Human Intelligence

by Klaus Marre

  The president paused for a few seconds to allow his words to sink in.

  “This is not about covering anything up. In due time, I will lay out everything to the American people whether Pathfinder is successful or not. It was always planned that way. This is about national security. I implore you, on behalf of our nation and on the behalf of a young man who is alone in enemy territory half a world away, to not run that story. I hate to do anything that can be viewed as obstructing our First Amendment, but we need more time.

  “There you go, that's my pitch. What's it gonna be?” Sweeney concluded.

  Kempner looked at his editor and then the president.

  “I think we should be allowed to think about this for a little bit and discuss it,” he said.

  Sweeney nodded.

  “Fair enough. Let's touch base in 30 minutes and see where we stand.”

  The president knocked on the window and a Secret Service agent opened the door.

  Strauss had already exited the SUV when the veteran reporter turned to Sweeney.

  “Whatever we decide, I can tell you this. There will be no horse trading. If we do this, it'll be because we believe you that it is in our national interest, not because you are offering me access.”

  ***

  Hassan and the other men had gone to bed just before midnight. They sometimes talked a little before going to sleep and Hassan used those conversations to pick up information that could prove valuable down the road. On this night, he learned that three men, including Nasir, had set off for North America the previous day to be part of a major operation. Hassan figured that it was the attack on the power plant.

  “Let me get some sleep, guys,” he said. It was not in his interest to have them stay up. He wanted at least an hour to pass from the last snippet of conversation to the time he would leave. He wanted to be certain that they were all asleep.

  “You've been sleeping all day, Hassan,” one of the men mocked him. It was true, Hassan had taken an extensive nap in the afternoon and was wide awake. He didn't want to risk falling asleep and missing the ideal start time.

  The as-Sirat fighters didn't do him the favor of going to sleep quickly. Instead, they kept talking for almost an hour longer, excited that another major mission was about to start and anxious when it would be their time to take up arms against the oppressors again.

  ***

  Not too far away, Omar Bashir had trouble sleeping. He thought about Hassan and something Khalid el-Jeffe had said earlier.

  Was the young American too good to be true? The as-Sirat leader did not think so, but for the first time, he started to ask himself some questions. Was it really possible for Hassan to pull off the escape the way he did? With the western world looking for him, he had managed to fly across the globe undetected. He even made it more difficult on himself when he sent that video to the television networks. His forged documents must have been impeccable. How did he obtain them? At the very least, Hassan's forger would be a good man to know and as-Sirat should make use of him in the future.

  Omar Bashir thought of other young recruits. They were ignorant idealists. But Hassan was completely different. Hassan was perfect. He was everything the as-Sirat leader could dream of.

  On the other hand, what else could he be if not a young man wanting to join the cause? Omar Bashir knew from the daily news reports that America was in turmoil and Hassan was the reason for it.

  Maybe it would be best if he and el-Jeffe sat down with Hassan the next morning and go over every little detail of his escape. At the very least, it could ease the concerns of his top lieutenant. It was good to have unity. Allah willing, Hassan and el-Jeffe would have to live together for a long time to come.

  ***

  “Art, Strauss wants to see you.”

  The reporter checked the time on his computer. It was a little after 2:00 pm and the president had left them about 30 minutes earlier. It didn't take a genius to figure out what Strauss needed him for. He saved the document on his screen before making his way to the managing editor's office. Understandably, he had been having a tough time concentrating on work. The events of the past hour had occupied his mind, preventing him from getting anything done. Though he had seen a lot in his decades of covering American politics, having the president come to the newspaper to ask for a story to be held was just as unbelievable as Jack Sweeney's account of Operation Pathfinder itself.

  He and Strauss had not needed much time to decide on what should happen with the story. The Washington Post would not put at risk the life of Hassan al-Zaid and jeopardize an ongoing major counterterrorism operation. Art didn't feel completely at ease with that decision but knew that such was the nature of making a tough call.

  Emily Strauss was on the phone. She waved him into her office indicating that he should shut the door. In his haste, Art didn't realize that the cord of the door's blinds got in the way and prevented it from falling shut.

  “Art Kempner is here now,” she said, then paused and added. “Sure, I'll hold for the president.”

  She motioned for him to have a seat.

  “We're doing the right thing, Art,” Strauss said, probably more to herself than the reporter. It was also as much a question as it was a statement. They were in the unenviable position of having to pick between two choices, neither of them right or wrong but both fraught with danger and massive pitfalls.

  “Yes, Mr. President, this is Emily Strauss,” she said. “I'm here with Art Kempner and I'll put you on speaker phone now.”

  “Well, what's the call?” President Sweeney asked.

  Just then the door opened quietly and, without being noticed by Strauss or Kempner, another Post reporter stuck his head into the office.

  “We have decided to hold Art's story for the time being, Mr. President,” the Post's managing editor said and Kempner thought he heard a sigh of relief on the other end of the line. “We do not like being put in this position but the reasons you have given us outweigh, in our rushed judgment, the First Amendment considerations. Sadly, there is no time to review all of the issues more thoroughly. We'll have to do that in retrospect.”

