Ferris had to piss. He wished now he had drunk less of the Kefraya red. He stood and entered the dark of the café and asked where the toilet was. The barman didn’t answer; he had a look of fear and confusion, and his eyes darted into the shadows. Ferris sensed danger, and he was turning to leave when he felt a sharp blow to his head. His vision went black and then exploded into white rays of pain as he tumbled to the floor of the café.
When Ferris opened his eyes a moment later, men were fumbling in his pockets looking for his wallet. Two men had him pinned down, and two more were talking in Arabic. Did they know who he was? Had they followed him here?
“Please, I’m a friend,” said Ferris in English, worried that his Arabic would only give him away as an intelligence officer.
They found his wallet and were looking at the Jordanian identity card that listed him as a member of the U.S. Embassy. That sent them into a dither; they had a real prize now. The man who had hit Ferris with the club prodded him with one of his feet.
“Why do you come to Mu’tah? To spy on Muslim people?”
“No, no,” said Ferris. “I’m just a diplomat. I came see Kerak. Now I will go back to Amman.” Ferris was trying to think what to do. Nobody at the embassy knew where he was. If he was kidnapped, it would be many hours before anyone realized he was missing. He felt in his pocket for the plastic box that contained his poison dental bridge. He never wore it. Why did he carry it? They would find that next. He was debating what to do when he heard the cracking sound of the front door being kicked open. Lying on the floor, he couldn’t see what was happening, but he heard a woman’s voice speaking in strong, forceful Arabic. It took Ferris a moment to realize that it was Alice.
“Let him go. Now! My friends in the Ikhwan Ihsan will be very angry that you have treated a guest with such disrespect.”
“Ikhwan Ihsan?” said the man with the club. “W’Allah!”
They backed off. Ferris rose from the ground and stood next to Alice. She had a steely look, unblinking, unyielding. She did not shout, she did not threaten. But by her posture and her well-phrased Arabic, and most of all her fearlessness, she commanded respect from these young men.
“Thank you,” she said in Arabic. “May God grant you good health.” They responded with ritual phrases of greeting and peace.
A young man in a long white robe walked into the room and stood next to Alice. The circle of young men who had jumped Ferris drew back farther, respectfully. This must be Hijazi, Ferris surmised, the man Alice had come to visit. He extended his hand to Ferris in greeting and then turned to the men gathered around, who a moment before had seemed ready to kidnap Ferris.
“Brothers,” he said, “you shame the town of Mu’tah and the blood of the Prophet’s companions that was shed here. This visitor has come here with Miss Alice Melville, a friend of the Arab people. You are worse than the jahil, the ignorant ones, to treat our visitor this way. Please apologize to him and beg his forgiveness for your uncivilized and ignorant behavior.” The men murmured their apologies and shook Ferris’s hand. They looked genuinely sorry, not for clubbing Ferris but for offending Hijazi. Ferris stared at Alice in wonder.
Hijazi insisted that they take tea and sweets with him. Ferris wanted to leave, but he knew it would compound the embarrassment to the town if they refused this ritual of apology. A local doctor came over to attend to Ferris’s head wound. As they sat in the café, gifts were brought out: simple local handicrafts, mostly. They offered dates and sweets, and the man who had hit Ferris tried to give him money, in the manner that tribesmen always settle their feuds, but Ferris refused. Eventually, when it was nearly dark, the ceremony of regret was over and they were allowed to depart.
When the Mitsubishi was safely back on the King’s Highway, Ferris pulled off to the shoulder. He stared at Alice, who had become in these few minutes a different person for him. As much as he had loved the irreverent free spirit, he loved even more the iron-willed woman he had just watched.
“You may have saved my life back there,” he said.
“Maybe. I don’t think they would have done anything. How’s your head?”
“It hurts.”
“I am so sorry.” She leaned over and planted a kiss on his head. “You were right. We shouldn’t have gone into Mu’tah. The town is too small, and the people are too angry. It’s my fault. Will you forgive me?”
Ferris nodded. All the pieces of Alice seemed to have come together into one assembly. She appeared to be one of those rare people who lived her values completely and transparently.
“I liked your friend Hijazi,” said Ferris. “He was a lifesaver. How do you know him, anyway?”
“Like I told you, his group has been helping us. They’re professional people from all over Jordan. They are very religious, but very sweet, too. Most of them wouldn’t hurt a flea. They have a little group that works with us regularly in Amman. Two doctors, a lawyer, an architect. All really nice guys.”
Ferris stopped smiling, stopped moving. He could feel his heart beating. “No kidding? An architect? Why would he care about a school?”
“I don’t know. But the architect is one of the nicest. He’s a tall guy, kind of quiet, but really sweet. Has this cute mark on his forehead from praying so much. He volunteered to do some designs for the new school we want to build.”
Ferris looked away from her and closed his eyes. His world was going black again. “What’s the architect’s name?”
