Direct Action

by John Weisman

  “It is my pleasure to do so, sir,” McGee answered in Arabic. Then he dropped a big index finger atop the heavy brown paper, drew the envelope to his side of the table, slit the end with the thick sharp blade of his Emerson folder, read the one-page boilerplate agreement, and signed.

  They’d wanted to see if he understood Arabic well enough to respond properly. He’d just shown them he did. It also meant the job—whatever it might be—was somewhere in the Middle East.

  Well, McGee liked the Middle East, and working for a CIA front company was all right by him. He was thirty-nine, he’d had twenty-two years of Soldiering, and it was time for him to go. Time to make some money for his family. He had an ex-wife and two teenage boys to support, and he was dedicated to them.

  Besides, it had been a long ride. He’d begun his Delta selection process just as the Unit was preparing to leave for Somalia. He’d finished his specialized schools—denied area operations, Arab language, State’s VIP protection course, safecracking, and other miscellaneous black arts—just as four of Delta’s Spanish-language specialists left for Colombia to help track down and kill El Doctor, the notorious Medellín drug cartel boss Pablo Escobar.

  He’d spent most of 1994 and 1995 commuting between Jordan, where he instructed the Royal Jordanian Army’s elite Black Beret commandos in close-quarters combat and hostage rescue, and Israel, where he trained and then worked with Sayeret Duvdevan, Israel’s Special Forces counterterrorist unit.5 He’d been posted to Beirut under State Department cover to help protect the ambassador right after the 1998 Africa embassy bombings. McGee’s time as a part of a Mistaravim, or undercover Arab-speaking Israeli unit, had given him the skills necessary to operate in Beirut’s southern suburbs observing Hezbollah, and in the Bekáa Valley, where he spied on Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps personnel headquartered in Baalbek.

  McGee’s familiarity with the Middle East—especially Israel and Lebanon—was what the Langley guys were interested in. It was all very straightforward stuff, Rudy said. “We’re talking ‘Espionage 101’: you keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. Nothing more than you did in Lebanon—except this time you’re not reporting to ISA6 but to us.”

  Tom checked McGee’s signature on the nondis, then provided some background. There was, he said derisively, only one Arabic-speaking case officer currently assigned to Tel Aviv. She worked under embassy cover but her Agency affiliation was known to the Palestinians with whom she liaised. Moreover, the fact that she was a woman compromised her ability to work in Gaza even if her status hadn’t been acknowledged. From the way Tom described the situation, McGee understood that things at Tel Aviv station were FUBAR’d.

  So, McGee asked, what’s the problem?

  The problem? Rudy didn’t mince words. “CIA is effing eyeless in Gaza. The station chief refuses to recruit agents. That’s the problem. Full stop.”

  The younger guy had shot Rudy a look. But when McGee pressed him, Tom had gone even further. CIA had no unilateral sources in the entire Gaza Strip. No access agents. No penetration agents. Not one single unilateral asset. CIA had trained more than twelve hundred Palestinian security personnel over the past half decade. But between bureaucratic infighting, blockheaded, risk-averse management, and just plain incompetence, Langley hadn’t managed to recruit a single one.

  And therein lay the rub. All hell was breaking loose in Washington because CIA hadn’t had unilateral agents in Iraq before the war. There’d been satellite photos, of course. And signals intercepts by the thousands—so many that No Such Agency’s Arab-speaking translators were still working on material from 2001. But all of the human-source intelligence on which George W. Bush had based his decision to invade Iraq—all of it; every single report—had been supplied either by defectors provided by Iraqi resistance groups or through CIA’s liaison relationships with the Brits, the Germans, the Israelis, the Saudis, and the Jordanians.

  That dependence on liaison, Tom growled, caused huge problems. When McGee asked how, Tom explained.

  “Let’s say,” he said, “CIA gets a liaison report from MI6. The report says a trusted MI6 agent working in the Middle East has information that Saddam Hussein has developed mobile chemical weapons labs. The info-bit fits CIA’s preconceived picture about Saddam’s weapons-of-mass-destruction program. But it’s uncorroborated. Uncorroborated is unacceptable. But Langley doesn’t have any unilateral sources in Iraq. Instead, they e-mail the liaisons: Anybody out there hear anything about an Iraqi mobile weapons lab program?

