by Bob Graham
“Not yet, Zaid,” she said, “enjoy this moment.”
As she spoke, the doorbell rang, followed by three sharp knocks. Laura looked up apprehensively.
“I will get it,” Zaid said, then toweled himself off and pulled on his robe. With his hair matted and glistening, he closed the bathroom door behind him and went to the front door.
Naked and dripping, Laura cracked the bathroom door. Through the narrow opening, she saw two men in uniform and heard one of them tell Zaid, “We are agents of the Ministry of Interior. We have instructions from His Highness that you are to come with us to the palace. Now.”
Zaid closed the hotel room door and returned to the steaming bathroom. “Laura, my grandfather has called for me and I must go. I will return when I have fulfilled his wishes.” He gave her a lingering kiss on her lips. “And then I will serve ours.”
As he hastily dressed in the bedroom, Laura wrapped herself in the hotel robe, went to her backpack, and retrieved one of her Leica M9s. She inserted a freshly formatted memory card and handed the camera to Zaid.
“Don’t forget this,” she said. “You might even see him at the palace tonight. I can’t wait to see the results.”
“And I cannot wait to show them to you,” Zaid replied, accepting the camera.
He kissed her again.
The door closed. Laura heard the elevator engage.
She waited for an hour before placing a call to Tony. She left a voice message to return her call at 9:30 the following morning.
With no word from Zaid but still trembling from his revelation and the promise of photos to prove it, Laura returned to the bathroom, completed her shower alone, and fell into the empty bed. Despite her anxiety, it was not long before exhaustion overtook her and she fell into a dreamless sleep.
SEPTEMBER 11
Kuala Lumpur
As befitted his position in the Royal Malaysian Intelligence Corps, the Kor Risik DiRaja, Colonel Tan Row was meticulous. His answers to each of Tony’s questions were thoughtful, considered. He consulted his personal log before commenting.
“December 3, 1999, was the first contact I had with your station chief at the time, Mr. Richard Brandon.” The colonel leaned forward so Tony could verify the date from the logbook.
“So that was the first time you were aware that a meeting of al-Qaeda operatives was to be held at the Evergreen condominium. Did Mr. Brandon make any specific request for intelligence assistance from the Special Branch of the Royal Malaysian Police?”
The colonel adjusted his glasses higher on his nose and studiously reviewed his precise handwritten inscriptions. “My notes state that he requested our service in placing a listening device in unit 703.”
“Was this an unusual request between intelligence agencies?”
“As you know from your experience with the intelligence community, dating from World War II there has been a special relationship among the English-speaking nations. Without explicit permission, one such country’s intelligence service will not collect information on, or in, another, but will respond to requests for assistance. Your country has honored this understanding. Sometimes, as in Latin America, you have defended this agreement against hostile words from several of your allies who think of it as yet another example of Anglo exclusivity. Malaysia is not a full participant in the relationship, but as a former British colony, we have liaison status. No, I would not say this was unusual, and we were prepared to be helpful.”
Although it occurred before he was with State, the incident to which Colonel Row referred was well known to Tony. In December of 1994 President Clinton convened a meeting of all the heads of government of the Americas, with the notable exception of Fidel Castro, for a hemispheric summit in Miami. It had been almost thirty years since any significant number of hemispheric leaders had sat together. It was a signal occasion for the resurgence of democracy and liberalized trade. Expectations were high.
Prior to the meeting and without clearance from the appropriate officials at the White House or the Department of State, the FBI secured a warrant allowing it to wiretap all but one of the presidents and prime ministers in attendance. NBC broke the story on its Nightly News several days after the conference had concluded. The heads of state whose private conversations had been intercepted were indignant. The U.S. ambassadors throughout Latin America and the Caribbean had hell to pay. The cauldrons grew hotter when these national leaders learned that their only colleague to escape surveillance was the prime minister of Canada. All the goodwill the summit was intended to engender was washed out to sea.
