Walking Ghost: Welcome to Terrorist University

by Nicholas Black

  I like my chances in most situations. The odds don't usually bother me, but they do keep me honest. And I'm not above a well timed, tactical retreat. I basically try to do the things that people smarter than myself would do, and that makes me seem clever. Though in reality, I'm just a well practiced impersonator. I am just as happy being me as I am being anyone else. I have no real identity, so I have no need to let my pride get me in trouble. You don't like me . . . whatever.

  But I do have a moral code. Something that I live by. I believe that people have a right to do whatever they please, but take responsibility once you do it. If you step on people then there is a chance that they will step on you back. Don't cry when the music stops and you don't have a chair. People who prey off of those incapable of defending themselves had better not cross my path. If you do, you would do good to stay clear of me and my people. Oh yes, we mercenaries travel in packs, even if you can't pick all of us out of a crowd. Some of my best friends in the world spend most of their time behind a rifle scope . . . watching you. And if the job we're doing requires violence . . . stand by.

  I like luxury and expensive things, but I don't have trouble being a cheap miser, either. And I will find a way to get the job done. I'm a big tipper, but if you spit in my food I will turn your restaurant into the 'wild Bunch. '

  I don't like to lose . . . at anything. My motto is, 'You show me a good loser, and I'll show you a loser.' For me, it's all life and death . . . every contest. On the battlefield, or on a playground having a game of Tic-Tac-toe, it doesn't make a difference to me. I'll turn a game of hopscotch into a bloodletting if I'm getting beat!

  But above and beyond all of the things I have mentioned, which make me a good operator, there is one that rises atop all others. And it is this: I know that I am not special. And there's nothing in my life I can't walk away from. I just don't care that much anymore.

  I realize that I'm not the smartest, or the quickest, or the most charismatic. I know and except the fact that I am very average in most things. And knowing all of that is what gives me the advantage. It lets me do the things that other people can't do, because they are too busy lying to themselves.

  I know where I stand. That is what, in my opinion, makes a good operator, in any environment. And I was assuming that all those clever people, behind the scenes during all of this, would see too.

  The loud banging on the metal door to my cell was my alarm clock. "Nos vamos! Vas a ir por los Estados Unidos." Lets go! You are going to the United states.

  I hurriedly put on my suit and gathered my legal papers. Time to put on my game face.

  "Listo?" the screw yelled. Ready ?

  "Si," I replied calmly. Yes .

  They walked me to the bottom of the unit, to the little room where I had been strip searched when I had first arrived. This would be my first test. The guard asked me to remove all of my clothes. Once I was naked he searched my clothes for contraband (keys, weapons, studied my dress shirt, etc. ). I acted nonchalant as he studied my dress shirt. Four minutes later I was on my way down a long corridor with guards on either side of me.

  It seemed like one of those haunted house hallways that never ends. Though it was sunny outside, with bright little fingers of light poking through and touching the floor, it felt dark and endless inside the long passage. I was on the way to the 'receiving and discharge' area.

  It basically consisted of four large holding cells; the kind where the door was the entire wall. I was one of only two other people that would be leaving, and we all had our own holding cells. I flashed back to a memory of when I had first arrived at Valdemoro, being jammed into one of the holding cells because it was completely full. Prisons are a lot like roach motels in that more people arrive than depart.

  I looked around, kind of taking it all in for one last time.

  I could smell something like bleach, but with a hint of orange in it. It made me remember that I was hungry, and wished I had eaten this morning instead of cleaning my cell. I guess I didn't want to leave them any sense of who I was. The less in the way of a 'footprint' or something.

  I waited for about an hour and then I was searched a second time. This time they were much more thorough, if you know what I'm angling at. Body cavity search came up clean. I put on my clothes and the screws handed me a big plastic bag with my watch, wallet, and cellular phone inside. I signed some release papers and then I was marched out to a waiting van.

  I arrived at what seemed to be a local Madrid Policia station about 20 minutes later. It was my first scenic view of Madrid. Very nice place to visit if you're not in prison.

