The Unexpected Spy
Page 19
“There will be an attack. Al-Qaeda is fully funding him. Also, he’s proselytizing new followers from the local coffee shops and the mosque every week. He seems to have incredible charisma.”
Jerry started speaking again. Everyone listened. It wasn’t that he was saying the wrong things. It was that he was using too many words. We all spoke in quick, concise terms. There wasn’t time for endless palaver.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Graham cut Jerry short. “Okay, Jerry, Tracy. Go get the job done.”
And that was the end of the meeting.
* * *
Many European intelligence agencies have plenty of women. But few have as many women as the agency of H’s new homeland did. The intelligence operatives from that country were always helpful, smart, and their written English was flawless. The problem wasn’t going to be one of communication or respect, as it had been in the country where they called me Malibu Barbie. I just needed to prove to them that my sources were legitimate and my leads were solid. To assist on this end, a counterterrorism analyst, Gigi, was to come abroad with Jerry and me.
I’d first noticed Gigi simply because she was gorgeous. It wasn’t a self-conscious gorgeous, not a put-on that she created. Rather, it was the luck of nature: thick curly hair; dark flawless skin; and bright, light eyes. The beauty of contrasts. I admired Gigi’s style, too. She wore sweaters with fur collars, lipstick the color of blood, and shoes you could never run in. It all came together as this: Gigi was confident, unselfconscious, and easygoing in a way that I envied. On top of all that beauty and style, it turned out she was incredibly smart, kind, and funny. We quickly became friends.
The flight to Europe was easy, but we landed at an hour that made it too late to talk with the operatives there. Gigi, Jerry, and I agreed that we’d check into our hotel rooms and then meet in the lobby and go out to explore the city for the evening. We were all curious and energized. Also, none of us had ever been to this particular capital.
The hotel was nothing remarkable, like any corporate American hotel. I threw my suitcase onto the luggage stand, brushed my hair and teeth, put on lipstick, and left the room. Gigi’s room was near the elevator. I pushed the call button and then stood there, listening at her door. Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” was blasting beyond the walls. I imagined Gigi having a party in there. For a second, I considered knocking on her door and joining the party, but I felt too shy. Instead, I got on the elevator and headed toward the lobby.
I don’t know how people travel without a book to read. I always carry one, and I’d even brought one with me to the lobby to pass what I thought would only be a few minutes as I waited for Gigi and Jerry. It was longer than a few minutes when Gigi finally showed up. Even half-obscured in her hooded coat, she looked spectacular. I watched people watching her as she traversed the lobby, took off her coat, and then sat across from me.
“Madonna?”
“You heard?” She smiled. “I was dancing. You know, waking myself up after the flight.”
We talked about both H and Madonna. At that age, our brains were flexible enough to volley between the two in a single conversation. After an hour, Jerry still had not come down. This seemed odd to me, as my amateur analysis of CIA placement came down to only one question everyone had been asked at the first interview: Do you prefer a bath or a shower? I had picked shower. Who has time for a bath? In my mind, operatives—those who are running around the world at breakneck speed, tracking the bad guys—were the shower people. And the bath-takers—those who liked to sit still in one place—were the analysts. Analysts were the brilliant, home-base people we counted on to shed light on the data we were collecting. Jerry and I were operatives. Gigi was an analyst. According to my calculations, Gigi should have been the last one to arrive and Jerry should have been downstairs when I was.
“He’s probably watching porn,” Gigi said, of Jerry.
“You really think he’d charge porn to his room?” I wouldn’t even order Look Who’s Talking and expect the agency to pay for it.
“It’s free on regular TV here. I saw it when I was looking for a music channel.”
“Wow. Okay. But, still, can you imagine, sitting in your room and looking at porn when you know your colleagues are waiting for you?” I couldn’t.
“Men seem to have less shame with this stuff.” Gigi looked toward the elevators where Jerry was walking toward us wearing a puffy green down coat.
Jerry dropped into the seat beside me.
“Were you enjoying that free porn?” Gigi was smiling as she asked.
Jerry didn’t smile back. He simply stood, looked at his watch, and said, “Let’s go see the town.”
That’s the thing about intelligence workers. They’re trained to read liars. Jerry wasn’t even going to try.
