Taking Morgan

by David Rose

  “No,” he said wearily. “But you’d better tell me.”

  “She invited me in and made coffee, and I could tell straightaway she was pissed. She said Morgan hadn’t come back from a business trip, and was still missing. She said she’d given you all kinds of help with the kids, but you’d disappeared without a word and she’d only known that because you’d sent her an email when you got to England. Finally I got the truth, and I swear I almost fainted. She told me my daughter had been to Gaza.”

  Sherry sounded as if she was trying to stifle her sobs. “Gaza! What did the State Department think it was doing, sending a woman there? And what about you? How could you have let her?”

  “I didn’t ‘let her,’ as you put it,” Adam said gently. “I didn’t have a lot of choice. She’s an adult, Sherry. I wasn’t happy, but it was her decision.”

  “Before I flew back I called Rob and Gerry, this guy I’ve been dating, who writes for Texas Monthly. I told him what had happened and he said, well, that sounds like she might be CIA. So he called the CIA public affairs people, like he was going to do a story, and asked them if it was true that Morgan had been abducted. They didn’t tell him anything, Adam. But you’re going to have to. I have rights.”

  “Sherry, I’m sorry. I know I should have spoken to you but there were reasons, really good reasons, why I couldn’t. I feel bad and I know you must be furious but please, hear me out—”

  “Hear you out? When my daughter’s been missing for close to a month and instead of telling me what’s been happening, you send me a kiss-off email, then fly across the ocean with my grandkids? If it hadn’t been for Ronnie, I’d probably have gone straight to the police, and told them my daughter had been buried beneath your garden patio. Are you trying to tell me this is normal?”

  “No, Sherry, it’s not normal. It’s not normal at all. But if you don’t mind, could you please put Rob on the line.” For a few moments, he heard the muffled sounds of what must have been an intense discussion between Rob and Sherry. Finally he heard Rob’s voice.

  “Hey Adam. How you doing?”

  “Could be worse.”

  “What do you need me to do, buddy?”

  “Well, to begin with it would be helpful if you could calm Sherry down a little.”

  “I copy that. But what’s happening? Hey, you know I’ve got your back. But you’ve got to fill me in a little.” Adam could hear his voice begin to crack. “How can I help my little girl? What can I be doing?”

  “Rob, I’m so sorry I haven’t told you all about this. God knows I’ve wanted to. Look, I don’t want to say too much on the phone. But there’s a reason why I’ve been so uncommunicative. Morgan’s colleagues have been pretty clear on something: that the one thing likely to jeopardize her safety is publicity, and they keep on telling me their greatest fear is of something leaking out. They seem to think that if I tell anyone, even people I really trust, it’s more likely to happen. Anyhow, that’s why I haven’t been in touch. It’s also why I sent that email to Sherry, and why I’ve brought the kids to England.”

  “Shit. Well, whatever happens, we’d better make sure we talk to each other now.”

  “I know.”

  “So what are your plans? You just going to sit there in England and wait for the Agency to do something?”

  “No. I’m going to Israel. And, if I can, Gaza. If the CIA can’t find her, maybe I can.”

  “I knew she could count on you. Jesus, this is taking some time to compute. What she must be going through doesn’t bear thinking about, and I’m not finding it easy; if we ever get our hands on these motherfuckers, well …” Rob’s voice tailed off, then rallied. “Well, just remember, I know a lot of well-connected people. I don’t need to spell out what I’m trying to tell you, but if you think you need some assistance, call me. Any time, day or night.”

