Trust your instincts, Raviv always said. Unless they stink, in which case you shouldn’t.
But then you shouldn’t be in the field at all. So I’m gonna assume a certain level of competence here. And my point is, you have to guess. And always remember that most of the time there won’t be anyone on you at all. You’ll be playing a little game with yourself. And then sometimes it’s the other thing.
What other thing? someone had asked.
If you’re lucky, unlucky, however you want to look at it, at least once in your career you’ll wind up with a whole platoon on you. Cars, motorcycles, helicopters. I know it seems impossible, but it isn’t, not in Moscow or Beijing or Tehran or a few other places where these little games are taken seriously.
What do we do then?
Abort your meeting. Head for the nearest house of worship. And pray.
WELLS HOPPED the railing and picked through the slow-moving traffic on Talaat Harb. Across the street, stairs led to the underground walkway. Wells stepped down them, not quite running, the camera bouncing in his backpack. He made his way along the tiled corridors of the underpass, past a blind man selling packets of tissues, a grimy teenager wearing a New York Yankees cap. Wells turned right, left, and then jogged along a passage and up a stairway. He’d crossed all the way under the square, to its western edge. From here, a wide avenue, three lanes in each direction, ran west toward the Nile.
Wells stepped around the stairs, positioning himself so he could spot anyone coming up the steps without being seen himself. And sure enough the man in the striped blue shirt emerged from the passageway and jogged up the steps. His cigarette was gone, but he was the same man who was standing next to Wells on Talaat Harb.
Wells heard Raviv’s raspy voice: You found him. Now lose him. Wells stepped onto the avenue as a bus passed, moving maybe fifteen miles an hour. He moved around the back of the bus, then sprinted along its left side, where its body shielded him from the sidewalk. He kept pace, barely. A taxi honked madly at him, and its passenger-side mirror whacked his ass. He stumbled in his robes but didn’t fall. After thirty seconds, the traffic lightened and he crossed to the south side of the road.
The move was ugly and unsubtle, but it worked. Wells was two hundred yards from his pursuer, effectively hidden by the traffic. He kept moving, walking briskly to the Corniche el-Nil, a three-lane road that ran south along the riverbank. He reached into his pocket and tossed the bug into the Nile. It disappeared without even a splash. He looked back, but the tail seemed to be gone. He extended his arm. A battered black-and-white cab pulled over.
“The Hyatt,” Wells said. The hotel was a mile down the Corniche. Before they reached it, Wells touched the cabbie’s arm. “Stop here.”
He paid, waited for the cab to disappear, waited for any sign he’d been followed. But here the Corniche was nearly free of pedestrians and the traffic flowed fast and freely. Wells reached up a hand, hailed another cab. “Northern Cemetery.”
“Which part?”
“The entrance.”
“It has many entrances.” The cabbie looked puzzled but waved Wells in anyway.
As they drove, Wells closed his eyes and tried to think through the tail and the bug. They had to have come from someone at the mosque. Hani, most likely. Maybe someone else in the imam’s office. Possibly the imam himself. Whoever it was, Wells had to expect the Egyptian police to crash his interview with Alaa. He wondered if he should abort the meeting.
“Where are you from?” the taxi driver said abruptly.
Back in America, Wells had forgotten the Arab world’s obsession with ethnicity, its never-ending tribalism. Me against my brother. Us against our cousins. Our family against the family next door. Our block against the next . . . and on and on, to infinity. Or at least this universe against the next.
“Kuwait.”
“Ahh, Kuwait. Of course. You have business here? Maybe you take day off, I take you to the pyramids. Very exciting, very historical . . .” He was off and running, and Wells couldn’t help but smile. One day he really would come back here as a tourist. He wondered who’d be with him. Or if he’d be alone.
THE CABBIE WAS STILL TALKING as they headed up a low rise. Ahead, the road seemed to dead-end at a wide avenue, almost a highway, six lanes of cars heading north and south. Beyond the avenue, a jumble of buildings loomed, darker and lower than the rest of the city. The cabbie pointed at them. “Northern Cemetery.”