“I forget. But he’s a nice guy. Wait, I do remember. His name is Sadiki, like ‘friend’ in Arabic. Omar Sadiki. Sweet guy. They all are. And we need the help, God knows.”
Ferris froze, eyes still shut tight. He felt as if something in the center of his body had just collapsed. He had put her in danger; he had touched her with the poison of his work. He took her hand. He couldn’t look at her. He had to think quickly what to do, how best to protect her—and he decided in that instant that he must do nothing. If he said anything—gave her a push in any direction—he could expose her and Sadiki and everything else that mattered to him to great danger.
“Hey, you, what’s up?” she said. “Your hand is cold as ice. We better get you back home. You’ve had a shock.”
“Yeah,” said Ferris, turning back to her. “I guess I am a little cold. Maybe we should get going.”
Ferris pulled away from the shoulder, back onto the King’s Highway. The sun was falling fast now, and he turned on the heat. Alice fiddled with the radio. Ferris could barely bring himself to look at her. By the time they reached Amman, the sun had set over the western hills.
23
AMMAN / WASHINGTON
AN URGENT MESSAGE ARRIVED for Ferris that weekend from the CIA inspector general, requesting that he return immediately to Headquarters to discuss a “matter of interest.” The cable gave no further details. Ferris sent a flash message on Monday to Hoffman asking him to call as soon as he got into the office. He had to wait seven hours for Hoffman’s response. Ferris read the brief cable to his boss. “What’s this about, Ed?” he asked. “They make it sound like I’m under investigation.”
“You are,” answered Hoffman. “I just found out about it. That’s why I was late calling you. I had to see some people.”
“What have I done?” Ferris’s first thought was expense accounts.
“That’s the problem. I don’t know, and my spies in the IG’s office wouldn’t tell me. Or couldn’t tell me. Or maybe they don’t know, but I doubt that.”
“Can you turn it off? I mean, it’s not like I don’t have other things to do right now. If we’re going to make your December twenty-second window, it’s crunch time.”
“I’ll try. But these guys in the IG’s office are total assholes. Think of the Internal Affairs Department in the most screwed-up police department in the world: The cops are getting hammered, the criminals are having a field day and meanwhile the IAD guys are investigating guys for taking free donuts at the 7-Eleven. That’s the IG’s office. They make th
eir bones destroying case officers. I’m sorry, but that’s a fact.”
“But I haven’t done anything wrong. At least nothing I can remember. Have I done anything wrong?”
“God, I hope so. But I can’t remember anything offhand.”
“This isn’t funny, Ed. Not for me. What should I do?”
“You’ve got to come home. Pronto. Next flight out. Talk to these guys and find out what this is all about. Then we’ll figure out how to make it go away.”
Ferris thought of Alice, and Omar Sadiki, and felt the tightening knot in his stomach again. “I really don’t want to leave Amman now. Things are cooking. It’s the wrong time for me to leave.”
“I understand. But you have no choice. These guys are pricks. If you don’t come when they call, then they send someone out to bring you home in handcuffs. Don’t fuck with them. Take my word for it. I crossed them once and they almost broke my ass. I had a good lawyer. I’ll call him and see if he can help you out. But first you have to see them. Call today and set up the appointment—day after tomorrow, first thing, and go alone. After you’ve talked with them, go see the lawyer and figure out what the hell to do. If you show up with the lawyer, they’ll just try harder to screw you.”
FERRIS MET Alice for coffee that afternoon at the InterContinental, near her office. He said he had to return home urgently, the first RJ flight out to Europe early in the morning and then on to Washington. His mother was sick, he said, and she was alone. He needed to be with her. He had thought about what lie to tell, and this seemed the safest.
“I knew you were worried about something Saturday,” she said. “You got all sad as we were driving home. You knew then, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Ferris lied.
“I’d love to meet your mother someday.”
“You will, darling. You’ll meet everyone.”
She examined the wound on his head, pronounced that it was healing well, and then took his hand in hers and held it for a long while. She wasn’t one to attempt a false expression of optimism about something she didn’t understand. It was Ferris who broke the silence.
“That group you’re working with in your project, the Ikhwan Ihsan. You should be careful about them,” he said.
“Why I on earth should I be careful?” She let his hand drop. “They are lovely men. They want to help some of these poor Muslim boys and girls. And I seem to recall that one of them came to your rescue on Saturday in Mu’tah. What could possibly be wrong with them?”
“You never know with these guys. They’re fundamentalists. They don’t like America very much.”
“That’s all the more reason to work with them! So they’ll see we aren’t all homicidal maniacs—that we don’t see terrorists in every mosque, for goodness’ sake. Let’s not have this argument now, Roger, really.”
He studied her face, trying to decide what to do. Her fair skin was flushed with emotion. She wouldn’t listen to him. To tell her any more would only put her in more jeopardy. Her best protection was her lack of knowledge. Nobody who spent any time with her could doubt her sincerity. He took her hand again and squeezed it tight.
