In pre-9/11 days, when Pakistani cooperation was an unrealized dream, my station was gathering intelligence entirely on its own. Whenever we met with sources close to terrorists, we took elaborate precautions to protect our officers, fearing that on any given day one of these sources might be “turned” by al-Qa’ida to work against us. But in each of those so-called “high-threat” meetings, if a source turned over a terrorist’s passport, or an al-Qa’ida document, or some other object which could be used as evidence, my case officer would motion for the source to turn the item over to an FBI special agent standing by, usually Mike Dorris, Jenny’s predecessor.
For the FBI to be able to use an item as evidence in a court of law, it has to have a clear “chain of custody.” Once received, the item cannot leave the FBI’s control. FBI would keep the original or, when the original had to be returned to the source, it would make a duly certified copy. That way, both our needs would be met. It wasn’t always smooth or pretty. My own officers sometimes didn’t understand why they had to jump through hoops to preserve an FBI chain of custody that would probably never be used. There were inevitably annoyances, misunderstandings, and occasional hard feelings. But I made it clear to them this was how things were going to be, and Chris and I would consult to make sure irritants were smoothed over and everyone behaved.
The habit of cooperation we created stood us in good stead after 9/11 and the establishment of the Clubhouse, when al-Qa’ida evidence gathering became a wholesale business. Now, rather than just Chris and Jenny, there was a parade of FBI special agents and others from the law enforcement world who cycled through Islamabad to work with us. The division of labor remained clear. We provided the intelligence, the Pakistanis provided the on-ground investigations and the muscle, and the FBI catalogued and established a clear chain for the mountains of evidence all this activity generated as it was sent off for analysis in Washington.
Through it all, Jafar and I remained in near-constant touch. On a typical day I would be awakened at 7:30 or 7:45 AM by a phone call from the deep-voiced general, having typically gone to bed at 3:00 AM. We would always observe the same ritual.
“Bob,” he would intone, reacting to the sleep in my voice, and smug at having been at the office since before six, “I wish I had your job.”
“General,” I would respond, “you’re welcome to it.” We would then get down to business. Having read as a boy how Winston Churchill began his days as wartime prime minister by working from bed, I flattered myself that I shared one thing in common with the great man. Later in the day, Jafar and I would speak on the phone two or three times more, frequently conducting a face-to-face meeting at ISI Headquarters as well.
I think Jafar took it personally when I asked, and President Musharraf agreed, that the station could meet directly with those responsible for on-ground investigations.
“I thought things were going pretty well,” Jafar said, a hint of petulance in his voice. He enjoyed being at the center of the action.
“They are,” I said, “but your president asked if there were anything at all we could do to improve our cooperation. I couldn’t very well say no, could I? It’s obvious that dealing directly with the investigators will make our operations faster and more efficient.” He couldn’t disagree. Bringing the investigators into our orbit didn’t diminish the importance or the frequency of my contacts with Jafar, but it definitely brought a new dynamic to bear on CIA’s cooperation with ISI, just as the recent exodus from Tora Bora was about to bring the work of the two services to a new stage.
Chapter 37
* * *
DISTRACTION IN THE EAST
DECEMBER 18, 2001
IT WAS DEATHLY QUIET. I awakened with a start, and found myself slumped forward, sitting in front of my computer screen. As I regained some consciousness, I refocused on the paragraph before me: three lines of absolute gibberish. I had been typing in my sleep again; this was the second time tonight. I looked up at the clock marked “Islamabad:” It was after 2:00 AM.
Suddenly the phone rang on the table behind me. On the other end was the deep, familiar voice. “I thought I might find you there.” It was General Jafar. “Bob,” he went on, pausing for effect. “The Indian Army is mobilizing.”
I was not entirely surprised. For months now, the Indians had been a recurrent distraction and a nuisance, at least as far as I was concerned. Since 9/11, I and the rest of the U.S. government had been focused on prosecuting the war against the Taliban and al-Qa’ida, a war in which Pakistan was an indispensable ally. Competing issues were unwelcome. But the view from New Delhi was quite different. As always in South Asia, to understand why, one had to go back in history.
Since 1989 and the start of an indigenous insurrection against Indian security forces on the eastern side of the Line of Control, Pakistan had been generally alleged by many international observers to be providing lethal aid to militant Muslim dissidents in Indian-held Kashmir. Over time, these Kashmiri dissidents had been progressively supplanted by Pakistani-born religious extremists eager to engage in jihad against the Indian “occupiers” of the former princely state, often with the (again alleged) support of the ISI. Throughout the 1990s, as Pakistan flirted with placement on the State Department’s official Terrorism List and was sanctioned as a nuclear proliferator, U.S. policy progressively tilted in favor of India. Where for years the State Department had deplored both the militant violence in Kashmir and the Indian repression that inspired it, the passage of time and frustration over Pakistani sponsorship of terrorism caused the second half of that equation to fade away. To Washington, Pakistan looked more and more the provocateur in Kashmir.
