted to watch more closely—meaning we wanted eyes on him in every place he landed. YY was a bigger threat than many others, for he had passion and charisma, and was handsome and articulate. He even wrote for an al-Qaeda newsletter, broadcasting his murderous ambitions. With his charm and public-facing position, YY was attracting followers and exploiting their vulnerabilities to draw them into his extremist army. In the fold of YY, these unmoored boys and men had purpose, a community, and what they were tricked into believing was a spiritual calling. YY was becoming a top priority for us. We needed to anticipate where he’d go next, who was going with him, and what they planned to do there. In this way, we could stop YY before he and his crew were able to execute any of their plans to kill, as he frequently stated, Westerners and Jews.

  * * *

  Bernard arrived early that evening, in time to attend a dinner to which we’d been invited. Victor mentioned that we’d be the only ones at the dinner who weren’t from Europe. At the time, that seemed like no big deal.

  Again, as the cab pulled up, I wanted to take pictures. The hotel where the dinner was being held was so elegant that it made a romantic out of me. Victor, Bernard, and I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, staring at the massive stone edifice with three flags blowing from upright poles high on the roof. There were four wreaths across the front of the hotel, three or four floors up. Each was the size of the ten-foot window over which it hung. It was exactly the kind of thing I never saw growing up in Southern California.

  Bernard pulled the lapels of his overcoat tighter and said, “I’ve gotta bring my wife here.”

  “When your baby’s bigger,” Victor said, and he started walking into the hotel. It would be a while before I’d think about things like spouses or babies, but the idea did seem sort of nice when seen through Bernard.

  The inside of the hotel was luxurious: candlelight everywhere, plum-colored bouquets on tables and counters, plush velvet chairs. Victor was perfectly dressed for the setting in a dark gray suit with a lavender tie and a lavender handkerchief in his pocket. Bernard was in the same suit he’d been wearing on his flight. I was in a slim black pantsuit with a red blouse. I had taken the time to curl my hair and had put on bright red lipstick that perfectly matched my nail polish. I don’t particularly like the attention of strangers, and I hate to be the focus of any group, but I love clothes, makeup, and dressing up. Since my time in the sorority, I have fully rejected the idea of anyone—any man, woman, or institution—telling me I have to dress a certain way to play a role I’ve been assigned through the expectations of others. So even as an intelligence officer working mostly with men, I wanted to be taken seriously while exercising the right to curl my hair into long ringlets, because I like my hair that way.

  Of the many people in the room, I was one of only five women. Each of them was at least a couple decades older than I. I made a note of where they were so I could find them and meet them later. I tried to make eye contact with one woman who walked by me on the way to her table, but she looked past me as if I wasn’t there.

  Victor, Bernard, and I were seated at different tables. I was with seven men. Three were already seated and the rest of us approached around the same time. English was the common language used by everyone at each of the tables that night. Well, except mine.

  The man on my left, Patrick, had short red hair, teeth that looked like they’d been blown around in a hurricane, an easy smile, and a friendly way about him. Instead of the usual gray, blue, and black worn by most men, Patrick was in a dark green suit. We shook hands, introduced ourselves, and then I turned to the man on my right, whose lips were so tight they created a straight Charlie Brown–looking line of a mouth. He had blue eyes, dark brown hair, and wore a suit so slim and fitted it looked as if he had been sewn into it.

  “I’m Tracy,” I said, and stuck out my hand. He looked down at my painted nails for a second before lifting his dangling wrist and offering me what felt like a damp piece of Wonder Bread.

  “John…” he started. The rest of what he said sounded to me like foreign-movie dialogue. But without the subtitles.

  Everyone at this dinner spoke English. But John refused to speak English to me, the only American at the table. To the Northern European beside him, he spoke English. To the Eastern and the Southern European men, he spoke English. To the hundred-year-old-looking man from a country where they speak John’s native language, he spoke English. But to me: Non! Nein! Nej! John appeared to be angry at America. And he let that be known by answering me in a long series of incomprehensible (to me) sentences each time I turned to him. Even when I just asked him to pass the salt.

  I’d learned long ago, when I was being bullied in school, that you can’t make someone like you. And when you try, when you open your arms and ask to be liked, they swoop into that empty space and attempt to destroy you further. Working to make people like you reduces your power. Ignoring them reduces their power. Salt was the last word I spoke to John.

  Thankfully, Patrick was happy to engage in conversation with me. He was smart, interesting, and offered valuable insights for me when we were discussing bin Laden and the attacks of September 11.

  After much back and forth, he said, “Tracy, I feel bad for your people, really I do. No one ever wants anything like that to happen to America.”

  “Maybe—” I joked, nodding toward my right.

  “Even him.” He grinned. “But you have to look at it from the European perspective. The Irish were embroiled in what was basically a civil war for over thirty years—”

  “The Troubles,” I said.

  “Yes, the Troubles. They lost more people during the Troubles than you lost on September 11, and no one besides the mothers, brothers, fathers, and children of the dead seem to give two fecks—”

  “Two fecks?” I asked.

  “Two fecks,” he said, and I realized he was saying two fucks.

  “You think no one cared?” I asked.

  “I think individuals cared, of course. I’m sure you as an intelligent woman cared. But that doesn’t mean you—or America—jumped up and tried to do anythi
ng about it. But since the Twin Towers went down, everyone in America acts like the world should drop to their knees weeping and then stand and take up arms to defend America.”

  I’d barely eaten my dinner. John had rattled me a bit and now this. I’d lived in the States my whole life. Most of my travel so far had been for the CIA. I did know about the Troubles. I knew about troubles and civil wars and uprisings and insurgencies and invasions and displacements on every continent for as long as Homo sapiens has existed. I had been a history major! But Patrick was right. I was a typical American in so many ways. In all I knew, in all I’d learned, I’d always filtered this knowledge through my love and loyalty to my own country.

  This conversation with Patrick set me off on an effort toward more global thinking. It led me to believe that to be the best CIA agent I could be, and the best defender of the United States, I’d have to shift my perspective slightly so that I wasn’t standing with my feet stuck in American soil like two Kansas cornstalks. Rather, I’d need to float above it all and look at the globe with all its interconnected parts so I could see more clearly how an American Navy ship anchored in the Gulf of Aden might feel like an occupation to someone on the shore of Yemen, which might send a ripple of reactionary fear to a group of displaced refugee boys being supported by al-Qaeda in a madrassa in Afghanistan. You can see where this is going. Global thinking, I began to believe, would allow me to better serve the needs of the greatest number of people. And, also, it would help me understand the point of view of my fellow operatives from Europe and Africa. There was likely no hope for me and Mister What’s-His-Name. Still, there were other operatives from other countries. Surely I could find another person, besides Patrick, with whom I might be able to speak civilly.