by Tracy Walder
* * *
Late that afternoon, Ben and I had plans to go to a souk, a large open market in the center of the city. One of the guys from the CIA, a Texan named Randy, was coming with us. We’d cabled often with Randy, had talked to him a bit in the office earlier in the day, and felt like we knew him well, even though we’d only seen his face for the first time that morning.
Randy picked us up in a cab, and we rode over together. He spoke Arabic and was loving everything about being in the Middle East.
Before we got out of the cab, I pulled my pashmina from my purse, tossed it over my head, and wrapped the loose ends around my neck. I’d seen some women on the street uncovered. But none were blond. And none looked very Western.
“Sorry it’s so hot for that thing,” Randy said, as if he were responsible for the weather.
It was above 80 degrees and I was in a long-sleeved black t-shirt and loose black pants. But I had no choice. I was about to step foot in the real city and not the Western-flooded places I’d already been: the airport, the hotel, and the CIA offices.
When I got out of the cab, a man on the street stopped midstride, whipped his head toward me, and stared. He was just the first. No matter that I covered my hair, bits of it fell out and flashed like Christmas lights on my shoulders. As we walked along the stalls, a kid scrambled up a tree and pointed at me while shouting something.
Randy translated. “He said, look at her green eyes!”
As much as I was taking in the souk, people seemed to be taking in me. As an introvert, it’s not a comfortable feeling. I thought about new immigrants to America, people of color in all-white neighborhoods, and people wearing hijabs after September 11 when an anti-Muslim mania swept through parts of the country. To be stared at like that is to double down on the outsider feeling. You feel it inside already, and then, when you are looked at the way I was as I walked through the crowded market, it’s like you are being told, you’re not one of us. I made a note to store this feeling somewhere in my brain. To pull it out and think about it the next time I noticed someone who looked different from everyone else around them. We are all the same, I thought. Green eyes, brown eyes, hijab, no hijab, we want the same things. Peace. A purpose. To love and be loved.
And I really wanted a necklace I found at one of the stands.
There were crowds at every stall, but this one was worse, with people crammed in shoulder to shoulder. Some were looking at me and some were looking at the handmade jewelry. I held in my hand a fine gold chain with an intricately woven gold hamsa amulet hanging from it. The hamsa, in the shape of an open right palm, had a blue evil eye in the center. Like the simple evil eye alone, a hamsa is believed to protect the wearer from the malevolent glare of others. I don’t think the people who were pointing and staring at me were malevolent at all. Just curious. Still, I wanted the magic of the hamsa near me. Randy negotiated the price, and I walked away with the hamsa hanging from my neck.
Had I lived there I would have bought so much more. The spice vendor’s display was beautiful for the colors alone. There were handbags, clothing, food, shoes … whatever you can think of was there. Some of the aisles were covered with draped awnings to keep out the glaring heat, and some were open to the sky. Families shopped together. Women and girls walked in groups, leaning into each other, talking continuously. Men walked down the aisles holding hands, as most Middle Eastern men do. It was interesting to me that in a country where men and women are separated in so many ways and places, a physical affection between same-sex friends and family comes out in public.
“You two should hold hands,” I said to Ben and Randy.
Ben looked at me and shook his head. But he was smiling.
Randy said, in his charming Texas accent, “That’s for deep cover. Right now, I’m just Randy being Randy.”
* * *
A car picked Ben and me up at six in the morning for the long drive to the prison.
Ben and I both sat in the backseat, each looking out our own window. The buildings we passed seemed to reflect the people of this city: modern and traditional, every shape and size, all packed in together.
It wasn’t long before the chaos and sounds of cars and horns gave way to silence and emptiness. Desert as far as I could see. There were a few men with camels along the road and tourists riding the camels’ backs for a small fee. And then, when we were even farther from the city, there was nothing but golden ocher sand, with patches of green popping up at random like whiskers on the chin of a teenage boy. From time to time we passed big rock formations, beautifully round and wind-carved.
The prison appeared suddenly like an apparition. It was encircled with towers, barbed wire, fences, guards. It looked impossible to escape. And then, even if one did escape, where would you go? It would be like escaping on the moon—how long could you last without a spacesuit and the mother ship?