“Prepared?”
Colonel Tan Row, trained as a military officer, had spent the last fifteen years in the Kor Risik DiRaja. He combined the discipline and dominant personality of a colonel with the political nuance of a diplomat. Like most military men who led intelligence services, including those in the United States, he wore the uniform. Colonel Row filled it well, his elongated, Western-shaped head and hazel eyes sitting atop a sinuously lean Chinese body. He personified the blending of genetics and culture that prevailed in much of the upper classes of his country.
“We had the personnel with the technical competence to conduct the installation of the intercept, but not the equipment that would be required in this particular venue. Our interior oral collection device is the standard MR-16.”
The colonel opened a desk drawer and removed an oval-shaped object half the size of a digital wristwatch. “This is what we would normally use, and the performance has been quite satisfactory. However, it is not without its limitations. A clever technician with materials easily obtained on the Internet can infuse a space of over seven square meters and garble the transmission.
“We have long been familiar with the owner of unit 703 at the Evergreen, Mr. Yazid Sonji, and knew of his propensity for the utmost care in security matters. Assuming he had taken precautions to avoid interference with his activities, we needed more specialized interception devices than were in our inventory, and requested Mr. Brandon to make them available to us.”
This piece of information was not in Tony’s detailed briefing book. There had been no indication of Mr. Sonji’s security precautions. He was taken off guard by the colonel’s response. Damn, Tony thought, if I had known that three hours ago, I would have asked Sonji why he felt he was so vulnerable.
The colonel continued: “Mr. Brandon said that was quite impossible. He had three other drug or money-laundering cases running and all his people and support were committed. I restated our willingness to be of assistance, but noted our limitations under the circumstances.”
Tony winced. Early in his career with the INR bureau, he had been in the CIA auditorium at Langley, Virginia, and heard then-director George Tenet sound the trumpet: “We are at war with al-Qaeda.” Tenet followed with a memo to the entire American intelligence community: “We must now enter a new phase in our efforts against bin Laden. Our work to date has been remarkable and in some instances heroic; yet each day we all acknowledge that retaliation is inevitable and that its scope maybe far larger than we have previously experienced ... We are at war. I want no resources or people spared in this effort, either inside the CIA or in the larger intelligence community.”
A year later the National Security Agency had intercepted communications from Osama bin Laden describing the convening in Kuala Lumpur of his most experienced terrorist operatives. Included were those who had blown up two United States embassies in Africa. Our agency chief here cannot get his goddamned ass or assets into the meeting, Tony had thought. Obviously, no one was listening to George’s trumpet blast.
Tony refocused on the colonel’s tanned face. “So there was no intercept of the conversations that would take place four weeks later?”
“I regret, no. Who could have prophesied the horrendous consequences of that failure?”
Tony turned the page of his briefing memo. The colonel’s corner office had grown noticeably darker in the shadow of a thunderstorm that had arisen during
Tony’s taxi ride from Mr. Sonji’s downtown office to the elevated suburbs where the Kor Risik DiRaja had its headquarters. The campus was a former British officers’ quarters with five two- and three-story buildings surrounding a lush parade ground. The British preferred to locate their elite installations out of the city and above the stifling tropic summer heat. The thunder became more intrusive.
“Colonel, Mr. Sonji had been a biologist and engineering graduate student at the University of California, San Diego. Are you aware of any continuing relationships he has had with the university or his former colleagues?”
“No. Mr. Sonji has become increasingly estranged from his American experience. Since his religious conversion he has been hostile, even violent, toward your country. To our knowledge the only person with whom he has maintained a connection is a former professor, an Indian who shares Mr. Sonji’s religious fervor.”