“I can’t wait.”
The cabbie drove through a short tunnel that ran under the avenue and opened into the cemetery. He stopped in front of four nut-brown men sitting in folding chairs, passing a sheesha.
Wells paid the driver, unfolded himself from the cab. The men in the chairs looked curiously at him as it pulled away, trailing diesel smoke. Hani wasn’t among them, and Wells didn’t recognize any of them from the mosque. They were arranged in front of a store whose shelves, as far as Wells could tell, held only cardboard boxes of spark plugs.
“Salaam alekeim.”
“Alekeim salaam.”
The men’s galabiyas were gray with dust, their bodies limp, as if they had been sitting for so long that they were molded to the chairs. They could have been forty, or seventy. They struck Wells as the Egyptian equivalent of the old men who had—in the days before Wal-Mart and air-conditioning—sat in town squares in the South and watched the world go by.
“May I sit?” Wells asked the man on the far right. He seemed younger, or at least more awake, than the others.
“Sit, sit.”
Wells plopped down. Based on the regularity of the traffic passing them, the road through the cemetery seemed to be a major route to eastern Cairo. Wells couldn’t help feeling that running roads through a graveyard was somehow disrespectful. Yet did the dead prefer the loneliness of the immaculately maintained cemeteries in the United States? At least this way they were connected to the city where they had lived.
What nonsense, Wells thought. In truth, if this place proved anything, it was the foolishness of ghost stories. Wells didn’t claim to know where the dead went. But he was sure they weren’t here. Their bones might be, but their spirits were long gone.
The man next to him moved a few degrees toward vertical.
“I am Essam.”
“Nadeem.”
“You visit the cemetery?”
“Yes.”
“Now? At this hour?”
“Why not?”
Essam didn’t seem to know what to say next. He slumped in his seat, reached for the sheesha. Its coals were out. He whistled sharply. A very small and very dirty boy, no more than ten years old, emerged from the spark-plug store, carrying tongs and a brass brazier trailing white smoke. He plucked two red-black coals from the brazier, arranged them on the sheesha.
“You like to smoke?” the boy said to Wells. “Very good smoke. Apple, cherry, strawberry, melon—”
“No, thank you.”
“Very good smoke.” The boy tugged at Wells’s galabiya with a small hand black with coal dust. “You Kuwaiti?”
“Not you, too. Shouldn’t you be asleep?” Then Wells realized why the boy had asked. “Yes. Kuwaiti. You have something for me?”
The boy ran inside the store, reemerging with a piece of paper. “For you. One pound.”
“Who gave you this?”
“One pound.” One Egyptian pound was about twenty cents.
Wells gave him a pound, received the note in return. “Keep walking,” it said in Arabic. Nothing more. “Who gave you this?” But the boy had already gone back to spark-plug heaven.
“Who left this?” Wells said. “A fat man?” As an answer, Essam put the sheesha pipe to his mouth and took a long draw. He closed his eyes as the coals glowed red and the sheesha burbled happily. Wells stood, looked at the crumbling brick buildings around him, wondering if he was being watched, by the muk or the jihadis or both. But nothing moved.
Wells was gripped by a feeling he had never heard properly named,
the sense that he could stay with these men for a thousand years, waiting for something to happen. Anything. And nothing would. Yet every moment would be as pregnant with anticipation as the one before, even as his feet took root in the earth, even as he turned into a living statue. The opposite of déjà vu. A state of permanent expectation.
“Good-bye,” Wells said.
Essam exhaled a cloud of white smoke. “Come back. Smoke sheesha with us.”
I know where to find you, Wells didn’t say.
“Ma-a-saalama.”
“Ma-a-saalama.”
