COUNTDOWN: 58 DAYS
March 4, 2011
Abbottabad, Pakistan
Dr. Shakil Afridi sat in his car on the dead-end street in Abbottabad and watched a nurse from his vaccination program ring the bell and wait. The gates were big, set within a massive, blank concrete wall. The doctor wondered if the rooms inside were luxurious, hung with silks; if the garden was a shady green oasis. From out here, the big house looked like a prison. Afridi hoped the occupants would let the nurse inside. Would anyone there be interested in a hepatitis B vaccination?
The nurse didn’t know that the vaccine program was part of an elaborate CIA ruse to gain access to the compound. And Afridi only knew bits and pieces of the agency’s plot. He was parked outside the most watched house in the world, a top priority of U.S. officials from the CIA to the White House.
The CIA plans were taking shape. All they needed was proof that bin Laden was there. Afridi was the perfect operator. A prominent surgeon, no one would suspect he was working for the CIA.
While government doctors were well respected, they were often underpaid, and some, like Afridi, supplemented their income with work in private clinics. Maybe that’s why the CIA had contacted him in the first place. They knew he needed money.
His CIA handler told Afridi they’d pay him tens of thousands of dollars for his help. Afridi recruited female health workers to attempt to gain access to a “prominent house”—a three-story villa—in one neighborhood.
Now, here he was, in front of that house, risking it all to help the Americans. He shook his head. Afridi was worried about putting his family in danger.
His wife, Mona, was the principal at a government school. They had two boys and a little girl, a good life. But it was too late to back out.
Afridi had started the vaccination project in a poorer part of Abbottabad to make it look more authentic. He said he had procured funds from international charities to give free vaccinations for hepatitis B. Bypassing the Abbottabad health services, the doctor paid generous sums to low-ranking local government health workers, who took part in the operation without knowing they were part of the CIA plan. He used a vaccine made by Amson, a manufacturer in Islamabad, and had posters put up all over Abbottabad to promote the program. It was a worthy enterprise, even without its ulterior motive.
Compound in Abbottabad.
Slowly, the health workers began administering the vaccine around the city. They were ready to move in on their target. It wouldn’t look out of place for health professionals to canvass this affluent neighborhood, too.
The gate opened, and the nurse stepped inside the compound. The gate closed behind her. Afridi’s heart raced. Could she do it?
A few minutes later, the door opened again and the nurse left. The man inside had told her to come back another day, that maybe then they would get vaccinated.
Afridi swallowed the lump in his throat. It was a start. And at least he had something to tell the CIA man.
White House
Panetta and his team arrived at the White House for another briefing, a dress rehearsal for the big session with Obama on March 14. The CIA director was feeling confident. He’d update Donilon and other members of the president’s national security team about the compound. He’d show them the tabletop model of the fortress. He thought it would be routine.
When he walked into the Situation Room, everyone was there already—Donilon, Brennan, and a few others. But this meeting of the National Security Principals Committee was Donilon’s show. He was the chairman of the committee, the official who oversaw the National Security Council staff. He was responsible for coordinating and integrating the administration’s foreign policy, intelligence, and national security efforts.
Donilon was perfect for the position. He was sharp and tireless, a Washington insider who had years of foreign policy experience. He had advised three U.S. presidents since 1977. A lawyer by trade, he rose to prominence in the Clinton State Department. He even looked like a Washington attorney—he was in his fifties, tall, balding, distinguished. He dressed in power suits and ties, hobnobbed with world leaders, and tolerated no nonsense. He was a by-the-book bureaucrat who didn’t like surprises.
National Security Advisor Tom Donilon with President Barack Obama.
Before Panetta arrived, Nick Rasmussen, National Security Council senior director for counterterrorism, was responsible for sneaking the model of the compound into the Situation Room.
The model was designed like a diorama, so it folded into a big suitcase. When Rasmussen got it inside, he placed the suitcase on the long rectangular table, then opened it up with a flourish. With miniature farm fields carved of clay and walls made of Styrofoam, the elaborate mockup of bin Laden’s compound unfolded and became the centerpiece on the table.
Brennan marveled at the highly detailed model. He wondered about the people who lived inside the actual house, their possible escape routes, and the people living nearby. How would anyone get inside there, and then get out again?
Meanwhile, the security for bin Laden meetings was unprecedented. Only a handful of people in Obama’s inner circle knew about the operation. Key players were excluded—including Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton, Attorney General Eric Holder, FBI Director Robert Mueller, and Secretary of Homeland Security Janet Napolitano. And those who knew were told not to inform others what they were doing. They had to keep it from their closest aides and immediate staff. The conferences were never listed on their daily calendars. (On Brennan’s calendar, it just said “Mickey Mouse meetings.”) When they met, the Situation Room’s closed-circuit surveillance cameras were turned off. Brennan knew that Donilon wanted to make sure the room was “hermetically sealed from sound, video.” Every piece of paper distributed at the beginning of the meetings was collected before the participants left. They were leaving nothing to chance.
