Human Intelligence

by Klaus Marre

  “It sounds so simple that I'm shocked that we hadn't thought of it,” he added. “And the best thing is that it'll cost nothing and there is no way that it could go wrong. Shit, let's put something like this together for next week, kill Omar Bashir, dismantle as-Sirat and then we never again have to worry about the threat of terrorism.”

  Hearst just shrugged off his friend's sarcasm.

  “Funny, Bob, that's exactly how I reacted,” he replied in the same tone. “And then I pulled my head out of my own ass and thought about it. You always preach this 'outside the box' thinking and here is an 'outside the box' idea. So let's at least discuss why you believe this couldn't work.”

  “Well, let's start out with your constituent,” McClintock said. “What makes you think he is the right candidate and not one of our guys?”

  “Because, as soon as our guy is declared a suspect, the media will go through every single aspect of his life. So if it's somebody who is already with the CIA, there is no way they won't find that out. This kid is a blank sheet.”

  Despite the sarcasm he displayed earlier, McClintock was intrigued by the idea in itself. He had been listening intently, leaning forward as though he wanted to hear the words coming out of the lawmaker's mouth a little bit sooner. The piece of lamb, his favorite dish at Fogo, was getting cold on his plate.

  “I asked Hassan why it should be him, and he said that he didn't care if we did not pick him as long as there is a more qualified candidate,” Hearst added. “But where will we find somebody like that? We can't even get enough Arabic speakers to translate the calls we are recording. Here, we have a volunteer who is currently in high school, a devout Muslim who is willing to spend the next couple of years to pretend to be increasingly radicalized. I thought about it a lot, and I think we can build a cover story around him that will hold up, at least for a while. And while we slowly groom him to become our terrorist, we can teach him what he needs to know with regard to espionage trade craft.”

  For the first time really McClintock thought that maybe there was something about the idea that could work. Maybe it could be taken and tweaked into something better. They continued debating the idea at their lunch table and the piece of lamb never got eaten. In the subsequent days and weeks, they kept talking about Hassan's idea on a regular basis, brainstorming and alternately playing devil's advocate.

  But no matter how many holes they both tried to poke into that initial plan in the subsequent days and weeks, it never changed much and their discussions only helped refine it.

  Eventually, they had taken the plan directly to President Sweeney, who had authorized it after much deliberation.

  ***

  Now, four years later, they were about to find out if it would work.

  McClintock was sitting in his office, waiting for the president to call. The two had been in almost constant contact to discuss what they could do to keep everything running as smoothly as it had been. They knew that, eventually, there would be problems and it was their job to identify them before they could put the mission at risk. They already had to bring in a couple of people involved in the investigation who had gotten suspicious, such as the two forensics guys from the FBI lab who were looking into the type of explosive that was used. They had been invited to the White House under the pretense that some of the president's staff wanted to be briefed on the status of the investigation.

  Instead of meeting some low-level White House staffers, they had been taken to the Oval Office. There, the president had told the FBI guys that he needed to discuss a matter of national security with them and that it was their duty as patriotic Americans to change their report on the kind of explosives used in the bus bombing.

  “I'm not sure if your analysis is complete yet, but I do know that both of you suspect that a military-grade explosive was used to blow up the bus,” Sweeney had told the flabbergasted analysts.

  “Let me spare you the suspense. The bus was blown up with the help of RDX, more specifically Composition C RDX,” the president added. “It is very important that you don't pass on this information. I'm hereby classifying it and you may speak to nobody about this. The reasons for this will become apparent soon enough.”

  The president had also classified the entire surveillance video. They did not want anybody to pay close attention to what happened after Hassan left the bus. An astute observer would have wondered why so many of the passengers appeared to be slumped over ahead of the explosion. The volunteers all had taken a drug cocktail that first caused them to lose consciousness and then die quickly. The explosion was only for show. By the time the bus blew up, everybody on board was already dead.

  Fortunately, so far those had been the only holes that needed to be plugged. From the beginning on, everybody involved in the plan knew that it could only succeed if as few people as possible were aware of what was going on. Over time, the circle of people in the know would necessarily have to keep expanding until it would become too big and porous to contain the secret any longer. At that point, the mission would have to be completed or Hassan would be exposed and killed.

  The DNI closed his eyes and thought with fondness of the young man who was their great hope to deal a massive blow to as-Sirat. To McClintock, who had worked with all kinds of people who put their lives on the line for the United States, Hassan was the latest in a tradition of great American heroes. He had taken to him with an almost paternal affection.

  Sure, there were some significant political risks for the president and maybe McClintock would have to retire if the plan failed, but Hassan, who sometimes jokingly referred to himself as the “reverse suicide bomber,” was putting his life in harm's way.