  “‘We did,’ Mossad answers. ‘Our military intelligence organization, AMAN, says it’s highly probable Saddam has mobile chemical/biological weapons labs moving around the country. We rate AMAN’s information source as highly credible.’

  “Then CIA goes to the Iraqi defector groups. ‘You guys have anybody who knows about weapons laboratories built into tractor trailers?’ And the Iraqi National Congress or the Iraqi National Accord, figuring that CIA wants a positive response, tells CIA, ‘Sure, we hear about mobile chem/bio weapons labs all the time.’

  “CIA says, ‘We want to interview a defector with firsthand knowledge.’ So INC flies a defector to Washington, where he’s interviewed and polygraphed. The defector’s polygraph, which shows no deception, is consistent with everything about mobile weapons labs CIA has learned so far.

  “But the White House isn’t satisfied. The president says, ‘I won’t go to war unless we’ve nailed this down one hundred percent.’ So CIA goes to its pals in Berlin and asks about mobile weapons labs. BND, the German intelligence agency, tells CIA it interviewed an Iraqi defector pseudonymed CURVEBALL who confirmed that Saddam had mobile labs. He’d even worked on the program.

  “Langley insists they want to talk to CURVEBALL. ‘Sorry,’ say the Krauts. ‘You know the rules: he is our unilateral source and we don’t compromise sources and methods.’

  “No access is generally a no-no,” Tom continued. “But in this case, CIA shrugs its institutional shoulders because it doesn’t matter: the Agency now has multiple-source corroboration without talking to the BND’s source directly. Then Director of Central Intelligence George Tenet briefs the president again. And when Bush asks if Tenet is sure about his info, because the U.S. is going to war based on what CIA has uncovered, Georgie boy says, ‘Mr. President, this is a slam dunk.’ Three weeks later, a line about mobile biological weapons labs gets inserted into Secretary of State Colin Powell’s United Nations speech. When Powell asks Tenet if the information is solid, Tenet says something to the effect of not to worry, we got a triple confirmation. We’re talking twenty-four-karat.

  “But what CIA doesn’t know is that London got its information from a unilateral MI6 Israeli agent—a lieutenant colonel working for AMAN. And CIA has no idea that the Brits’ agent just happens to be the same guy at AMAN that CIA’s Mossad liaison queried. CIA doesn’t know because just like BND, MI6 doesn’t reveal its sources and methods to liaison agencies. CIA also doesn’t realize the defector INC flew to Washington is CURVEBALL—the same guy who told BND about mobile weapons labs.

  “Worst of all,” Tom said, “CIA can’t confirm any of the information because it doesn’t have any fucking unilaterals in a position to know about mobile weapons laboratories. Not in Iraq. Not inside the INC. Not in AMAN or Mossad. Not a single fucking agent under unilateral American control anywhere.”

  The unfortunate result: all of CIA’s allegedly high-grade information about weapons of mass destruction, mobile biological warfare laboratories, missiles with chemical warheads, and nuclear-bomb programs was currently unraveling day by day. None of it had been accurate in the first place. It was a colossal humiliation for CIA and DCI Tenet. Worse, the situation was going to become a huge embarrassment for the administration, which was heading into the 2004 election year with a number of independent watchdog commissions tearing chunks of political flesh out of the White House.

  And now, Tom said, the same goddamn situation was developing in Gaza. There was huge pressure on
the White House to reactivate its Road Map for Peace between the Palestinians and Israel before the 2004 elections. But once again, CIA had no unilateral sources on the ground. And even if they had, the ambassador in Tel Aviv didn’t allow CIA to recruit unilaterals from its Israeli and Palestinian liaison relationships.

  But McGee, Tom said, could slip in under the radar. He wouldn’t come under the ambassador’s formal chain of command. He knew what to look for—and how to dig it out without being observed. He knew how to operate in a denied area—how to disappear in plain sight. He’d done it in Lebanon. He’d done it in Baghdad. And compared to Beirut and Baghdad, Gaza was a piece of cake.

  McGee’d find a way to gather intelligence on the AQ terrorist cells—if there were in fact AQ terrorist cells. He’d seen how the Seppah operated in Lebanon. He’d be able to tell if they’d set up shop in Gaza. If things went well, he’d even be able to spot potential agents from among the mid- and high-level Palestinian security officials with whom he’d liaise during his official duties. He’d note their vulnerabilities, assess their potential, and pass their names on. After they’d been vetted, he’d recruit them—or pass them on to someone else who would get the job done.