When the doors closed, Panetta and his team got down to business, updating everyone on where they stood with trying to identify The Pacer. He then went over all the options they’d present to Obama at the next briefing.
Donilon was pleased, and he knew Obama would be, too. The CIA had followed the president’s orders. He knew Obama was a stickler for detail and procedure, and kept a binder of notes about the bin Laden case. If Obama asked someone to get a job done, he didn’t forget. At some point, he’d ask that person what they’d found out, or how they’d followed through with his suggestion. Donilon’s job was making sure everyone met the president’s expectations.
Before he adjourned the meeting, Donilon told Panetta it was time to let congressional intelligence leaders know about the bin Laden operation. And that was when Panetta said something that stunned Donilon: “I already told them.”
“What?” Donilon stammered. “When?”
Before the national security advisor had a chance to say anything else, Panetta explained. Yes, he knew the president told them to keep this secret, but he’d started briefing key congressional leaders in December to “build goodwill.” Congress held the purse strings, and the CIA needed massive money to continue this intensive intelligence operation.
Donilon’s face turned red. He raised his voice. Time and again the president had made it clear: No one outside the small circle was to know. No one. Panetta should have waited until a decision was made before he briefed anyone.
“We’re still evaluating intelligence,” he shouted at Panetta. “There’s no activity here to brief anybody on! We haven’t decided anything, and you’re briefing Congress?”
But Panetta didn’t back down. “What the fuck did you expect me to do? That’s my fucking job,” he yelled at Donilon.
Donilon shook his head. Too many damn people knew about the bin Laden operation now. Something was going to leak. Obama would be livid.
The room was hot and silent. Rasmussen knew they had implemented every security measure to ensure nothing leaked. Very few people in the president’s own cabinet knew about the bin Laden meetings—not even Secretar
y of State Clinton. They couldn’t bring unauthorized deputies or staff members to the sessions.
“I need to keep the intelligence committees in the loop,” Panetta explained. “We have to trust them. This could be the most important operation they’ll ever oversee. We can’t blindside them. We can’t afford any animosity there.”
Donilon sat silent, his face like thunder.
“I have to do this,” Panetta said. “This is part of my responsibility with the oversight committees. This is a significant intelligence activity. I’m bound by law to report significant intelligence.”
Rasmussen understood both sides. Still, it was concerning that so many people knew. Brennan took a deep breath. This mission meant a lot to Obama, and a leak could compromise everything.
Panetta and Donilon exchanged more words—tough words—before they adjourned.
Watching from a distance, Gary couldn’t turn away. Seeing these two “super experienced, super deep, super powerful men” battle was like watching the political equivalent of King Kong versus Godzilla. All he needed was some popcorn.
There was no personal animosity between the two. Donilon was wondering why Panetta was bending over backward for Congress. He thought that could restrict the president’s options—Obama still hadn’t decided what he was going to do and he certainly didn’t need any outside pressure. But Panetta was thinking that if you bring Congress along, they become a partner. They’ll be more supportive of the outcome—good or bad.
After the session, Donilon went straight to the president. Obama was angry. He had Brennan call Jeremy Bash and get a list of every congressional member Panetta had briefed.
A day later, Donilon phoned Panetta. The president wanted to move quickly on the bin Laden operation, he said. Panetta hung up the phone and smiled to himself. He’d thought the decision would take months. The fire was lit. He’d have to act fast.
COUNTDOWN: 48 DAYS
March 14, 2011
White House
Vice Admiral McRaven walked down a White House corridor and entered the Situation Room. He was early, the first one there. In a few minutes, high-powered members of the military and Obama’s cabinet would join him. He stood for a moment, looking smart in his Navy Service Dress Blue, a double-breasted uniform with gold stripes on the sleeves. He sat down at the far end of the long conference table and waited.
This meeting was as important as it got. Panetta would brief the president and his national security team about the compound—what they’d found and what they could do if bin Laden was there. The intriguing scale model was on the table for everyone to see. McRaven wondered how the spooks had gotten it in here without anyone asking what it was.
Everything about this operation was shrouded in secrecy. Most of the few officials who knew about The Pacer were on their way here, to the Situation Room.
Just a few moments before, McRaven had been caught unawares. He could easily have blown it. As he’d approached the entrance to the White House, he heard someone call his name. When he turned around, he saw it was an old childhood friend—someone he’d met in the fifth grade but hadn’t seen in decades. “Bill, how are you doing? What are you doing here?” asked Karen Tumulty, a top Washington Post reporter who covered the White House.
McRaven was struck dumb. He mumbled something about “lot going on in the world.”
“Is it Libya?” she asked.
Libya was the latest development in the Arab Spring. Peaceful protests had morphed into an all-out civil war. Gaddafi loyalists and rebels were engaged in fierce fighting, and civilians were caught in the crossfire. Obama was ready to order military air strikes against Gaddafi’s forces.
McRaven tried to change the subject. He didn’t want her to ask why he wasn’t in Afghanistan, so he asked Tumulty about her family and career. They chatted for several minutes about children and mutual friends, then McRaven said he had to go. He promised they’d stay in touch.
