The Unexpected Spy
Page 14
President Bush was angling to invade Iraq and wanted evidence to justify it. He was like a spouse in a bitter divorce, trying to gather up whatever scraps he could to make his case. But in this instance, the collateral damage wouldn’t be the kids, the house, the RV, or the boat. It would turn out to be the whole world.
As directed, Ben, David, and I, along with our contacts on the ground, searched and searched for ties between Zarqawi and his chemical cells and Saddam Hussein. We came up with nothing. It didn’t matter how many times someone from the White House asked for a connection; we weren’t going to give one when it simply didn’t exist.
One day Bud Smyth from the vice president’s office said to me, “We saw in your report that Zarqawi was in Baghdad for medical treatment.”
I said, “Yes, he visited a doctor there.”
“Seems to me,” he said, “that his time in Baghdad would show a direct link between him and Hussein.”
“Uh, well, I’m sorry,” I said. “It doesn’t.”
Later, when Ben, David, Graham, Sally, Victor, and I met in Graham’s office, I relayed Bud’s supposition that a few days in Baghdad had created a connection to Hussein.
“I was in Baghdad a few days last month,” Victor said. “Does that mean I’m working with Hussein?”
“Yes,” David said, smiling.
I said, “It’s sort of like when someone asks me if I know their friend in California simply because we’re from the same state.”
“California and Iraq are pretty much the same size,” Graham said. “So it’s exactly like that.”
“Twenty-five million Iraqis…” Ben said. “Aren’t there more Californians?”
“Thirty-five million,” Sally said, “but he’s talking square miles.”
“Keep your heads down,” Graham said. “And don’t let what they want to be true persuade you into seeing something that isn’t really there.”
Bud returned a couple days later with the same questions. I answered him politely and stuck to what was real and true.
Far more troubling than these visits was the fact that we had located crude poison labs in Iraq that were remotely related to Zarqawi. These labs were started around September 2001 by a terrorist group of Iraqi Kurds who called themselves Ansar al-Islam. Some intel suggested they consulted with Zarqawi to create the labs. And sources on the ground had placed Zarqawi as hiding there in the months before the invasion. Still, that didn’t connect Zarqawi to Hussein. In fact, it did the opposite. The Kurdish people had been routinely murdered in Saddam Hussein’s genocide. In theory, the members of Ansar al-Islam were on our side, as they wanted to get rid of Hussein as much as we did, if not more so. In practice, however, they were terrorists, and the very people many of us in the CIA feared would rise out of the morass if the United States were to take out Hussein. Everyone I spoke with in counterterrorism wanted to quickly pick up Zarqawi while we had him pinpointed and eliminate the Ansar al-Islam labs. We needed to dismantle this armed group before the country was thrown into chaos.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ If that wasn’t enough to keep me up at night, there was the fact that African terrorists were rapidly becoming the greatest threat to peace. An invasion of Iraq would suck up America’s resources and take all the focus off Africa, giving the terrorists there plenty of room to thrive.
The whole thing felt like a nutty funhouse game. Only dangerous. No matter what we reported to the administration, they turned it around, turned it inside out, and spat it back out into some non-truth version of what had been said. Zarqawi with Ansar al-Islam became Zarqawi working for Hussein. Ansar Al-Islam’s crude, barely functioning poison labs in northern Iraq became nuclear testing grounds. Terrorists who weren’t even fractionally smart enough or wealthy enough to develop tools of mass destruction were turned into feared enemies. And terrorists who were organized, funded, and just then plotting to destroy people all over Europe, the Middle East, and Africa were virtually ignored.
The morning huddle with the Poison Trio, Sally, Graham and Victor, became an ongoing analysis and critique of the White House. There was a certain relief in venting each day. It was our way of not feeling gaslighted, not feeling that we were insane for believing the truths we were finding.
I continued to update and print copies of the poison chart, which I taped to the walls of my cubicle. People from the office of the president, the office of the vice president, or the office of Donald Rumsfeld or Condoleezza Rice or Colin Powell continued to approach me, question me, and then walk away with a copy of that chart.
The information on the chart was factual. The chart was only altered by us when we found new cells, or when terrorists within the cells rose in rank or died.
On Monday, February 4, I handed a finished chart to the office of the White House. On Wednesday, February 5, Colin Powell made a speech to the United Nations in an effort to garner support for the invasion of Iraq. My colleagues and I watched the speech on television. As Powell presented his case, he held up the chemical terrorists chart. But it was not the chart I had turned in. The words Iraqi-Linked had been added to my words Terrorist Chart.
Now I understood why the CIA had been denied approval to pick up Zarqawi and take out the Ansar al-Islam labs in northern Iraq. All our information was being reframed and then submitted as proof that Hussein had weapons of mass destruction. Zarqawi, who had no known connections to Hussein, was mentioned 21 times in that one speech. Yes, 21. Suddenly, our guy hanging out with the terrorists who wanted to kill Hussein, and more importantly, the guy running the poison networks for Europe and Africa, was allegedly building chemical labs for the state of Iraq. In one speech, this demented thug—who had been little known outside of intelligence agencies—became the justification for the invasion of Iraq by the United States and the allies we’d gathered—which at that point were England and Spain. With his newfound prominence, before the war even started, the man we could have nabbed went into deep cover.