  When McGee asked about cover for status, Rudy explained he’d be hired as a part of a DynCorp security contingent for the Tel Aviv embassy. He’d work full-time for DynCorp. In fact, the salary, per diem, and bonuses were his to keep.

  “You’ll report to me,” said Tom. “Encrypted e-mail using steaganography backed up by one-on-one meetings with a control officer. Like Rudy said, this is Espionage 101, Jim. Basic, keep-it-simple-stupid intelligence gathering.” He gave McGee an encouraging smile. “C’mon—even you Delta guys can do it.”

  10:04 A.M. McGee’s big Seiko told him they were behind schedule. He squirmed impatiently as a green-bereted Israeli border guard waved the two FAVs through the checkpoint. Sass threaded his way between the barriers, then pulled off to the side of the road behind the two filthy Subarus. As he stopped, McGee reached down, grabbed the M4, opened the door, slid out onto the dusty road, and approached the Palestinians, who were climbing into their cars. “Sabah il-kheer—good morning.”

  The tallest of the six shifted the thin canvas strap on his AK and peered at McGee through brown-tinted aviator glasses. “Wenta bi-kheer—and to you, Mr. Jim.” The AK muzzle shifted and McGee moved out of its way. These idiots stood around with their fingers on the weapons’ triggers and McGee could see that the AK’s safety was in the off position. The Palestinian’s eyes noted McGee’s wariness and he arced the muzzle of his weapon away from the American’s feet. “You are going to the municipality, correct?”

  “Yes, Mahmud. Next to the Red Crescent headquarters.” McGee’s gaze caught Shafiq as he climbed into the shotgun seat of the first Subaru. The Palestinian was working hard to keep from making eye contact. McGee said, “We’re late.”

  The Palestinian officer slung his AK. “Yalla! Let’s go, then.”

  McGee turned on his heel and walked back toward the FAVs. Jonny Kieffer had his door cracked. McGee cradled the M4 and put his foot on the running board. “No problems. I’ll follow him. You follow me. Let’s stay on the radio and keep our eyes open.”

  “Roger that.” Kieffer snapped the door shut and disappeared behind the dark-tinted, inch-thick glass. McGee returned to the silver Suburban, climbed aboard, stowed the M4, fingered the radio earpiece, adjusted the squelch control, slapped the dash, and transmitted: “Hava na mova, gentlemen. Let’s get on with it.”

  10:07 A.M. The four-vehicle convoy cleared the industrial zone and headed south. To the east lay Beit Hanoun. Three miles south was Gaza City. The traffic thickened. Sass eased off, putting thirty yards of air between the heavy crash bumper and the Subaru. The dusty, potholed road widened, donkey carts and bicycles crowding the curb lane. Ahead, McGee could make out the first of the huge three-tiered pylons that ran power lines into Gaza City.

  As the convoy passed the first of the pylons, the Subaru sped up, opening a hundred-yard space. “Goddamnit.” Sass shook his head. “What the hell’s he think he’s doing.” He tromped the accelerator, the big FAV’s engine growled, and the Suburban shot forward.

  “Stay with him.”

  Which is when a pair of kids in pajamas shot out from between a donkey cart and a delivery truck and dashed in front of the FAV. McGee shouted, “Holy shit, Sass.”

  Sass smacked the brakes hard. The big Chevy’s nose swerved left as the heavy-duty pads caught the rotors. Then Sass brought the FAV under control. He braked and weaved as a taxi pulled in front of him to make a U-turn, pausing just long enough to shoot a glance back at the two teens who were waving and giving them the finger from the northbound side of the road. “Fucking kids.”

  McGee tapped the windshield. “Pay attention, will ya?” The Subaru was now easily two hundred yards ahead and McGee was pissed. “C’mon, Sass, do your job—catch up.”

  Sass started to talk, then caught McGee’s expression. McGee wasn’t himself this morning. He was testy. Impatient. Edgy. Sass decided not to probe. “Gotcha, boss.” Sass accelerated.

  They were approaching the Beit Lahiya intersection now and Sass had managed to close the gap by half when something caught McGee’s eye. Maybe fifty, sixty yards ahead was a newly patched pothole. It was right in the middle of the southbound traffic lane. It got McGee’s attention because it was the only pothole patch he’d seen all day. And it stood out like a sore thumb. A four-by-four foot patch of black asphalt slopped messily into the brown dust of the road surface.