He picked up his badge from a Secret Service agent and took a deep breath. He’d dodged that one.
One by one, the others walked into the room. Defense Secretary Gates. Admiral Mullen arrived with General Cartwright. Vice President Joe Biden arrived, then Panetta, Donilon, and Brennan. Soon, Jim Clapper, director of National Intelligence; Denis McDonough, deputy national security advisor; and a small briefing team from the CIA, including Gary.
And the meeting had someone new: Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton, who had just been informed about the bin Laden operation. A week earlier, Panetta said he wanted to talk to her in private. Her first clue something was up was when Panetta said, “Make sure the meeting is totally off your schedule.” When they met at the State Department, Panetta shared everything, adding that Clinton would be part of a very small group that would advise Obama so he could make “the best decision—whatever that is.”
Clinton quickly discovered the bin Laden operation was “completely off the books.” She usually relied on her staffers for advice and support. But now she knew she wouldn’t be able to discuss bin Laden with them—or even her husband. It was so closely held she knew she wouldn’t be able to put the meetings about bin Laden on her calendar. She’d have to make up something to explain why she was going to the White House, so her aides wouldn’t suspect anything. The same rules applied to the other high-powered members in the room. They didn’t have any staff with them. They had to hide the meetings, too. In the end, they were on their own.
Moments later, the president slid into the chair at the head of the table, directly facing McRaven at the other end. The president leaned back, almost in a reclining position. McRaven sized up the president. He noticed that Obama looked tired. It was no surprise to McRaven—not with so much unrest in the world: the Arab Spring, wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Raymond Davis was still in a Pakistani jail. A few days earlier, a powerful earthquake had hit northern Japan, killing thousands and triggering a series of large tsunami waves that caused widespread damage to coastal areas—and a nuclear power plant. Now this, trying to decide what to do about bin Laden. It had to be weighing on him.
Morell had sensed that this was going to be one of the most important meetings of his career. So he came even more prepared than usual. The CIA team had put together a PowerPoint of the possible options. Morell handed out three-inch-thick binders with details about the possible courses of action, to make it easy for everyone in the room to follow along. They had maps associated with each COA, including where bombs would fall during an air strike or where the special operations forces would be inserted during a raid.
The president was ready, and Panetta began with a quick rundown of everything their intelligence analysts and agents on the ground had uncovered about the fortress at the end of the street in Abbottabad.
Yes, al-Kuwaiti lived there. He had once worked as a courier for bin Laden. The place was fortified in such a way that made it difficult to see inside the compound or the house. All of that strongly suggested that someone was hiding inside. The Pacer lived in the main house and only came outside for laps around the yard. He never, ever left the compound.
The evidence pointed to bin Laden, but, Panetta noted, it was not conclusive. It could be that al-Kuwaiti was protecting bin Laden’s family—not bin Laden himself. It could be that al-Kuwaiti was protecting another terrorist, or a wanted criminal.
The uncertainty of who was inside only made the risks of a military action more serious. But doing nothing carried its own set of risks, Panetta warned: “We could miss our best chance in a decade to capture or kill bin Laden.”
After Panetta finished, the president quickly ruled out a joint operation with Pakistan. That was out of the question, he said. Although Pakistan had cooperated with the United States on a number of counterterrorism operations and provided vital supply routes to U.S. troops in Afghanistan, it was no secret that some factions within the government were pro-Taliban.
The region was complicated. With a weak central government, Afghanistan was unable to align
itself with India, Pakistan’s rival state. The fact that a major military academy was so near the compound only heightened the possibility that anything the United States told the Pakistanis would end up tipping off The Pacer.
But whatever the course of action, Obama knew it would raise the diplomatic stakes between the United States and Pakistan. The State Department would have an epic diplomatic cleanup job on its hands. But that was something to think about later. Right here, right now, the president was listening, weighing the options. Hell, they might not do anything at all. Without concrete proof, should they even go in?
After taking the U.S.-Pakistan options off the table, the president turned to Cartwright, a general who had been a flight officer and pilot. As Obama stared at the model, the general went over the details of an air attack.
The air force had proposed using thirty-two 2,000-pound bombs in a massive air strike. But a bombing would “leave a large smoking hole in the middle of Abbottabad.”
Obama knew the pros and cons of that idea, but what really disturbed him was the number of women and children inside the compound who would die. And what about all the families living in the residences nearby? With all the uncertainty about whether bin Laden was even there, Obama was uncomfortable ordering an air strike that would kill so many noncombatants.
As the meeting continued, Obama zeroed in on a possible special forces operation. The team would covertly fly into Pakistan by helicopter, raid the compound, and get out before Pakistan’s military or police had a chance to respond. If they did that, Obama knew McRaven was the one to carry out the mission.
McRaven was prepared, with plans in hand. He had spent the previous day at CIA headquarters with Panetta and his senior staff, getting their parts of the presentation ready to roll.
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