  At the station I was searched again and placed in another cell, alone. I spent the rest of the day and that night there. At around 4 or 5 am. I was taken out to another small van and then raced to the airport.

  I had my papers, a plastic bag, and my clothes. So far, so good. When I entered the airport I was taken through a back entrance and placed in a holding cell, inside the airport in what seemed like a basement. Of all the places that I had been jailed, this was the one that I probably could have broken out of the easiest. But then, that was not my mission this time.

  About an hour later, two chubby u.s. Marshall were leading me to a plane that would carry us across the Atlantic, stop over in Atlanta, with continuing service to Dallas-Ft. Worth International Airport.

  While we were in flight one of the Marshalls asked me if I thought that it was funny that the inflight movie was ' Catch Me if You Can .' I hadn't been around Americans in a long time, and I realized right then that we Americans are socially inept and rude. I could tell by the way the U.S. Marshalls looked condescendingly upon everyone around them, as if the other people were some distance lower on the evolutionary ladder.

  "Yes, I suppose that is kind of funny," I said as I sat back, trying to tune him out.

  A Spanish flight attendant, who looked like a super model playing the part of a stewardess, smiled at me and held up some food. One of the Marshalls, obviously pissed that she didn't find him appealing, held up his open hand in the classic 'Stop!' position.

  Then in his best tex-mex accent he said, "No puede, no puede." He can't, he can't.

  She shrugged at me apologetically and smiled the most perfect smile that I had ever seen. Of course, being in Prison for the last six months probably skewed my perception a bit.

  I sat back and relaxed. I'd let Leonardo DiCaprio take me halfway back to America. A few hours into the flight one of the Marshalls—the one on my right—said something about Operation Iraqi Freedom.

  "If you were still in the military, would you want to fight ln Iraq?"

  "It wouldn't really be up to me," I replied.

  "They would force you to go," he asserted.

  I didn't know what this guy was doing. Trying to establish rapport, maybe? I don't think that this guy really understood much about the military, nor about war, either. And after I considered it for a moment it kind of all hit me at once.

  I was completely powerless. I had no control over anything in the entire world.

  Owed nothing.

  I deserved nothing. I was just a piece of damaged equipment. Something that the government could dust off when the time was right, use me, and then put me away before the party starts and all of the 'nice' people come over.

  I turned my head slightly towards him and echoed something I had heard from Nasser on one of our long walks, "You don't get to choose the war . . . the war chooses you."

  TWENTY

  Were I to be completely honest, I would say that my return to the United states was bittersweet. Essentially, the only reason I was happy to be back was so that I could deliver all of my intel to all of those smart people who could cumulate, collate, and calculate.

  Because of airline regulations, the U.S. Marshalls were not allowed to place handcuffs on me during the flight. And they were not at all pleased with that. Once I was out of the airport in Dallas, the cuffs went on, and the tough guy antics ensued. I just kept my mouth
shut and waited for another body search or two. I felt like a stripper. I had been searched five times in Spain: Twice by the Spanish Prison authorities at Valdemoro, twice more my the Spanish Policia, and again by the U.S. Marshalls.

  By the way, they sent four Marshalls to retrieve me from Spain. I've got to wonder just how much money the taxpayers were getting bilked for that little vacation. Round-trip tickets and accommodations for four men, for at least a week. And I assumed that they had a nice trip because their eyes were bloodshot, they all had nice tans, and looked tired and weary from nights spent masturbating to gay porn, or whatever it is four guys fighting off a mid-life crisis do while on vacation.

  We left the airport and it was late. They dropped me off at the Dallas County Jail, for the evening. I was unshaven, with a dark complexion, an overgrown drug-dealer haircut, wearing a 5,000 dollar suit. The people that were in my tank numbered about 40, and all assumed that I was a heavy coke dealer. I let them believe that. I ended up getting a nice place to lay down, and about 15 job applications for bodyguards and street distributors. The next morning came quickly and then I was picked-up and delivered to the Dallas Federal Courts Building.