  It was not until much later, just before midnight, that Imad’s email appeared in Adam’s inbox. “I apologize that it will be Saturday, but tomorrow we must meet again,” it said. “Same time of day and location. I have news, and a contact for you. Try to book a flight some time early next week.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Wednesday, April 25, 2007

  Adam had done his research, mainly by interrogating his wife over the kitchen table, and so he knew that Eugene August Mitchell III was the closest thing the CIA had to aristocracy. His grandfather, Eugene Mitchell I, had served with its World War II forerunner, the OSS, and went on to become one of the Agency’s first recruits. His son, Eugene’s father, met an early death from a hemorrhagic fever contracted during a mission to supply anti-Communist rebels in Africa. But while all three generations had gone to Yale, and the first two Agency Mitchells were still revered as swashbuckling, glamorous risk-takers, the pale and lanky Eugene III came across as bureaucratic and socially awkward. The first time Adam met him, before he and Morgan were married, the word “geek” was not in common use, but if it had been, he would have applied it to Mitchell. It seemed he possessed an uncanny gift for saying the wrong thing. So far as Adam knew, he wasn’t gay, but he had never had a wife or a serious girlfriend.

  Having flown in to Tel Aviv on the red-eye, Adam had grabbed a taxi at the airport and checked into the same hotel as Morgan had the previous month. He managed to sleep for a couple of hours, and then, having showered and breakfasted, phoned Mitchell’s office at the embassy. He had not warned him he was coming. The assistant, who introduced herself as Crystal, put him straight through.

  “Adam! Are you in Israel, or are you calling from America? I guess not, it’s still the middle of the night there.” Adam guessed that Mitchell was trying to give him the impression that his movements were not under surveillance.

  “I’m in Tel Aviv. I just got in. I’m staying at the same place Morgan used—the Cinema Hotel. When can we meet?”

  “Get yourself a shower, and a nap if you need it.”

  “I already did that.”

  “Then I’ll see you at twelve. Just come to the embassy reception and ask for me. Make sure you bring your passport. In case you don’t know, my official title is Regional Affairs Director. I’m not exactly undercover, but a nondescript moniker helps me avoid too much attention.”

  When Adam arrived, he was struck by how much older Eugene looked. He also appeared to be slathered in SPF 50 sunscreen, which had left white streaks on his chin and cheeks. He ushered Adam into his clean, airy office.

  “I won’t ask you how you’ve been; I know you’ve been going through hell,” Eugene said. “I mean, we all have too. But for you and the kids, it must have been far worse.”

  Still a little dazed from the journey and the unexpected brilliance of the Mediterranean light, Adam only nodded.

  “First I need your passport—we need to have it photocopied,” Eugene said. He took it, and asked Crystal via his office intercom to collect it. “Strange the paths our lives take. You remember when we met before? The Shenandoah Tavern; you were the fledgling radical attorney and I was the greenhorn spook. I guess it was inevitable things between us felt a little tense. It can’t have been long before your wedding, and all I could think was how the hell was a pinko like you managing to bang a righteous babe like Morgan Ashfield. Boy, she was hot. Still is, I guess, despite popping out those kids.”

  Abruptly, Eugene seemed to realize that his discourse was making a less than favorable impression on his missing colleague’s husband. “I’m only kidding, right? Sorry. Maybe that wasn’t quite appropriate.”

  “No, Eugene. Maybe it wasn’t. So. Morgan’s whereabouts. What have you been doing? I’m hearing nothing from Gary and Mike. No doubt you’re aware I met them in Washington after you called me that morning.”

  “Soon enough you’ll get a chance to discuss it all with them face-to-face. They’re on their way here as we speak. But don’t worry yourself. This thing has gone up to the National Security Council and the President has made it clear he expects to see results. Mike and Gary are the men to deliver the
m.”

  Adam stared at him. “But there’s no sign of them yet, is there? Do you guys actually know anything—such as, just who is it who might be holding her?”

  “Well. We didn’t. At least, not until recently. But yesterday something happened. Sometime after lunch, a package was delivered to the embassy front desk. It wasn’t addressed to anyone in particular: all it said on the front was ‘Regarding Morgan Cooper,’ and thankfully someone down there in security had the presence of mind to send it to me. Of course, we’ve got CCTV coverage in the lobby and the street outside, and we’ve circulated the image of the courier to our Israeli friends. But so far, no hits. In any case, the courier was disguised. He looked like an ultra-Orthodox Jew, complete with ringlets, beard, and a black, wide-brimmed hat. I’d be prepared to bet that’s not really what he looks like. The package bore no fingerprints, and though we’re having it tested for DNA, I suspect we aren’t going to find any. Inside was a DVD.”