The colonel rose from his desk and walked to a black cabinet from which he removed a file. Scanning the pages as he retook his seat, he paused and, when he appeared to be satisfied, said, “Yes, his name is Professor Samrat Nasir. My notes, which are now over three years outdated, state that in retirement Nasir continues to live in San Diego, although he has business arrangements in Saudi Arabia and frequently visits there. On at least two occasions, our intelligence indicates, he met with Mr. Sonji in Jeddah.”
Tony was more than displeased. Why in the hell didn’t we know that? What is our station in Riyadh doing if we missed those two getting together? It doesn’t look like we’ve learned much from 9/11.
“Going forward to January 4, 2000, I understand that while there was not an oral intercept, there were photographs taken of the fourteen men who attended. Are you aware of their distribution?” Tony asked.
Without consulting his notes the colonel replied, “Yes. Our officers took over twenty rolls of film. We kept the originals and submitted copies to your CIA. We had expected the CIA station to reciprocate, but instead, Mr. Brandon urged us to turn over our own copies, stating that this was a highly sensitive case and the agency wanted custody of all the intelligence. Of course, our procedures required that we maintain our own photographs, which we did. We did ask Mr. Brandon what his distribution would be, and he said there would be none. It was wholly an agency matter. Professionally I was surprised that he didn’t consider it appropriate to share this information within your government, but sometimes your procedures are murky.”
“Colonel, could you indulge me one final question? Your service has the reputation of maintaining a close liaison with your Indian counterpart. How does New Delhi assess the situation in Pakistan?”
“Well, of course, I will have to be cautious in speculating on what one nation feels about the circumstances of yet another. But it is our feeling the Indians believe the Pakistanis are in desperate circumstances. The continuing violence—such as the Mumbai assault, two attacks on India’s embassy in Kabul with indications of Pakistani intelligence involvement, and last week’s attack on the Islamabad Marriott hotel—are indicative of the unraveling of the Pakistani government’s control. Despite its representations, New Delhi is very concerned with the security of Pakistan’s nuclear stockpile. As long as the weapons were under the control of the Pakistani military, Indian intelligence calculated the chances of proliferation were minimal. But with the current state of instability India is disturbed, very disturbed. Some unsolicited advice: your government needs to take all steps to reassure India you are committed to the security of Pakistan’s nuclear weapons, even if it means you will take direct control of the warheads.”
Tony turned to look out the window that faced the colonel. The storm had arrived. Rain was coming down at a forty-five-degree angle. Glancing at his Casio watch, Tony saw that he was already twenty minutes behind the time he should have left for the Kuala Lumpur International Airport. In the late afternoon, as he knew from past experience, the traffic would be deadlocked, and the storm would make for a drenching run to the cab and a damp and slow ride to the airport.
“Colonel, I am very appreciative of your willingness to receive me and the valuable information you have provided. If at any time I or the Department of State could be of assistance, please give us the opportunity to do so.”
The colonel directed Tony to the door and walked with him through security at the main entrance to the intelligence service. “Mr. Ramos, you are on an important mission for both our countries. I am pleased to have provided what I trust you will find to be reliable information. While we have been spared the hideous attacks you suffered on September 11, we have lived with a radicalized minority for more than a decade. We are comrades in this war.”
A police guard opened the heavy wooden door. The burst of winddriven rain blew him back, twisting his blue slicker around his thighs. As the colonel gave Tony a parting handshake, the guard opened a black Oxford Street umbrella and motioned for Tony to follow to the lone taxi waiting at curbside.
Tony tossed in his single bag and slid his rain-soaked body into the backseat of the Toyota Corolla cab, waved thanks to the rapidly retreating police officer and directed the driver to the Malaysia Airlines terminal.
Leaving the compound, Tony noticed a Sony advertisement digital clock on top of an office building. It read 5:02. It would be close. Tony began the mental preparation for his arrival and the preboarding procedures.