Someone in charge of things somewhere—though my gut says it wasn’t Bush, Cheney, or Rumsfeld—knew it wasn’t good to jump in and overthrow a government without any plans for how to run the joint once we were in charge. In a last-ditch, late-start effort, no fewer than 17 different groups, which included people from the CIA and Iraqis who were currently living in the United States, did a fast study of past wars, past invasions, and past regime changes in an effort to prepare the United States for all possible outcomes.
The reports detailed likely scenarios and laid out how to respond. There were entire binders on things such as how to avoid the looting and destruction of places of worship and buildings of historic significance. The thousands of pages of work, however, appear to have been virtually ignored. A civilian on the ground after Baghdad had fallen is quoted in James Fallows’s Atlantic article “Blind into Baghdad” as saying, “People are used to someone being in charge, and when they realize no one is, the fabric rips.”
We invaded. The fabric ripped. And there was a gaping, muddy hole that sucked in many of the unmoored men of Iraq: some from the disbanded military (unemployed and armed); some members of the Ba’ath Party (the minority in Iraq and the former ruling party), who were soon banned from public office; some of those who (as predicted in many of the reports) viewed the liberation as an occupation; all the former members of Ansar al-Islam (whom, as I said before, the CIA had wanted to disband for exactly this reason before the war started); along with the usual Islamic extremists who already believed America was occupying the Middle East because of our presence in Saudi Arabia and our support for Israel. From this mud rose new legions of terrorists. (Soon enough, they’d congeal with the Bush-anointed Zarqawi as their leader and rebrand themselves as ISIS or ISIL.)
When it became clear that this war was a lot messi
er than most people had expected, and that there were no WMDs in Iraq, the CIA was blamed for the whole shebang, falsely accused of having provided faulty intelligence.
I must say this in response to that accusation: I was there. I’m one of the people who supplied the intelligence. Not a single bit of anything my team turned in was faulty. How it was changed and twisted by the White House was faulty.
The CIA did not betray the White House. The White House betrayed the CIA.
Everyone I worked with in the CIA was outraged. But there was no time to wallow in despair over what had already gone down. If my altered chart had started this war, then I was going to devote my life to undoing as much damage as I could. I had to simply double my efforts and focus on what was real and sure: 1. Chemical weapons in the hands of al-Qaeda in Europe and Africa. 2. Al-Qaeda’s plans to use those chemical weapons against Westerners and Jews.
* * *
Just a couple months after the start of the war, Ben and I flew to the Middle East to visit a prison where several of al-Qaeda’s chemical team members were being held. This prison was where many key al-Qaeda leaders had entered years earlier as common hoodlums and, after coming in contact with influential imprisoned jihadists, exited as radicalized Islamists. Some of the men held in the prison might know where Zarqawi, X, or anyone else on their team was. And they also might know what chemical plots were currently being cooked up by the WMD crew. At the very least, they might have the phone numbers or email addresses of people who were of great interest to the CIA.
On the flight overseas, I wore a new suit I’d bought in California on my last trip home. My mother loves to shop as much as I do, and we’d picked it out together. It was tuxedo-looking and had a high waist that looked like a satin cummerbund. I felt confident in this suit. It was like putting on a costume and playing a part: the grown-up woman taking down terrorists wherever she could find them.
I slept fine in that suit. A few minutes before we landed, I went to the airplane lavatory, brushed my hair, put on pink lipstick, and then sprinkled some water on my camisole so that the wrinkles would fall out by the time we went through customs.
The airport in this country was clean and modern-seeming. As we walked out of customs and into the terminal, I saw two distinct lines for security. One for men, the other for women. I pulled my pashmina from my bag and slipped it over my head, though really, there were so many people of different nationalities in the airport, it didn’t feel like a requirement.
A driver was waiting for us. We were supposed to go straight to the CIA offices, but Ben wanted to see the area where a Western man had recently been assassinated. His killers hadn’t been caught yet, but everything pointed to al-Qaeda. Bush had been preparing for war at the time of this assassination, which appeared to cause a reactionary amp-up of al-Qaeda’s jihad.
The area where the man had been killed was clean. It looked like a place where one would feel entirely safe going for a walk. Yet, in the past two years, in addition to this assassination, three other Westerners had also been killed.
“There,” the driver said as he stopped the car on a modern-looking street with comfortable houses that I could imagine living in.
The two of us looked out the window. It was a peaceful, bright, quiet day. A couple strolled by with a well-groomed dog on a leash. In my imagination, I watched a middle-aged man walk to his brightly colored car, reach for the door handle, and then turn to face two men who gunned him down for no reason other than the fact that he held an American passport.
“Did he have kids?” I asked.
“Yes,” Ben said.
“Don’t tell me how many.” I needed to shut off the horror film that was running in my head.
* * *
The CIA offices here were among the most populous outside of Langley. I’d cabled with many people there and found all of them helpful, friendly, and cooperative. Well, almost all. There was Fred. The cables I got from Fred had an attitude, a gruffness and bossiness, that I’d never seen in any other cables.