Ben and I were led to a small, blandly beige, conference room. Mounted on the four walls were clocks set to the time zones of major cities around the world. Ben slowly turned in a circle, looking at the clocks and trying to translate the city name beneath each one. I looked at the door, anxious to meet the local operatives who would be arriving shortly. The people of this intelligence force are known to be intense, stringent, relentless, and somewhat terrifying. They are the people you want working on your side and never working against you.
When eight men finally filed into the room, I had to stop myself from audibly reacting. It wasn’t as if they looked like buffoons. They just looked like plain nice guys. In suits. Men who, in America, might loosen a tie, crack open a Bud, and stoke up the barbeque. Or maybe pretend to nap on a lawn chair as they watched their fifteen-year-old kid mow the grass.
The ten of us sat around a table and were served thick, dark, sweet coffee in small glass cups. As soon as the conversation started rolling, everyone was animated, intense. Except Ben, who always had a calm, reserved poise to him. If there was any group who could match the CIA’s zealotry in tracking Zarqawi and the chemical guys, these guys were it. Just the mention of Zarqawi caused commotion at the table—fist banging, shouting, fiery eyes.
Ben and I discussed the information we needed to get from a terrorist they were holding. He was someone we knew had intimate knowledge of the chemical terror world. If he gave us the right contacts and information, we could find out what major plans were in the works and who exactly was involved in them.
“Tell me specifically what you want to know,” one guy said. Of all the men in the room, he looked the most put together, with thick, shiny hair parted and combed to the side and a suit that must have been pressed with starch.
Ben and I went through our list of questions. Using a short, tooth-bitten pencil, the operative translated our words into his language and wrote them in a little spiral notebook. He nodded his head at each inquiry, as if to agree that it would be useful information.
When we were done, he flipped the book shut and stood.
“One moment,” he said, and left the room.
Less than an hour later, the man returned. His hair was sticking up in all directions like an electrocuted cartoon cat. And that stiff suit appeared to have been dragged behind a car on a dirt road. His tie was gone and his shirt collar was open, revealing glistening sweat on the top of his furry chest.
Ben scooted back his chair and watched him, almost smiling. I leaned forward on the table as he sat down.
“I have all your answers.” He picked up the cup of coffee in front of him and chugged it.
“You have all our answers?” Now I was smiling. I’d expected we’d get some answers in a few weeks. Maybe even months. As I’ve said before, breaking down a terrorist and getting information is done over a period of time.
But not here. These men had just secured their reputation. With us, at least.
* * *
After many hours in a car that day, Ben and I both wanted to exercise before going out for the night. I went into the women’s gym, which I had
to myself. I had just settled onto a bike and was flipping through the channels on the TV when Ben stuck his head in the door.
“There are only two British special forces guys in the men’s gym if you want to come work out there,” Ben said.
I did indeed. Not because I had a particular interest in British soldiers but because information, intelligence, comes from all sorts of places, and I certainly wasn’t going to get any alone on a bike in the empty women’s gym.
I got on a StairMaster near the door but close enough to everyone else that we could talk. I wanted to be able to quickly slip out if a non-Westerner came in.
Ben told the English soldiers ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~. They weren’t too interested and didn’t ask many questions. This is human nature’s gift to intelligence workers: most people would rather talk about themselves. We asked what was happening on the ground in Iraq. They had just been in Baghdad and were on a break before they were to return.
“It’s a total cock-up,” one guy said. He was on his back lifting a rack of weights.
“Your president’s a fucking wanker,” the guy spotting him said.
I guessed at the translation of their words. Actually, I had to guess at much of what they said. I never asked for translations, though, because I didn’t want to slow them down and stop them as they volleyed in a diatribe against the war. Ben never stopped them either. He just kept nodding and prodding for more.
The British soldiers made it clear that the overriding feeling was that they had all been drawn into a personal battle between George W. Bush and Saddam Hussein. And though Hussein had tortured, murdered, locked up, and repressed his people for decades, the belief among Iraqis appeared to be that the soldiers who had come in with the desire to save them were simply replacing Hussein, with the United States as the new dictator. In other words, no good deed goes unpunished, and this one, the good deed of getting rid of Hussein, was being severely punished.