THE STREET CURVED LEFT and then right. The dead were all around him—the living, too—huddled inside one-room mud-brick houses that reached the edge of the road. The neighborhood’s poverty was obvious here. The houses had uneven holes for windows. Mangy dogs slept fitfully in garbage-strewn lots, their ribs visible under thin brown fur. At the sight of Wells, they stirred but didn’t bother to stand.
Around the next turn, a narrow alley ran perpendicularly from the street. As Wells walked past it, a boy in dirty brown sweatpants hissed at him. “Are you the Kuwaiti?”
Kuwaiti. The magic word. The password for tonight’s adventures.
“Yes.”
“Follow me.”
Wells turned down the alley, following the boy. This section of cemetery sloped north to south. They headed south, down a narrow staircase, concrete steps crumbling. The alley shrank as it continued, buildings pressing on both sides, leaving just enough room for two men to stand side by side. Wells wasn’t happy. An ambush here would be lethal. He peeked over his shoulder but couldn’t see anyone.
“How much farther, boy? ” he said. The kid ignored him, trotting ahead.
THEY PASSED AN OPEN SQUARE filled with tombstones and one large mausoleum, the first evidence Wells had seen of an actual cemetery in the Northern Cemetery. Ahead, the alley swung left, a blind turn. The boy whistled and ran. Here it comes, Wells thought. As he made the turn, he felt rather than saw a man in a black mask stepping out of a hole in the wall behind him. He tried to turn, to protect himself, but something hard and metal crashed into the side of his head—
A sap—
His last thought—and then his legs sagged underneath him and he was out.
9
The letter was a single white page, typewritten, undated, no letterhead.
To: Robert Gates, Secretary of Defense
CC: Frederick Whitby, Director of National Intelligence
CC: Vincent Duto, Director of Central Intelligence
CC: Lucy Joyner, Inspector General, Central Intelligence Agency
Dear Mr. Gates:
This letter is in reference to the illegal activities of a unit operated by the army and the Central Intelligence Agency. Squad 673. This unit operated in Poland. Based at Stare Kiejkuty army base in eastern Poland. It had the job of interrogating “enemy combatant” detainees. Those known as high-value.
This squad 673 was led by COL Martin Terreri of the Fourth Special Operations Brigade. The second-in-command was Brant Murphy. A CIA officer. The unit had ten members. You should know that Brant Murphy and Colonel Terreri stole at least $1 million from the unit. They received kickbacks from Europa West Aircraft in return for hiring Europa West for Charter Flights. Flights #11, #19, and #27 never took place.
Dr. Rachel Callar and other members of Squad 673 knew about the stealing by BRANT MURPHY and COLONEL TERRERI. However they did not profit from it. They did not want to report the leaders of the squad. You should ask them!
Also, the unit did do acts of torture on its detainees. Including Waterboarding, Electric Shock, Stress Positions, Prolonged Sleep Deprivation, Mock Executions. And other bad acts.
I am not making this up. For proof, here are the prisoner identification numbers (PINs) of the detainees:
3185304876—3184690284—4007986133—4013337810—4042991331—4041179553—4192578423—5567208212—6501740917—6500415280—7298472436—7297786130
I know the Department of Defense is a law-abiding and ethical institution. I appreciate your attention to these matters.
Thank you for taking the time to read this.
Not surprisingly, the letter was unsigned. The envelope carried a Salt Lake City postmark and the same Courier twelve-point font. No return address.
Four thick lines of classification were stamped across the top of the letter:
TOP SECRET/SCI/ PLASMA/76G
NOFORN/NOCON
DISTRIBUTION BY DCI ONLY
And just in case the message hadn’t gotten through: PRINCIPALS ONLY.
Shafer read the letter through twice. He was examining it a third time when Lucy Joyner, the CIA inspector general, reached across the table. “Time’s up,” she said.