  The door to the office closed as quietly as it had been opened. A stunned young reporter stood in the newsroom, trying to make sense of what he had just heard.

  Back in the office, Sweeney expressed his gratitude to Strauss and Kempner.

  “Trust me, I hate to have to put you in this situation. I also would understand if you want to report about my visit and my request once all this is over and, if you want to skewer me for my actions, please feel free to do so. Right now, all I care about is the lives involved and protecting this mission for as long as possible.

  “I will not forget this,” Sweeney added as an afterthought. “I have to get back to work and I know the Post has a hole to fill on the front page.”

  With that, the president hung up.

  ***

  Jonathan H. Nicklaus sat at his desk in the Post's newsroom with his thoughts reeling. He had just heard the president of the United States of America interfere with the freedom of the press. It also appeared that his newspaper had agreed to the outrageous and, in his mind, possibly unconstitutional request from Jack Sweeney to hold a story from Art Kempner.

  Nicklaus had no idea what the veteran reporter was working on, but he was determined to find out.

  While Kempner had made his way to the top of the journalism world by putting in long hours as a beat reporter who had covered anything from sports to crime and even entertainment in his early years, Nicklaus was part of a new generation.

  Short on actual experience, he had a master’s degree in journalism from an Ivy League school. That, and some connections, had gotten him a job with the Washington Post. His academic journalism background had also given him a different, more idealistic view of the profession and the First Amendment. To him, it was untouchable. It was the most important law of the land.

  After contemplating what he had learned, Nicklaus de
cided to take action. If need be, he would blow the whistle on his own paper and expose whatever deal the Post had with the president. He closed his eyes, thinking about what this could do for his own career. Surely he would be hailed as a First Amendment champion.

  But first, he had to find out what was going on, starting with figuring out what Art Kempner's story was all about.

  Wednesday, 2:25 pm ET

  DNI McClintock was on edge, his mind always returning to a picture of Hassan, sitting alone in a cave somewhere and hoping that help would come. They couldn't fail the kid. The president had called to let him know that the Post would hold the story, but that did little to ease McClintock's worries. He just knew that there wasn't much time. Once the dam had shown the first cracks, it would certainly soon burst.

  It was almost time for the 2:30 pm conference call. Hopefully, Hassan was asleep somewhere, as safe as one can be in enemy territory. For this briefing on the surveillance efforts, the DNI had demanded that not only the heads of the agencies participate. McClintock also wanted to hear from the men and women who knew the reconnaissance best – the leaders of the various teams that used drones and satellites to monitor the vast target area. When McClintock began to speak, they all understood that something big was going on but none of them knew what it was.

  “Please, someone tell me that you have some good news,” the DNI began, almost pleading with them. “Has there been anything unusual in the sectors you have been asked to cover? Please, there has to be something.”

  Those working with McClintock on a regular basis had never seen him this emotional. As he quizzed them one by one about what they had been observing, the DNI looked increasingly weary and old as nobody reported unusual activity.

  “I can't tell you why this is so important because it is classified above a level that anybody here is cleared for, but you have to believe me that time is running out for us and I feel you are our last chance,” he said.

  “If you have seen anything out of the ordinary, no matter how insignificant it might seem to you, please let me know,” McClintock continued. An image of Hassan again flashed through his mind. “Anything? Please!”

  For an agonizingly long time, McClintock only heard static.

  Then, a voice.

  “Sir, this is Lieutenant Colonel Amanda Tongan. I head an Air Force squadron of unmanned aerial vehicles. While we also did not have any unusual activity in our sector, there was something a little bit odd that we noticed just a few hours ago. I wouldn't normally bring this up but you’re being so insistent ...” her voice trailed off before starting again.

  “In the small town of Andan, which is on the Pakistani side of the border to Afghanistan in the Waziristan region, it seems that somebody has painted what appears to be a New York Yankees logo on the rooftop of a building. It wasn't there last time we took a picture of that town, which was a month ago. Obviously, the area is very anti-American so we all were a little surprised to see it there and got a bit of a chuckle out of it. You should be able to see that image on your screen in a second, sir.”

  McClintock's heart leaped as his last conversation with Hassan, in which they had talked about the Yankees' playoff chances, flashed through his mind.

  “A Yankees symbol?” the DNI repeated, his emotions reflected in his voice.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, I would not have brought it up but you wanted to know if there had been anything new,” the Lieutenant Colonel apologized, taking McClintock's reaction as a rebuke.

  The DNI saw the reconnaissance photo appearing on his screen.

  There it was, a crude painting of the Y overlapping an N, drawn on the flat roof of a building.

  “'The writing is on the wall, Yankees'. He told us in the video,” McClintock stammered, his voice breaking. He had found Hassan. He was sure of it. Now they needed to get him out.

  “Get me the president right now,” he shouted in the direction of his chief of staff, leaving the other participants of the conference call wondering what the hell was going on. “And the SecDef.”