To say that the Indians were then frustrated by the sharp turnabout in post-9/11 U.S. policy toward Pakistan would be a considerable understatement. Here was their age-old nemesis, considered by many a state sponsor of terrorism, whose coddling of the Taliban and tolerance of al-Qa’ida had materially contributed to the disastrous attacks of 9/11, profiting from its past behavior. Like a returned prodigal child, Pakistan was not only avoiding punishment but was being rewarded, embraced as an ally and a front-line state in the global “War on Terror.” Meanwhile, the ISI, it was presumed in New Delhi, carried on as a nexus of the violence against Indian security forces in Kashmir.
Soon after 9/11, the Indians launched a series of ground probes, artillery barrages, and other provocations along the Line of Control. It was as though they were trying to tempt the Pakistanis into an overreaction that would disrupt their new “strategic alliance” with the United States. I had no patience with any of this. From my perspective, it was imperative that Pakistan remain focused on common goals, dealing with the threat of Islamic extremism at home and in Afghanistan, and not constantly looking over its shoulder at the traditional menace to the east.
Now a bad situation was becoming immeasurably worse. On December 13, militants had launched a suicide attack on the Lok Sabha, India’s national Parliament, producing twelve dead and twenty-two injured. Anyone would have thought it more than likely that these militants were somehow tied to the jihad in Kashmir, but the Indians could not wait to seize on this event as an opportunity to excoriate Pakistan and try to disrupt its resurrected alliance with the Americans. Even before any of the militants killed on the Parliament grounds could be identified, Indian security officials were pronouncing them Kashmiris because, they said, several were found with dried fruit, a favorite in Kashmir, in their pockets. That may have been laughable, but more compelling evidence was soon to follow.
India’s immediate demands of Pakistan had little to do with its investigation of the attack on Parliament. Instead, the Indians’ response was blatantly political, as they publicly demanded that Pakistan hand over an old list of “usual suspects”—alleged terrorists and criminals they had been seeking for years, but who had no clear connection to the latest outrage.
More menacingly, it was clear that domestic politics was driving the Indian response, and that pressure was bu
ilding rapidly on the government to teach the Pakistanis a lesson. If the Indian Army were indeed mobilizing, it could mean that war was imminent. Just before Jafar’s call, I had seen an unclassified State Department telegram from New Delhi, reporting uncorroborated news from Indian journalists that the feared mobilization was beginning.
“Yes, I saw something about that as well,” I said on the phone distractedly, as these thoughts raced through my head. There really wasn’t much I could say. Even if I knew that the Indians were mobilizing, which I did not, I couldn’t confirm it for the Pakistanis at this early stage without authorization. In fact, I couldn’t even promise to pass on any information I might get in future, for the same reason. As a policy matter, to avoid miscalculation, Washington might soon direct the embassy to inform the president of Pakistan, but I certainly couldn’t do so on my own.
Jafar rang off with surprising haste, leaving me to ruminate. Suddenly, it struck me what had just happened.
“Oh, my God,” I said aloud. I rang Jafar back.
“General,” I said, trying to maintain an even tone in my voice. “I hope you didn’t take what I just said as confirmation the Indians are mobilizing.”
“That’s exactly how I took it,” he said, “and I’ve so informed my president.” I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“Well, you’ve got to call him back! What I saw were unconfirmed reports from the Indian press.”
“It’s too late,” he said. I knew exactly what was happening. Given what he thought he knew about CIA technical capabilities, Jafar had to assume that we would know instantly if the Indians were mobilizing. He must have thought that I had confirmed the mobilization, then realized I’d done so without authorization, and now was trying to walk it back. I’d never convince him otherwise.
I repeated my message, with some disgust, and rang off.
I was wide awake now, trying to assess the possible damage. I couldn’t be sure the Indians were in fact mobilizing; I hadn’t seen anything from overhead reconnaissance or signals intelligence. If those in Washington were aware, they hadn’t shared it with me. But the Pakistanis were convinced—I had helped see to that. They weren’t about to launch a preemptive strike, though—not when the Indians would be on full alert and had a head start on mobilization, and when they themselves were not yet ready to deal with the expected retaliation. I knew it would take the Pakistanis days, perhaps over a week, to mobilize and move their forces into forward positions. By then, both sides would know precisely what the other was doing.
No, I hadn’t inadvertently triggered the next South Asian war, but it was still a foolish lapse, the price to be paid for working to exhaustion. “You’ve done enough harm for one night,” I thought, as I prepared to leave. This would be an especially busy day, I knew.
Chapter 38
* * *
DAYS OF HOPE AND PROMISE
LATE JANUARY 2002
AN INDISTINCT VOICE WAS crackling over the radio, just above the roar of the prop engines.
“Roger, Tailhook. You’re cleared to land to the north.”
My eyes widened, and I began nervously to scan the sky, looking for other planes. Seeing none, I turned to the pilot to my left. “But we’re landing to the south,” I said.
Tailhook smiled and shrugged. “Marines,” was his one-word explanation.
This was my introduction to our station pilot, a former Navy F-14 aviator who, with the end of active hostilities, had been assigned to us, along with his beloved twin-engine Beechcraft, to ferry supplies across the border to our teams inside Afghanistan. It was a pleasure to associate with someone who so loved his work.