“Can’t wait to meet Fred,” I whispered to Ben as we made our way to the counterterrorism offices.
“Ah, Fred,” Ben said. “The barking underling.”
People stood and introduced themselves to us. And then, from across the room, I saw a toadish-looking man with pink skin and yellow-blond hair lean out from his cubicle and stare us down. He made brief eye contact and then walked toward us with a wide-legged waddle, which reminded me of a cowboy.
“Fred?” I stuck out my hand. He was shorter than me and had a belly that projected like an awning over a porch.
Fred didn’t shake my hand. Instead he looked me up and down and said, “What kind of ridiculous outfit is this?”
“My suit?” I thought it was sharp. Stylish. The wrinkles had even fallen out since the flight.
“You’re in the Middle East, for fucksake,” he said, “not on a shopping trip at Saks Fifth Avenue.”
“So, what have you got on Zarqawi’s team?” Ben looked down at Fred with his eyes tensely slitted.
“My desk is back there,” Fred snapped. “Come see me and I’ll give you what you need for the prison visit.” Fred waddled away quickly.
Once he was out of earshot, I leaned into Ben and said, “Definitely sexually frustrated.”
“Roger that,” Ben said.
“Can you imagine actually having sex with someone who continually barks like that?” I asked.
Ben looked at me and laughed.
As repellent as Fred was, he did at least provide good intel. He appeared to be pouring all that pent-up hormonal energy into finding Zarqawi. I had a feeling he wouldn’t rest, and probably wouldn’t stop berating his colleagues, until Zarqawi was eliminated. Ben and I stood near Fred’s desk for over two hours exchanging information. When we were done, I was grateful. Still, I didn’t want to try to shake his hand, so I just turned and walked away.
In my fabulous suit.
Ben and I were put up at the Four Seasons because there were no rooms at the Hyatt, where people from the agency usually stayed. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The country, and the Hyatt in particular, was full of diplomats, aid workers, some military, and probably a lot of intelligence workers from all nations. The Four Seasons had many of those same people. And so many British guests that when I sat in the lobby and didn’t look out the window, I felt like I was in London.
The prison was a few hours away, so we’d be going there first thing in the morning. In the meantime, Ben wanted to nap for a couple hours in his nice room. I was happy to have two hours alone in my room.
When the call to prayer started, I slid open my balcony doors and stood at the rail looking down at the bright city. The call was beautiful and slightly melancholy sounding. Much better in person than what we had listened to from a computer when I was in The Vault.
Most people down on the street continued to go about their business. One car stopped in the right lane and put on the hazard lights. Five men got out, unrolled mats on the sidewalk, and prayed. People walked around them without paying much attention to them. Cars honked quickly—not a New York City lean on the horn, more of a tap-tap—and then drove around their vehicle.
When the call to prayer was over, I turned on the BBC and then sat on the balcony and listened to the news. It was Thursday, May 15, 2003, and not much good was happening, particularly in the Middle East. Only three days earlier, three compounds in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, had been attacked by truck-driving suicide bombers. This was a well-orchestrated al-Qaeda attack that had to have had some insider involvement, as the terrorists knew the systems to get past the gates of each compound once the guards had been killed. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~�
��~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~—there had been enough chatter to know that something was in the works, but we hadn’t had the specifics of where.
It all seemed part of the messy, bloody web of warring nations, factions, people, beliefs. More and more, the United States was seen as occupying Iraq, rather than trying to save it. This bolstered al-Qaeda’s entrenched ideas that we’d been occupying Saudi Arabia since 1991, when American troops were stationed there during the first Gulf War, waged by Bush Senior.
I was glad I was only listening to the news. I didn’t want to see the images I’d already taken in of the smoking rubble, the 39 dead, the 160 injured, and the dozens of children who were injured or killed. One of the compounds was owned by an American company that was training the Saudi National Guard, one was owned by a London-based company, and the third was a housing compound where mostly Westerners resided.
The news moved on to a speech by Paul Bremer, who five days prior had been named by President Bush as the head of the coalition provisional authority of Iraq. This meant Bremer was essentially in charge of the place. When asked about a replacement for Saddam Hussein, who had gone into hiding, Bremer talked only of getting rid of the Ba’ath Party members who were still active in government. When asked about restoring order to chaos, Bremer quoted the exact number of men who had been arrested within the last 48 hours. He spoke as if everything was now under control.
But nothing was under control.
I went back into the room, turned off the TV, then returned to the peacefulness of the balcony. I had to focus on the things I could control, the things and people I could reach, the terrorist plots I could take down before they took down innocent civilians.
With my feet resting up on the rail and the sun beating down on my face, I went over all the information Fred the barking cowboy toad had given me. I sorted it in my head, prioritized, and prepared for my meeting with the local intelligence at the prison.
Once I felt saturated with what I knew, I fetched the magazines I’d bought at the airport in D.C.—Vanity Fair, US Weekly, and Glamour. Back on the balcony with the magazines stacked in my lap, I entered a realm that didn’t even remotely acknowledge the bloody, violent, and chaotic terrors of the world. It was a beautiful, shallow, star-studded escape.