  And then McGee saw something else. It was either a thick black wire or maybe a length of flexible electrical conduit that ran from the edge of the patch under a big lorry, across the curb, over the sidewalk, and disappeared under a two-meter-high corrugated metal fence.

  The hair on McGee’s neck stood straight up. He shouted, “Lima—alert!” into the collar mike, snatched the field glasses, and scanned for threats. That was when McGee saw the mustached man. He was dressed in the same olive-drab shirt and trouser uniform as any minor PSS official. A red-and-white-checked kaffiyeh was draped around his neck, and an AK hung from his left shoulder. But there was something…different.

  What drew McGee’s attention to him was that he was out of position for a security officer. The guy was perched three stories high on a construction scaffolding perhaps a hundred and fifty, two hundred yards down the road, just past the intersection, scanning the U.S. convoy through a pair of binoculars. He held a cell phone in his left hand. McGee focused on him. It was a flip phone and it was open. But the guy in olive drab wasn’t holding the phone to his ear: his arm was dangling at his side.

  The son of a bitch is looking straight at me, McGee thought.

  And then, never moving the binoculars, the man lifted the cell and used his thumb to press the control buttons. It was hard to do with one hand, but he never stopped looking through the field glasses, looking straight into McGee’s brain.

  That was when McGee understood what was happening.

  Oh Mother of God, oh Christ, oh holy shit. “Jam it, Sass—go left—go left—go left!” McGee dropped the binoculars and lunged for the wheel, fighting to get his leg over the console so he could stomp Sass’s foot and put pedal to metal.

  Then suddenly his existence turned dreamlike and McGee realized that somehow he’d slipped into a parallel universe where everything happened in slow motion. And no matter how hard he tried, McGee just couldn’t…make…things…move…fast…enough.

  Sass twisted his head in McGee’s direction, mouth wide, a primal scream building in his throat.

  McGee never heard him. The Suburban was already disintegrating around the three of them. The worried, confused, childlike expression on the Texan’s round face was the last thing McGee saw before the big silver FAV exploded in a huge orange fireball.

  III

  HERNDON, VIRGINIA

  5

  16 OCTOBER 2003

  8:21 A . M .
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  38442 COPPERMINE ROAD

  MARILYN JEAN O’CONNOR, Marymount College class of 1994, knew she’d worked at the Central Intelligence Agency for precisely seven years, two months, and eleven days because she was an unusually punctilious record keeper. A GS-9, MJ, as she called herself when she wasn’t at work, was a midgrade analyst in the ten-person Counterterrorist Photo Interpretation Group, which was acronymed C-PIG. She and her fellow C-PIGgies spent their days rooting for intelligence truffles in a windowless office facing an interior corridor on the fourth floor of an anonymous, ugly, toad-green glass box of an office building that sat six hundred yards east of Route 28 and 1.3 miles south of the Dulles Toll Road’s Exit 10.

  Sometimes, as she came and went, MJ felt a little bit like a character out of the movie Three Days of the Condor. Actually, she felt like a character out of the novel Six Days of the Condor, because being a thorough sort of person, after she’d rented the movie on DVD, she’d gone out and found a copy of that seminally existential work of 1970s espionage fiction. She much preferred the book to the truncated, slick filmic adaptation.

  The building in which she worked was, just like the covert CIA office in Condor, not identified as a government installation. On the maps at headquarters and in CIA phone books, the place was called Building 213 West, although it was more popularly referred to as Coppermine. What civilians saw as they drove past was a six-story opaque glass-and-steel structure that bore a (bogus) corporate logo that looked little different from the logos of the scores of dot-com slash telecom slash info-com companies that inhabited Northern Virginia’s Tyson’s-to-Dulles corridor.

  It was, so the security types at CIA pronounced, a perfect work of camouflage. A few wags from the DO would from time to time mention that the pneumatic Pentagon-grade traffic barrier at the gate, the triple row of Jersey barriers, and the twenty-four-hour shifts of armed guards toting submachine guns in the parking lot might raise an eyebrow or two. But then, given the public’s wide acceptance of the Patriot Act and the fact that Capitol Hill tours now included a drive-by of the five Army Patriot missile batteries ringing the complex, perhaps not.