No matter who my source was, the story was similar. Westerners in Iraq were stirring up a frenzy of anti-Western sentiment. The only place to get a different story was through White House briefings and press releases and the news outlets that relied on the White House press.
As I said before, if President Bush had run for reelection in the months following September 11, I would have voted for him without a second thought. The man who had chatted with me in The Vault was attentive, aware of what was happening in the world, and very much had America and Americans’ best interests at heart. But just then, after the invasion of Iraq on false pretenses, I had a queasy feeling that this whole war—all these lives, all these resources, all this destruction—was going down just so W. could do that which his father had failed to do in 1991: take out Hussein. I hated Hussein as much as anyone else who values freedom. But I also wanted Bush impeached for treason.
* * *
Before the sun came up the next morning, before Ben and I were to meet with a European case officer, I hired a driver to take me all the way ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~. Just like when I sit with a hairdresser, I established immediately when I got in the car that I didn’t want to talk. The driver respected this, and so the silent ride up the mountain, through desert monotony, felt like a prolonged meditation. When we got to the top, the driver put the car in park, pushed his seat back, and closed his eyes. We were the only ones there. I got out of the car and walked through the quiet to the edge of a low, serpentine stone wall. There were divots and gaps in the wall, which looked like it had been laid by hand a thousand years ago. Loose boulders and squares of stone were scattered on the ground. There was the sound of birds, and the rustling-paper sound of small things crawling in the brush and dirt at my feet. All the land in front of me was cast in the glowing, sumptuous light of the low sun. Golden dirt rolled out below my feet all the way down to the Red Sea. From where I stood, I could see Israel.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I remained still yet relaxed, my arms hanging loosely at my sides. My breathing slowed and deepened, and I was flooded with a perfect peace, a moment of feeling complete. I knew that below me some of the most long-lasting and violent clashes were being played out by people of all religions. But here, where Christianity, Judaism, and Islam met, there was nothing but serenity.
Back in the car, before we left, I asked the driver, “How do we get everyone up here so they can feel this peacefulness and stop trying to kill each other?”
He shrugged and threw his hands up, then reached down and turned the ignition.
Ben was waiting for me when I returned just before noon. I quickly changed into business clothes, and then we took a cab to the Hyatt, which was so filled with Westerners that I didn’t need to wear the pashmina on my head. We met in the sitting room of a suite with a European case officer, Cheryl, whom we had only known through cables. Cheryl had beautiful strawberry blond hair pulled back into a thick bun at her neck. I wondered if when she walked the streets of this city, she, too, got the pointing, the gaping, the tree climbing. I didn’t ask, though. Cheryl was all business.
And beer.
Cheryl had six beers sent to the room for the three of us. When they arrived, she reached into her slouchy carryall and pulled out a giant bag of salt-and-vinegar potato chips.
“I always bring my own food,” Cheryl said casually. It wasn’t a bad plan to avoid dysentery. Though I’m not sure a diet of chips and alcohol would give one the energy needed to chase down terrorists.
I skipped the beer but dug into the chips. The three of us talked for three hours, exchanging intel. Ben and I had a great deal more information than Cheryl. In fact, she didn’t have much that we didn’t already know. But the operatives of her country were always good to us, always helpful, and I was happy to give her what we had.
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Toward the end of our meeting, Cheryl suggested we meet up later with other operatives from the CIA. It was our last night there; the next day Ben and I were going on to another country, where we were to spend a month following up on the new intel. I wanted to see the nightlife, and Ben was game, so the three of us reconvened that evening at a hookah lounge with a few people from the local office, including Randy, the Texan.
The club was dark, hip, youthful. Only about half the women were veiled. Arabic music played on enormous speakers hanging from the corners of the ceiling. Like everything I’d experienced here so far, the music was a mixture of old and new. Some of the songs were modern, thumping, rap-sounding. The others were wailing ballads and dinner-club-sounding tunes that felt like they were from the 1950s.