This was also my first real look at Afghanistan, which I had hardly seen except from across the Pakistani border, despite having devoted much of the previous two years of my life to it. From the co-pilot’s seat I stared in rapt attention at places I had only read about in field intelligence cables and British history books. As the runway of Kandahar Airport emerged from the dust haze, I could see, off in the sepia distance to my right, the clear, pale blue of Kajaki Lake, a favorite camping place of bin Laden and his close associates, and, much closer, the squat mud buildings of Kandahar itself.
The domed terminal building at Kandahar Airport was a glass-and-concrete monument to 1960s architecture. Inside, I found the one-star Marine commander of the force that had caused us such concern when it arrived in the southern Registan Desert some weeks before. Fortunately, rather than moving north to create mayhem as we had feared, the Marines had sat on their haunches at Camp Rhino and done nothing. But now, with the Taliban and al-Qa’ida having fled Kandahar, they had quickly moved up to seize control of the airport. As I arrived, they were being replaced by troops of the Army’s 101st Airborne Division, though the Marine commander was still in charge.
Marine Brigadier General James Mattis was tall and lean, with a pink face, neatly parted gray hair, and kindly blue eyes. But for his uniform, he looked like the model of a country parson, straight out of a Normal Rockwell painting. That impression did not survive his first few sentences. General Mattis was the most flamboyantly profane man I have ever met, before or since. He gave me an appraising look, taking in the tweed blazer I had worn against the winter chill. “You must be the best-dressed man in Kandahar,” he said.
“Well, sir,” I replied earnestly, “I was planning to pay a call on the Headmaster at Kandahar Prep, and thought I should dress appropriately.”
The general invited me outside for a tour of the makeshift holding pen—and it was just that—which he had constructed for the al-Qa’ida Arabs whom the Pakistanis had captured after the flight from Tora Bora. I didn’t know it yet, and Mattis probably didn’t either, but they were shortly to depart for Guantánamo. The enclosure in which they were held had no walls, but was encircled by dense coils of silver razor wire. A few small, free-standing corrugated tin roofs, mounted on wooden poles, provided the only available cover from a merciless sun; there was nothing to break the cold wind sweeping across the flat surrounding desert. The pale skin of the Arabs’ faces and necks had been burned raw, and they openly exposed themselves to urinate into tin basins, in full view of their newly arrived U.S. Army guards, a surprising number of whom were female.
I had had a mental image, based on my years in the Arabian Peninsula, of the typical al-Qa’ida militant as a callow youth from Yemen who had gotten fired up one day by his village mullah and gone off to join the jihad in Afghanistan. Weeks of bombardment from American B-52s on the Taliban’s northern front lines, I reasoned, would have been far more than they had bargained on. Give them a pat on the head and a chocolate bar, and they would gladly return to their fathers. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Their recent experiences had no doubt further coarsened them, but these refugees from Tora Bora were the toughest-looking bunch I had ever seen. According to Mattis, a U.S.-based mullah had shown up on his doorstep a few days earlier, asking to speak with the militants. After a few minutes with them, he fled in shock. “These people are irredeemable!” he had said.
By this time, I could no longer pretend to have any authority in Afghanistan. My two small teams, Echo and Foxtrot, had returned home. The tribal leaders they had supported had become, respectively, de facto interim president of the country and governor of Kandahar. A new station had been set up in Kabul, led by “Rich,” another Africa Division officer with extensive experience in senior jobs in CTC. I had already sent him a personal message welcoming him to the region and making clear that I would transfer all of our Afghan sources and any other cross-border capabilities I had to him and his station.
This trip to Kandahar was part of that good-faith effort. I had brought Mark, former leader of the Foxtrot Team, and a number of other Afghan hands to make introductions and get our colleagues off to a decent start. I was concerned about them. One fellow, appointed to a senior position, had been plucked unawares from a posting in Central America. He seemed like a solid and sensible fellow, and had some paramilitary e
xperience as well, but knew nothing about Afghanistan or South Asia. He was fated to learn quickly.
Gul Agha insisted upon receiving me when we arrived at the Governor’s Palace. I had hardly recovered from his smothering embrace when he led me into a large public hall filled with visitors—eager petitioners for his favors—and invited me to address them. Completely unprepared and quite innocent of Pashto, I began with a religious invocation in Arabic and then went on, with Engineer Pashtun, Shirzai’s uncle, translating. I strung together what I hoped were a few graceful words to congratulate them on having liberated themselves from Taliban oppression, and professed a desire to learn how best America could support them. I was then whisked outside to a waiting motorcade of ragtag vehicles, most filled with heavily armed men. We raced out of the central city into the countryside to the west for a tour of Mullah Omar’s compound, surprisingly intact despite General Franks’s promise to turn it into a smoking hole, its walls incongruously decorated with colorfully painted flowers. Shirzai and I posed side by side for a formal photo portrait, sitting a bit awkwardly on the edge of Mullah Omar’s bed.
88 Days to Kandahar: A CIA Diary Page 34