  Not only that, but over the past four years he had alienated all of his old friends as he had pretended to become more and more radicalized. Hassan had lost his soccer scholarship in the hope that he might be able to gain some early credibility with Islamic radicals. Now, he had temporarily shattered his parent's lives and likely caused his father's heart attack. McClintock hoped that everybody would soon know the entire truth.

  To the DNI, Hassan was the very definition of a hero. Not only was he risking his life but he also got no accolades for what he did. Right now, he was the most hated man in the country that he was willing to sacrifice everything for.

  The ringing phone ripped McClintock from his thoughts and the DNI answered the secure line.

  “Mr. President,” he said. “How is the kid holding up?”

  Friday, 8:05 am ET

  The small plane had landed on a private airfield not far from Islamabad. The Gulfstream V can cover great distances, but since it was registered in Spain, a stop in Madrid was made part of the trip to maintain cover. Several men exited the plane and loaded a stretcher into an SUV with tinted glass. They wore jeans and t-shirts and could have been employed in a variety of fields. The only thing a close observer would have noticed is that they were all in extraordinarily good shape. But there were no observers – they had made sure of that. A couple more SUVs were loaded with luggage, although most of their equipment was already in place.

  All in all, the team consisted of 26 men. Most of them, apart from Hassan al-Zaid and the intelligence officer in charge, had been training for this mission for a little more than two years. In fact, they had given up any other aspect of their lives for “Operation Pathfinder.”

  They had all learned some Urdu and each of them had a number of special skills. In order not to risk success of the mission if something were to happen to any of them, at least three of the men had received the same training in any of the areas, such as operating the remote-controlled replica of the Metro bus. It had been one of the trickiest parts of the entire operation and a grave concern to all of them. Although the time and route had been picked to minimize the chance of anybody getting seriously injured during the attack, something could have gone wrong. But the team had pulled off that part of the mission without a hitch, In fact, up until now, everything had gone almost too we
ll.

  Members of the team had been on Hassan's flight to the Bahamas and from there to Bogotá. Had anything gone wrong, they were prepared to step in, flash their IDs and keep him out of trouble. A number of cover stories had been invented that would have been told if anybody had recognized Hassan but none of them were needed.

  Once in Colombia, they had to switch from public flights to the Gulftstream because there was no way that he would not have been recognized in 30 hours of commercial travel.

  While they had done as much as possible to create the cover story that Hassan was a terrorist and as-Sirat sympathizer, they all knew that the plan had holes. Eventually, enough people would put the pieces of the puzzle together in a way that would lead them to ask questions for which there were no answers. They were estimating that Hassan had about ten days before his cover would be compromised. By that time, he had to complete the task of convincing the world that he was a terrorist, make contact with as-Sirat and hopefully manage to be taken to the place were Omar Bashir was hiding.

  If Hassan had not infiltrated as-Sirat within that small window of time, he never would.

  The mission would be deemed a partial success if they managed to find another as-Sirat stronghold, but it had been designed to deliver a death knell to the leadership of the terrorist organization.

  They had not all given a couple of years of their lives, and the U.S. government had not invested significant resources in this project, for it to lead to the death or capture of some mid-level terrorists.

  So far so good, all the men had thought when they landed in Pakistan. They had convinced the world that Hassan al-Zaid was a terrorist and Omar Bashir had already praised him in a new audio tape. They had gotten Hassan to Pakistan without a hitch and, very importantly, nobody had been harmed during the bombing. Now the hard part was about to begin.

  Everybody involved in “Operation Pathfinder” knew of the personal risks they ran but accepted them as part of the job. Right now, they were part of a black operation in a country that had recently not been on the friendliest of terms with the United States. But the men all knew that the greatest risk would be undertaken by Hassan, for whom they all had begun to care like a younger brother.

  Next in line with regard to who had the most to lose was President Sweeney. As the one ultimately giving the green light for the mission, he would be blamed if it failed. He had authorized the staging of a terrorist attack right next to the Pentagon and misled the American people about it.

  Before Sweeney decided to sign off on “Pathfinder,” McClintock and Hearst had sat down with him to give the president an honest assessment of what they thought the damage would be to him.

  “If this fails, plenty of people in Congress are going to ask for your head. And they may get it,” they had told the commander-in-chief. “Somebody is going to call for impeachment and there will be a lot of people in this country who won't appreciate being deceived by their president.”

  “There will be endless investigations and this is what you will be remembered for. Your legacy would be tarnished,” Hearst had told the president.

  “Heck, even if it is a full success, there might be an awful lot of people who will question our methods,” McClintock had chimed in. “Also, there is no way you'll be able to manage not to perjure yourself. Sure, you can say later that you did it in the name of national security, but if we want this to look real, then you'll have to knowingly give the American people false information at some point.”

  They also pointed out that the mission would likely not just result in domestic fallout but could also have international consequences, but Sweeney had deemed those as manageable.

  “It's not as though anybody likes us over there anyways and Pakistan and Afghanistan are getting gazillions in aid from us,” the president had argued. “I'm sure they'll raise a big stink but it'll pass.”