  I was led upstairs to a holding area with about 8 small caged-in cells. One of the Marshalls then led me into a small office where I was finger printed and photographs were taken. I was, yet again, made to strip. This was my last hurdle.

  While disrobing, the Marshall informed me that my attorney was here to visit me. I asked him if I could give all of the personal belongings to my attorney instead of mailing them home.

  "Why not," he said. Then he pulled out a large plastic bag.

  He handed it to me and told me to get whatever I thought was important out and give it to my attorney. That's odd, I thought. There were supposed to be two bags: One with my personal effects, and another that was filled with legal documents that were to be given to the u.s. Authorities.

  I finished taking off my clothes and the Marshall turned his back to the computer. I opened the plastic bag and found two smaller bags, each one having a note card with some Spanish writing taped to it. Luckily they were both in a language that the Marshall couldn't decipher. I reached my hand in and palmed the pieces of paper as if I was accepting a tip at a club, crushing them in my right hand as quietly as possible. I wasn't supposed to get both of these bags.

  Inside one of the bags was my watch, necklace, cellphone, some keys, and my wallet. Nothing super special there. But in the second bag: My passport, my French Foreign Legion military I.D., credit cards in my French name, and some court documents that I was probably not supposed to have.

  "I guess," I said as I folded up my dress shirt, "that I'll just give all this to my attorney."

  "Just throw it in that bag and I'll give it to him in the visiting room," the Marshall said. He didn't seem to suspect anything. Then again, why should he?

  Once the shirt was folded, and safely inside of the bag, I tied a knot in the plastic and handed it to the Marshall. The visiting room was just down the hallway.

  "Can I see my attorney now?" I asked.

  "Sure," he said as I slipped back on my slacks and shoes.

  I walked into the visiting room which was no more than a square of about ten by ten feet, split down the middle with a metal screen. You could see the other person, but you couldn't touch them. And that was probably a good idea, because these were the rooms where angry people would come to meet their attorneys directly after being sentenced. More often than not, I imagine that most of the clients would love to put their hands around their attorneys' throats. So, it was an anti-strangulation screen.

  And there, in the middle, sitting across from the screen was Gary, my attorney. He looked chubbier than when I had seen him last. Lawyers.

  "How do you feel?" he asked politely.

  I didn't really feel like a pleasant conversation, I was still in paranoid mode. "Did you get my stuff?" I said flatly. He nodded. He then lifted the bag up to a table where I could see it.

  "Open it," I said quietly.

  He untied my square-knot.

  "Ok."

  "Now," I instructed him, "take out the dress shirt and the legal papers."

  As he did so, he laid every article carefully down on the table as if it might be connected to a pressure switch on a bomb.

  "Inside the legal documents you should find a bunch of notes . . . " I said carefully as he began to thumb through them. "Several pages should be there if they didn't find them. Even if they did, there are smaller notes printed on the backs of some of the extradition papers. It should all be there."

  "I see some small handwriting," he said as he brought the paper closer and squinted.

  "Good, now put that aside." He put the papers down beside the bag. "Now, unfold the dress shirt." He did. "Turn it inside-out."

  He gave me a curious look, but continued. It was a little late in the game to become skeptical.

  "Nice shirt," he said under his breath. And as he had reversed the shirt he saw the writing, "Oooh, look at . . . what is that?"

  "That was my back-up plan." On the inside of the shirt were all of my notes, cataloged by major key words, and written in ink. Every name, address, date, and danger was copied. Both arms were covered, and almost every other available square inch of material on the front and back were covered.

  The fabric was my tablet. Simple, low-tech, and effective. It had passed through about seven different searches. If I had been trying to smuggle a spy camera, cassettes, or microfilm, it would have probably been discovered. Often though, the most low-tech, dumbed down approach is the way to go. Nasser reminded me of that.