Joyner was a tall, round Texan whose curly hair was dyed a striking platinum blond. She investigated internal allegations of wrongdoing at the agency, a job that made her as popular at Langley as a police officer at a pro-hemp rally. She couldn’t fit in, so she’d taken the opposite route. Her hair was defiance in a Clairol bottle. We’re here, we’re the IG’s office, get used to it.
“I’m a slow reader,” Shafer said.
She waggled her fingers at him, and he handed it over. They were in a conference room in Joyner’s office suite, on the sixth floor of the Old Headquarters Building. A framed map of Texas hung on one wall, beside a photo of Lyndon Baines Johnson wearing a cowboy hat and holding his dog, Little Beagle Jr.
“Can I see the original?” Shafer said.
Joyner had shown him a high-resolution copy of the letter, which was locked in her safe. “Nothing on it,” Joyner said. “No fingerprints or DNA. Whoever sent them was awful careful.” Joyner hadn’t lived in Texas in twenty-five years, but she sounded like she’d just gotten off a plane from Amarillo. Shafer wondered if she practiced at home. Bar-be-cue. Fixin’s. Largemouth bass.
“What about the other letters?” Shafer said. “To Gates and Duto and Whitby?”
“Destroyed. I asked Duto about it; he told me his office gets all kinds of crazy mail. Can’t check everything. Yeah, well, my office gets nutjob letters, too, but we know when one’s real. And so do they.”
“Except when they’d rather not.”
“This conversation shouldn’t be happening,” Joyner said. “Lucky for me, you have that super-fancy clearance.”
“They keep forgetting to take it away.”
“So, I don’t need permission to show you this. And I remember how they treated you after nine-eleven, Ellis. Which is to say I think we’re on the same side. But most of what you want to know, I can’t tell you. You have to go to the source for that.”
“A couple of questions.”
“Just a couple.”
“Murphy told me you’d cleared him.”
“Did he, now.”
“I’m guessing that isn’t exactly accurate.”
“It is and it isn’t.”
“How far did you get?” Shafer asked.
“He came in for a prelim—”
“A prelim?”
“A preliminary interview. No lie detector, no lawyers. It’s optional, but most folks agree to ’em, because if we can get our questions answered then, nothing gets into your file, nothing for the boards”—the promotion boards—“to see. Anyways, he came in. I showed him the letter, asked him if he could tell me anything. He said he couldn’t. I asked him whether 673’s records would exonerate him. He said it didn’t matter, because they were DD-and-above clearance”—that only deputy directors and Duto himself could see them. “I asked him about the torture. He told me that he was administrative, didn’t run interrogations. Then I asked him about receipts and he laughed. Literally. Laughed out loud. Asshole. That was it. He left. I figured I’d better check it out. But before I got anywhere, Duto called.”
“When, exactly?”
“Maybe two days after I spoke to Brant. He told me to find something else to do, that he was invoking the NSE”—the national security exemption,
which allowed the director to overrule the inspector general and stop internal investigations if they were likely to damage vital national interests.
“Duto didn’t tell you what was behind the NSE.”
“He did not.”
“And that was it?”
“I’m not like you, Ellis. I get a direct order from the director, I listen. I called Murphy, told him not to worry. A couple of days later, his lawyer called, told me that wasn’t good enough, that Murphy wanted all records of the investigation destroyed.”
“Smart.”
“Yes. Too bad for him, I was able to tell him that wouldn’t be possible, that I had to hold the letter because of the allegations of torture, et cetera. So the lawyer asked me to certify that I had cleared Murphy of any wrongdoing related to 673. As an insurance policy, he said.”
“Without specifying what the wrongdoing actually was.”
“Correct, Ellis.” She paused. “So, I wrote it. Murphy had Duto on his side, and I figured it was more important to make sure this”—she looked at the letter—“survived. Then I locked that letter up and forgot about it. Though not entirely. I knew somebody would call. Sooner or later. Stuff like this doesn’t stay down forever.”
“You heard what’s happened with 673,” Shafer said. “The murders.”
The Midnight House Page 12