I zipped up my coat and put on my hat and mittens. We walked out of the hotel and into the dark and cold. Like other European cities I had visited, the locals didn’t seem to notice the temperature. Only about half the people I saw wore hats, some were pushing baby carriages, others were strolling hand in hand. It was the beginning of March, however, so warmer than it had been in a while for them. For me, it was as cold as D.C. ever got, hovering in the thirties.
Almost immediately we were along the water, looking out at the glittery lights of an island across from us. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Jerry was leading. He turned so we were headed away from the water. We were on a cobblestone street now, lined with pretty yellow, orange, and green brick row houses that had roofs that staircased up like a wedding cake. Gigi and I continued to discuss Madonna and ~~~~~~. Jerry was saying relatively little. In fact, he’d barely spoken since Gigi had mentioned his porn session in the hotel room.
Jerry vanished around a corner, then paused and waited for us to catch up. We were by the water again. Jerry looked at me and asked, “What kind of shit school is USC anyway?”
“Pardon?” I was twenty-five. Only four years out of college. I still identified myself by my school. I had pride in it.
Jerry started walking again with Gigi and me on either side of him. He turned his head toward me. “I’ve just never met anyone of substance from California. And especially from USC.”
“Uh, Ronald Reagan was from California,” Gigi said. “You know, that guy who ended up as president?”
“Not a brilliant man, and he was an actor.”
“I think he might have been from Illinois.” I knew it as fact, but was trying to mellow my tone. “Nixon was from California.”
“Okay, you both just named two very average presidents. You’re not helping your case.”
“Joan Didion’s from California,” I said.
“And John Steinbeck.” Gigi clearly was on my side.
“No idea who Didion is, and I guarantee you that St
einbeck is the only Californian writer people outside of California have heard of.”
“What’s your problem?” I stopped walking and turned to Jerry.
“I’m just pointing out a fact that California, and USC in particular, have not produced any great people. It’s a shit state with shit schools, and I’m shocked the agency let you in.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about!” Now I was angry. “You’ve probably never been there! If you spent one day on the USC campus you’d be bawling your eyes out, running away with your tail between your legs because you couldn’t understand anything!”
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” Jerry yelled. “IT’S A STATE FULL OF IDIOT SURFERS AND SUNBATHERS, AND I GUARANTEE YOU’RE THE ONLY PERSON IN THE AGENCY WHO’S FROM THERE—”
I looked around to see if anyone was watching. We were supposed to blend into the landscape. Be invisible! But here was the head-turning Gigi and now the yelling Jerry. But the locals seemed unbothered; no one was watching us.
“Go fuck yourself!” Saying those words was rare for me. In fact, this was a first. I’d never told anyone, not even the gang of bullies in school, to fuck themselves. It’s ridiculous that I even cared what Jerry, the necessary-but-intrusive fourth leg, said about California or USC. But, as I stated before, I was only twenty-five.
And so I went nuts.
Jerry yelled. I yelled louder. Jerry leaned into my face. I leaned in too, so close that my lips were only inches from his. Jerry insulted me, my school, my state; I insulted his taste, his lack of knowledge, his provincial and limited thinking.
We were both ridiculous. Me because I was still defining myself by my family, my school, my hometown. Also, after having flown home for the least-important-to-me wedding ever, I was determined to never again let anyone bully me. Anywhere. Anyhow.
As for Jerry, I had a feeling this whole thing had to do with insecurities: feeling intimidated by the powerful Gigi, and feeling more humiliation than either she or I could have then guessed over having been outed about the porn-a-thon in his room. Insecure bullies know how to pick their victims, though. Gigi probably had never been victimized, and Jerry could see that from the start. So he picked me. He sensed a vulnerability; a gap where he could wedge in a hard, metal-toed boot and deliver a swift kick.
The only problem was, Jerry was sensing my past, and not who I was on that day.
The fight escalated to the point where people did stop to watch. I wanted to shut it down immediately. My job was more important than anything I had to prove to Jerry. But he was new in the agency and didn’t seem to understand the priorities. I had stopped talking, but Jerry carried on. Still, my heart was banging, and my chest heaved up and down as if I’d just run a race.
And then Gigi stepped between the two of us and put a hand on each of our shoulders.