  ***

  “So, I hear you’re working on a big story, Art. What's the scoop?” Jonathan H. Nicklaus had strolled over to Art Kempner's workspace and tried to ask the question as casually as possible.

  “What?” Art said, torn from deep thought. He looked up and recognized the young reporter whom he regarded as a snotty kid who hadn't earned the right to being a reporter for one of the top newspapers in the country.

  “You heard wrong,” he grunted. “I got nothing in tomorrow's issue. I was working on something but it fell through.”

  “That's a bummer,” Nicklaus said, feigning sympathy. “I hope it wasn't anything major.”

  “Nothing really,” Art responded trying to be as brief as possible. He didn't feel like elaborating. “Now please excuse me, I gotta head to the john.”

  “Sure thing,” Nicklaus said and walked away.

  When Art passed him on the way to the bathroom, Nicklaus returned to the veteran reporter's desk. He looked at the screen and saw that it was not locked and that a few Word documents were open. He clicked on one indicating that it was for the following day's issue and the headline jumped at him: “Bus Bombing Deserves a Closer Look.”

  The young reporter skimmed through the beginning of the story before minimizing the window again and walking back to his desk.

  So the White House was trying to prevent the publication of a story that would show it had bungled this investigation even worse than previously thought. Nicklaus felt that the country deserved to know about this.

  He sent an e-mail to the Drudge Report. It was about 3:00 pm in Washington and 1:00 am in Andan.

  ***

  An alarm sounded across Bagram Air Base. All special ops forces were to report in combat gear to the airfield immediately.

  “This better not be a goddamn drill,” Ken Gorsula said. He had just fallen asleep and now drowsily got out of bed. He dressed quickly, grabbed his gear and headed out of the barracks. The rest of his men were either waiting or arrived simultaneously. Together, they made their way toward the airfield.

  It was not a drill. The base's commander, two-star general Quincy Hopkins, was woken up a few minutes earlier by a phone call from President Sweeney and the Secretary of Defense. After being explained the situation and his orders, he had summoned his senior officers to pass on word to them.

  “It looks like we think that we know where Omar Bashir is hiding,” Quincy started. “It's a small Pakistani town not far from the border. We have to hit it now and we have to hit it hard. Get your men ready to deploy within the next 20 minutes.”

  It didn't take nearly as long for the 300 special ops soldiers on base to get ready. Now, they stood at attention on the airfield, waiting to be addressed by their commanding general.

  “Men, I just got off the phone with the president and he is ordering you on a mission that could result in the largest strike against as-Sirat. Tonight, we are going after Omar Bashir,” Hopkins said. “Intelligence says the as-Sirat headquarters is in Andan, a little town on the Pakistani side of the border. We are throwing everything we have at this but you guys are the tip of the spear. There will be civilians there, so it is your job to do as little harm to them as possible.

  “One more thing. I know all of you have wanted to get your hands on Hassan al-Zaid but things were not what they seemed. The president informed me that Hassan al-Zaid is not a terrorist. He has been working for our intelligence and the Washington attack was a setup to get him close to Omar Bashir so that he could relay the position of as-Sirat's headquarters.

  “Getting Omar Bashir and the other as-Sirat leaders is your main objective, but the president has stressed that he wants Hassan al-Zaid back home,” the general said. “While we have all hated him, this kid has been risking his life for our country and I expect you to do the same for him. Let's get airborne within the next 15 minutes.”

  ***

  “President kills WaPo story raising que
stions about bus bombing”

  The sirens were back on the Drudge Report.

  The Texan businessman, who was waiting for his flight home, was standing at one of the public Internet terminals near his gate when he saw the headline. It was very early in the morning at Tokyo's Narita International Airport. Not many travelers were up at this time and he had to kill an hour before he could board his flight.

  “Excuse me, sir,” a Middle Eastern man of about 35 tapped him on the shoulder. “What is that Internet site you are looking at?”

  “This is the Drudge Report. It's an online news site. They always seem to have the news ahead of everybody else,” the Texan said. “Here, use this Internet terminal, you can check it out for yourself.”

  “Very kind of you, sir.”

  Nasir Fattah was also waiting for his flight. There were only a couple of ways to travel from Asia to Mexico without stopping in the United States and both of those flights came through Tokyo. Nasir was one of the men who were to lead the assault on the Chicago nuclear power plant, so he had to be one of the first of the as-Sirat fighters to arrive in Mexico.

  Now he stood at the public computer terminal at Narita airport and clicked on the link.

  “EXCLUSIVE: According to a well-placed newsroom source, the Washington Post has given in to a personal request from President Sweeney to hold a story from Pulitzer Prize winner Art Kempner. The article reportedly raises questions about last week's terrorist attack on Washington and would, according to the source, make the White House 'look bad'. Among other things, the story proved that neither terrorist Hassan al-Zaid nor his victims could have been aboard the Metro train prior to the attack. This would raise additional questions about the handling of the investigation. To be continued ...”