  Sweeney had taken a week to decide before he made the call to go ahead with “Pathfinder.” The only condition he tied to his support was that the public would be fully informed about the mission, whether it was a success or not. The American people would learn the truth from their president as soon as possible, not when documents were declassified 50 years after the fact.

  “You know that the fallout from coming clean will be huge, right?” Hearst had asked. “Unless Pathfinder is an absolutely rousing success, you'll have to weather a tough storm.”

  “I have to do it that way,” Sweeney had argued. “I have to explain to the people why we did what we did. If I don't come clean, how could they ever trust me or another president again?

  “Besides, we have people who risk their lives for this country every day, so I'm sure as hell willing to not worry about my legacy if it means we get a crack at Omar Bashir.”

  McClintock had always admired the president for his decision and for being an unwavering supporter of the mission once he had approved it.

  Friday, 11:15 am ET

  FBI Director Stevenson learned of the arson of the al-Zaid residence when he arrived at the office at 6:00 am. After another night with too little sleep, the strain of fatigue mixed with the frustration of failure was showing more each day and the latest news did little to make him feel any better.

  Stevenson was sustaining himself on a diet of soft drinks, coffee, quick bites to eat at his desk and aspirin. What was getting to him was not only that Hassan al-Zaid had gotten away but also the feeling that he was missing something important.

  The FBI director had spoken to his daughter, who was finishing up her senior year at Stanford, the previous night. Even the work-related stress would not keep him for checking in with his little girl in college at least once a week. He had vaguely discussed the case with her before she launched into a litany of little problems she was having to deal with, including her grad school applications and some trouble in her sorority.

  While he listened to her, Stevenson's mind kept returning to an issue that had become a central point for him the case.

  “Nina, if you wanted to get a fake passport, where would you go?” he asked his daughter when he was able to get a word in.

  “Dad,” she chastised him while also giggling. “I'm a college senior, not a crime lord. Wait, can you order them online? If not, I'd have no idea.”

  Nina Stevenson heard her father sigh on the other end of the line. She could tell from his voice how much pressure he was under.

  “If you really wanna know how I'd get one, I guess I would have to ask a person. You know, like, a guy who knows a guy. But I wouldn't even know how to find that first guy. All the fake IDs my friends use are normally ones that they get from older girls. But they often get taken away.

  “Of course I never did that,” she added quickly.

  Her father was always quite adamant about her staying out of trouble, saying it would not be good if the FBI director would have to bail out his daughter.

  “Thanks, Nina,” he said. “Sorry that this case is so much on my mind, but you know how important it is. Now tell me more about that sorority event.”

  Sitting at his desk at the Hoover Building and drinking one of many caffeine-containing beverages that helped him get through the day, Stevenson replayed that part of the conversation with his daughter in his mind.

  He grabbed a piece of paper and began scribbling notes.

  In the middle of the page he wrote the words “How does a college kid …?” in bold letters. From there, he drew arrows to various empty spaces and began asking himself some questions. First, he wrote “... obtain multiple passports that withstand scrutiny at immigration,” then “...get his hands on good explosives.” The page was quickly filled with unanswered questions. The last thought Stevenson put on paper was “... do all of the little things right and manage to not screw up once.”

  He stared at the page for a while, trying to make sense of it all.

  Then he drew a couple of lines at the bottom as though he was solving an equation. Underneath, he wrote: “He doesn't”
and circled the words several times.

  ***

  The safe house in Islamabad was in an area where many Westerners lived, located close to the diplomatic enclave that bordered the Rawal Lake. The team had transformed the house into mission control for “Operation Pathfinder.” They each had taken turns living there, preparing for the Pakistan part of the mission, improving their Urdu and getting used to the city and the climate. Some of the electronics and telecommunications expert had done most of the prep work in the previous weeks, setting up secure communications links and protecting it against any sort of surveillance. It had taken a long time to find the perfect place. The house was isolated enough so that the team could work at all hours of the day without suspicion. It featured a high wall and a large garden with many trees that obstructed the view from the main road. In addition, there was a main and a service entrance, allowing the team to move people and equipment more easily. The garden was now full of hidden surveillance equipment and motion detectors.

  The team was split in three groups, each with a team leader, so that they could work around the clock. One third of them would be fulfilling the primary mission, monitoring Hassan's movements, assisting him in any way possible and maintaining communications with Washington. The second part of the group was responsible for security and maintenance of the equipment as well as for support functions, such as cooking. The last third was in an eight-hour rest cycle. They would need to be fully alert. Getting at least six hours of sleep, except for during emergencies, was mandatory.

  The basement of the house had been filled not only with enough supplies to last a month but also housed several generators that would power the electronic equipment in case of an outage. There was a backup for every backup and everybody hoped that the team would be prepared for anything unexpected.