“Enough!” she said. And Jerry finally went silent.
I had an urge to push him into the icy water.
“Fine.” Jerry brushed Gigi’s hand away.
“Tracy, you walk in front, I’m in the middle. Jerry, you’re in the back. You two aren’t allowed to talk.”
“Fine.” I took off with the two of them trailing. I meandered around the city, trying to take in as much as possible in the few free hours we would have there. But I was still so angry that I couldn’t see much; I had no focus. We hadn’t had dinner yet, so I walked us straight into a crowded restaurant where it looked like people were having fun. People who didn’t insult each other’s education and probably wouldn’t give a damn if someone did anyway.
“I’ll eat elsewhere,” Jerry said, and he turned and walked back in the direction from which we came.
Once he was out of sight, he was mostly out of mind. Gigi and I had a great time eating seafood and still talking about Madonna and H.
* * *
Jerry avoided both of us the next morning, and we didn’t see him again until our meeting at the intelligence agency. Jerry and I both acted as if nothing had gone down the night before. I was certainly embarrassed and regretted that we’d drawn any attention to ourselves. He may have been new in the agency, but he surely had to have known how dumb that was.
Jerry’s disregard for USC and the entire state of California was utterly meaningless when held up beside the fact that ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~. The local intelligence let it be known that they had been closely tracking H and knew his whereabouts at all times. But they still wouldn’t arrest him with all the evidence we—themselves included—had amassed.
And so we spent days with our foreign counterparts connecting the pieces each agency had and stringing them all out together so we could have one clear, complete image of what and who we were dealing with. More information poured in from sources around the globe—every hour we worked together, the situation became more and more clear.
Before we went home, just before his scheduled flight out of his country of residence, H was arrested for his connection to the bombings that created those free-floating heads. Gigi, Jerry, and I felt utterly victorious. The Madonna-dancing stunner, the anti-California porn watcher, and the sorority girl from USC had helped stop what could have been one of the largest chemical attacks in al-Qaeda’s history.
* * *
On the flight home, Jerry changed seats and sat a few rows behind me and Gigi. She and I mulled over what the next greatest threat was now that H was out of commission. We agreed it remained the newer African terrorist cells, but we were unsure of who within those cells was going to direct the next big chemical attack. Certainly Zarqawi already had someone lined up to step in for H. As I said before, hunting terrorists was a lot like cutting an arm off a starfish. Another one—or maybe even two—will grow in its place soon enough. Hopefully we could identify the new starfish arm before he put any plans into action.
Victor and Graham had been taking our intel on the ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~. Unfortunately, I missed something big. Huge. An oversight for which I still cannot forgive myself.
* * *
Gigi, Jerry, and I landed back in D.C. on March 10. On March 11, I got to my office at 6:30 a.m., then went to the food court and picked up my venti black Starbucks. With my coffee in one hand and my purse flung over my shoulder, I crossed the room, saying hello to the other early comers. At my desk, I sipped the coffee and waited for my computer to start up. The first thing I saw was a cable from Europe. At 1:30 a.m. D.C. time, 7:30 a.m. in Madrid, multiple bombs had gone off on several commuter trains. The press was already blaming Basque separatists, but I knew it was far more likely that the perpetrators had been the individuals we had been tracking.
I felt ill. Shaken. How could I have not seen something that would have taken dozens of people to execute? There had to have been some chatter, some scrap of intel floating around about it. I sat at my desk for a long time, reading and rereading the cable. Then I got up and went to the morning meeting, which was taking place at David’s cubicle. Even Jerry was speechless.
As the media went on about Basque separatists, the CIA followed every lead. In the end, 190 people died from ten bombs that went off on four different trains at three different stations. Over 1,800 people were wounded. By March 14, the Basque theory was dead, and five al-Qaeda operatives were arrested. Three were ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~. A few days later, four more al-Qaeda terrorists were arrested. By March 30, after multiple arrests and releases, charges were brought against 12 men. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The next day, warrants were issued for five more men associated with that particular terror cell. And then, in April, seven more associates of those already arrested were located by Spanish police at a home in Madrid. As the police were breaking down the door, the terrorists set off explosives and killed themselves and one police officer.