  Nasser told me a story about a how they used to ship weapons and money across the mountains. He said that it was too dangerous for the men to do, but the donkeys could be used. Once the donkeys had walked the path a couple of times, all they needed was the sound of a man urging them on. So they made a two-hour long recording of a man saying, "Hyah! Hyah!" Then they taped a Sony walkman to the donkey, the headphones taped to his ears, and started the tape. A little slap on the backside, and off the donkey went. On the other side of the mountain the mujahadeen would take off the shipment, put other stuff back on, flip the tape, and press 'Play.' And back the donkey would go. Sounds stupid, works great.

  Gary studied my notes, "This is a lot of stuff."

  "Right. Now put it away and make sure that it gets to the right people," I said.

  "They are all quite interested in what you've got."

  I didn't respond, but continued, "Now get out my wallet, cellphone, passport, and Legion I.D."

  His eyebrows twisted strangely, "You're not supposed to have that stuff."

  "I don't . . . you do," I said in a low voice.

  "Now get that stuff to my dad, please." I might need it.

  He turned his head from side to side as if somebody might be watching him through a pin-hole in the wall. I rolled my eyes. I wonder if James Bond's attorney likes to play like he's a British Agent, too? Gary put my wallet, my passport, and my Legion I.D. into his jacket pocket and scooted closer to the screen.

  "I don't know when, but soon Dave Watson, from the Naval Investigative Service, is going to interview you."

  "Fine, but I only want to meet with him. Nobody else. don't know who anybody is and I don't want to get burnt. more people who can identify me, the worse chance I have of staying alive back in Europe."

  Gary nodded, but he didn't seem to appreciate the seriousness of the situation that I was in. There are spies everywhere . . . ours and theirs. If ten people saw me, then that's a whole bunch of people who might accidentally leak that I had been working for aU. S. Intelligence operation. That' s ten-to-the-tenth chances that I end up on Al Jazeera getting my head cut off by a pruning knife.

  There is a general law that applies to the security of secrets and information: It states that with each additional person that has access to information, the chances of a leak rise exponentially. So, one person is one chance
for a leak. Two people is four chances for compromise. Three people create 27 possible threats. See where this is going? Now imagine ten. I only wanted to deal with one person. Then, if it all went pear-shaped . . . well, then I'd know who to visit.

  After I met with my attorney, I was marched down in front of a Federal Judge who began to read off more indictments. I knew that none of them would stick because of the protection of the Extradition Treaty between Spain and the u.s. It was quite clear that the U. S. could only sentence me for the single crime of 'Felon in Possession of a Firearm,' the crime which I had been extradited for.

  I had a bored smirk on my face as the judge said, "You have been indicted for 'Obstruction of Justice,' and 'Failure to Appear.' I guess one of the Marshalls saw me not being sufficiently frightened and thought I was being disrespectful.

  He barked at me, "Something funny to you?"

  "Yup," I said with a grin, and then turned my attention back to the judge, ignoring him completely. I bet he was really angry. Probably wanted to kick my ass. I felt all warm and fuzzy inside.

  Welcome back to the United States, Mr. Huck.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The next day, per the Treaty on Extradition, the subsequent charges and indictments were dropped. I was carted off to a State and Federal detention center in Mansfield, Texas. I guess it was three or four weeks before I had the debriefing. It was quite a surprise . . . to put it lightly.

  The first problem that I saw was that some of the information was time sensitive, and they had put off any meeting for almost a month. Why I wasn't interviewed instantly upon my arrival in Dallas I will never know. Also, if I was going to return to Spain, things needed to happen to aid in my transition back 'inside.' I needed to get the logistics and backstopping taken care of so that it wouldn't be quite so obvious. But on such things I was in the minority.

  When I arrived for the debriefing I was shocked to be in a room with about 7 or 8 people, not including myself and my lawyer. All of my notes were copied and stacked in a small pile on a rather large, wooden desk. As I entered the room, I noticed an FBI agent, Jim Christi. This would create a problem.