  “And this DVD … it shows Morgan?” Adam felt hesitant.

  “Yes.”

  “Is she OK?”

  “I got to admit, she’s not looking her best. But so far as we can tell, she hasn’t been seriously harmed.”

  “But how did it get out of Gaza? From what I’ve heard, the security for anyone leaving Erez is extreme. Surely the Israelis would never have let a homemade DVD through without checking what was on it?”

  It seemed that the same question had been bothering Eugene. “I don’t know. It’s possible it wasn’t smuggled out in that form at all. It could have been sent electronically. Or it could have been smuggled through the tunnels into Egypt, and then somehow passed on here. The DVD itself doesn’t seem to bear any clues.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “You can’t see the actual DVD because it’s already on its way to America in a diplomatic bag. Our labs over there may be able to tell us more. But I’ve copied it onto my computer.” Eugene turned his monitor so that Adam could see it, then clicked his mouse.

  As Adam watched the image of his wife deliver her stilted message, he could sense Eugene looking intently at him. But all he said when the video finished was, “Can I see it again?”

  Eugene let him do so. Adam searched the screen, trying to take in every detail.

  “She doesn’t look very good at all,” Adam said when it finished the second time. “A very long way from her best, I would say.” He was finding it hard to speak.

  “I guess not.”

  “She’s lost weight. She’s gaunt, and obviously exhausted. But her hair looks wet, and it looks as if water’s been poured all over her clothing. She’s sodden. What do you suppose that’s that about?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just sweat. My hunch is that wherever they made this recording, it doesn’t have air-conditioning.”

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it. They’ve been torturing her. She’s been waterboarded. And she’s wearing an orange jumpsuit. Not exactly coincidence, huh?”

  “Whoa!” Eugene said. “You can’t be sure of that, and neither can I. And you getting on your highly principled horse isn’t going to do any of us much good, okay? Just so you know, of all the thousands of Agency personnel, almost none of us have ever had anything to do with waterboarding. Right? Anyhow, I’m not an interrogator, I’m the station chief, and I’m doing all I can to help your wife. So cut me some slack, okay?”

  Adam’s anger subsided. “This banner behind her. What’s it mean? I don’t read Arabic.”

  “We think it’s the name of the group that’s kidnapped her: the Janbiya al-Islam. They’re new on the scene, but from what we can tell, they’re Salafists, allied to al-Qaeda. A janbiya is a kind of curved knife, like a dagger; people wear them a lot in Yemen. I guess you could translate their name as ‘the daggers of Islam.’ According to one of the Palestinian newspapers, a little while back they bombed a supermarket and an Internet café in Gaza.”

  “If the group’s already been mentioned by a Palestinian newspaper, then Hamas must know about it. So what about them? Have you been trying to talk to their security people? Aren’t they more likely than anyone to be able to help?”

  Eugene looked irritated. “We don’t speak to Hamas. Why would we, for Chrissakes? We work with the Palestinian Authority of President Abbas, and his party, Fatah, and we’re in touch with their leadership every day.”

  “Well they don’t seem to have come up with much so far, have they? Why not work with Hamas too?”

  “Hamas is a terrorist organization, sworn to destroy Israel. We don’t think it’s in US interests to have them thinking we owe them any favors.”

  “I see. So what shall I tell Morgan’s family? Shall I say I’ve seen this video? And what about the Israelis? Are they going to want to meet me?”

  “No. Leave the Israelis to us. As for the video, yes, tell the family, so long as they’re discreet. Look, for all I know, this video is about to lead the news on Al Jazeera. But it hasn’t surfaced yet, and our judgment is that it probably won’t. I pray to God it doesn’t. If the whole world finds out that Morgan works for the Agency, it might make it impossible to negotiate her release. It might force the kidnappers to murder her.”