Kuala Lumpur’s was part of the new generation of Southeast Asian airports. Stimulated by surging international commerce and a nascent tourist sector, Malaysia had made a 3.5 billion–dollar investment in a state-of-the-art terminal. Built on a former rubber plantation, the main terminal’s soaring, peaked roofline created the appearance of giant tents in the desert. Its glass and marble surfaces glistened. But Tony did not have the time or inclination to focus on the architectural design. It was exactly one hour before departure, and his cab was caught in the jam of vehicles two blocks from the inclined entry to the airport.
The rain had ceased. The sun roared out from behind the clouds. What a few minutes ago had been a showerhead at full blast was now a steam room. Tony grabbed his travel-worn Samsonite bag, tugged at the driver’s shoulder to stop, gave him the fare and tip, ripped open the door, and commenced the last five hundred meters at his former-athlete speed and agility. The Malaysia Airline insignia beckoned like a mirage, visible and almost within reach.
It was 6:06 by the terminal clock when Tony passed through the glassand-steel revolving door seeking the first Malaysia Airline staff member he could locate. Unlike most of their American counterparts, airlines in this part of the world still made service a central component of their passenger relationships.
Tony’s potential rescuer, according to the identification badge on her navy-blue uniform, was Ms. Lim. Stopping momentarily to catch his breath and shake off the last remnants of rain from his clothing, Tony asked Ms. Lim for assistance in boarding Malaysia flight 9724 to Hong Kong. She looked at him and the documents he gave her in polite disbelief.
“Mr. Ramos, it is quite impossible. The flight has been closed for more than twenty minutes; all of the luggage has passed through security and entered into the aircraft. Could I help you with arrangements for a later flight?”
Tony’s mind flew backward—Riyadh, Jeddah, Dubai, and now Kuala Lumpur. The mere idea of another extension was too much. Without responding to Ms. Lim and her offer of future assistance, he had another idea. Maybe the embassy could contact the airline and get an approval to board despite his late arrival. With Ms. Lim’s help he located an airline phone. Tony made the call.
“This is Tony Ramos of the INR bureau and I need help. Could you please connect me with Mr. Blair Roberts?” The operator rang the extension of the deputy chief of mission.
Moments passed. “I am sorry, but Mr. Roberts is not answering. His secretary says that he has left the building for the day.”
Tony moved to plan B. “Could I speak with Ambassador Singletary?” He did not know the ambassador other than by reputat
ion, which wasn’t very positive.
Singletary, a California private-equity capitalist and major party fund-raiser when selected, was part of a mounting wave of political appointments to ambassadorial positions. There had always been some non–Foreign Service ambassadors representing America. Traditionally, these political appointments were limited to prestige posts such as the Court of St. James in London or locations where whoever the ambassador was would not make much difference. The first President Bush appointed a political crony from Nevada as ambassador to the Bahamas. When pressed for his credentials, the new appointee said, “I love golf and they have a lot of nice golf courses and good fishing.”
“This is Ambassador Singletary.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador, my name is Tony Ramos and I am with the INR bureau. I apologize calling you for help, but my friend and former colleague in the bureau, Mr. Roberts, is not available. Briefly, today I have been taking interviews, and due to an unexpected extension of my final session and the severity of the thunderstorm, I arrived late for my 6:55 Malaysia Airlines flight to Hong Kong.”
Tony paused to catch his breath before continuing, “Without your help I am not going to make it. I would greatly appreciate your intervening with the airline.”
There was silence on the line.
“Mr. Ramos, I don’t know who you think you are, but according to cables we have received from Riyadh, you are using your INR credentials to carry out a set of personal interviews in furtherance of your own agenda, whatever that may be. It is quite unprofessional and unacceptable for you to use the expectations created by your official position with the department and your diplomatic passport to stir up unwarranted suspicions as to the actions of your government. Let me be plain, Mr. Ramos: I don’t give a damn when you get back to the United States, if ever. You can rot here, for all I care. And please know that among your superiors are people who are aware of your misuse of office. I certainly hope and anticipate that the most severe sanctions will follow.”