  Morgan counted three blessings. First, she was still alive, and, so far as she knew, so was Abdel Nasser. Second, ever since her forced confession, she had had light, even when the mains power went down, because they had given her a floor-standing battery lamp. She could see the dank, grimy room that had become her home. Finally, there was no more Eminem. She also had Zainab—if, that is, she had ever been without her during the period of darkness. At first, when Morgan came back from that terrible interrogation with her jumpsuit soaked in water and urine and blood-flecked vomit, her throat and lungs raw, she had been almost solicitous, cooing and clucking with apparent concern as she took her for a shower and gave her clean clothes. But as each day melted into the next and time passed as slowly as ever, Zainab reverted to type.

  “Today I think you see the mens,” she said, putting down another tray of dreary food. “You tell the truth or you know what happen. Abdel Nasser, he finish.” She drew a finger across her throat.

  Morgan’s boredom was still almost unendurable, and as before, she sometimes spent hours disassociating, living vivid daydreams. She took Charlie and Aimee to school, helped them with homework and organized fun, family outings; all the things, she reflected ruefully, that she had not done nearly enough of in her earlier, real life. But at last she also had a real-world pastime. One morning, Zainab had brought her an orange. With exquisite care, she fashioned a miniature chess set from the peel, with one side’s pieces delineated in orange, the other’s by the white, inside pith. She had scratched out a board with her fingernails, carving the shapes of the squares through the grime on the floor, and hour after hour she challenged herself, working through exotic and standard openings remembered from her days on the chess team in high school.

  Orange was just mounting a cunning left flank attack when two of Sal’s guards came back, and though they chained her, this time there was no hood. As they walked her down the blue painted corridor, Morgan took a mental note. Seven paces beyond her cell, there was a closed wooden door on the right, and after another five, a door to the left. There was a left-hand, right-angled bend, and then, six paces further, the door to the interrogation room. Morgan remembered she had gone down steps on the night of her arrival. The slight dampness and absence of windows suggested she must be in a basement. Could the stairs be behind one of those doors? Maybe she would get an opportunity to find out.

  This time, Sal was courteous. “Please sit, Mrs. Cooper. I assume you’re not going to try anything stupid, so unless you do, we can do without the shackles.” He made a gesture, and at once they were removed. “We’re not going to meet every day, but for a while, it’s going to be quite often. I imagine you’ve had plenty of time to think about what happened last week, and I hope there will be no need to repeat any of that unpleasantness. You are comfor
table?”

  Morgan sat on her hard wooden chair and flexed her limbs. “It will do. But please bring me some water.”

  Sal spoke in Arabic, and one of the guards left the room, reappearing with a half liter bottle. “You see?” Sal said. “From now on, with your assistance, I will be, as they say, the good cop. You and I are going to establish a rapport, and as a result, our sessions will be far more productive. In the words of the US military’s own interrogation field manual, ‘the use of force is a poor technique, as it yields unreliable results.’ So let us have a pleasant conversation, and this time, you will tell me only the truth.”

  Morgan had spent hours thinking about a strategy for getting through this interrogation. Her rise through the CIA’s ranks at Headquarters meant she knew secrets that really must not be given up, including details of officers who worked in places such as Afghanistan and Pakistan under non-official cover, and of operations that had resulted in the deaths of “high value targets.” She also knew a lot about the Agency’s communication and computer systems.

  Paradoxically, her strategy for survival was to talk, for outright denial would get her and Abdel Nasser nowhere but the grave; as Zainab had just reminded her, if she didn’t tell the truth, she “know what happen.” That meant she couldn’t go back on her critical admission that she worked for the Agency; they would never believe her, anyway. Instead, rather than to lie, her approach must be to tell a limited quantity of truth. She had sifted her knowledge into categories, determining what she knew that should be of interest to Sal and his colleagues, but could divulge without inflicting real damage. She planned to disclose this information as slowly as she possibly could, but eventually to go into prolix, embroidered detail, in the hope that if she kept on talking long enough, someone would find this house and rescue her.

  “Of course, when we start, I will be asking you the questions,” Sal said. “But today we are only setting out the ground rules. If there is anything you want to ask me, go ahead.”