“Just be careful, darling,” he said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “You always say that. ‘Be careful, darling.’ But you’re the one who should be careful, Roger. You’re the one who knows the real crackpots and killers. Not me.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Ferris quietly.
“Well, there’s a job waiting for you at my place when you get back. You can make lunch for refugee boys and girls coming in from Iraq. How’s that?”
“Excellent. Maybe I’ll convert. Become a Brother of Awareness myself.”
She accompanied him to his apartment and stayed while he packed, chiding him for taking dirty shirts and underwear because he hadn’t done his laundry. An embassy car waited downstairs, and he dropped her at home on his way to the airport. On the long journey back to Washington, he thought of her in the Levantine never-land of her apartment, hidden away from the world that seemed to be closing in around him.
THE FIRST THING Ferris noticed when he arrived at the main entrance at Headquarters, thirty-six hours later, was that his badge didn’t work. They had suspended him already, electronically. Two men from the Office of Security came downstairs and took him to a windowless conference room in the back of the old building. The lead investigator from the Inspector General’s Office was waiting, along with an attorney from the CIA General Counsel’s Office named Robert Croge and an FBI agent with a Slavic name that Ferris couldn’t remember. Holy shit, thought Ferris. What have I done? The IG representative was a tough, tight woman with a pageboy haircut and a pin-striped suit. She introduced herself as Myra Callum and advised Ferris that her office was conducting a criminal investigation into matters that involved him. The FBI agent introduced himself and said the interview was being taped and read Ferris his Miranda rights, which scared him all the more. Ferris asked if he could speak privately with the young lawyer from the General Counsel’s Office, who he gathered was there to protect the agency—if not exactly to protect him. After a hasty consultation, the group agreed and adjourned to the hallway. On his way out, the FBI man turned off the tape recorder.
“What in God’s name is this all about?” asked Ferris.
“I can’t tell you,” answered Croge. “Listen to their questions. You’ll get a good idea from what they ask you.” He was a smooth-faced young man in a gray suit. He reminded Ferris of pictures he had seen of John Dean, the Watergate lawyer. He had a face that seemed to have been leached of any color or emotion.
“Do I have to answer their questions?”
“No. You can refuse to answer anything you want. Just take the Fifth. It won’t look good, but that’s your problem.”
“Are you my attorney?”
“No. I represent the agency. You can get your own attorney. Though I would advise you to listen to their questions first. If you refuse to cooperate, they’ll put you on administrative leave immediately, and you could be in limbo for a long time. This matter is highly classified, so by the time you get a lawyer with appropriate clearances, it could be months.”
“I’m fucked! And I don’t even know what this is about.”
“Sorry, pal. My advice is talk to the lady from the IG’s office. If the questioning strays too far into operations, I’m going to cut it off anyway. Talk to them. Basically you have no choice.” Ferris nodded his assent, and the lawyer stuck his head out the door and called them other two back.
Myra Callum returned looking even more teed off than before. The FBI man turned on the tape recorder again. They each introduced themselves again, for the record. Ferris did the same. They asked him if he was waiving his right to have an attorney present and Ferris muttered yes. Apparently they were worried that he hadn’t spoken loudly enough, so they asked him to say it again.
“I am going to ask you some questions about your past activities,” said Callum. “During 1999 and 2000, were you assigned to the CIA station in Sanaa, in the Democratic Republic of Yemen?”
Technically, the answer to that question was classified. Ferris looked at the lawyer from the General Counsel’s Office, who nodded that it was okay to answer.
“Yes, that’s correct,” said Ferris.
“And was your position in the station deputy operations chief?”
“Yes,” answered Ferris. “At first, I was just a CO. But after six months someone left and they made me deputy ops chief.”
“And in that role,” continued Callum, “did you maintain regular liaison with the security services of the host country, Yemen?” Her voice was dry and stern; it sounded as if it came from somewhere behind her, as if she were a ventriloquist’s dummy and someone unseen was projecting the voice. Ferris didn’t like her, and he truly didn’t like the idea that he was being quizzed like a criminal.
“Obviously.” He spoke with an edge that betrayed his anger. “Of course I ma
intained liaison with the host service. That’s what agency officers do, all over the world. That is, the ones who are actually out in the field, as opposed to those back at Headquarters who make trouble for the people who do the work.”
Croge, the agency lawyer, shook his head. Don’t make these people mad.
“A yes or no will be sufficient, Mr. Ferris,” said Callum. “And you can save your snide comments about the agency for your future bed-mates in prison.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” said Ferris.
She ignored him and continued with her questions. “Now, on February seventeenth, 2000, did you have occasion to meet with members of the Yemeni intelligence service, known as the Mouk-ha-ba-rat?” She said it phonetically, for whoever would be transcribing the tape.
“How should I know? I don’t have my calendar.”
“Perhaps I can refresh your memory, Mr. Ferris. On February seventeenth, February eighteenth and February nineteenth, did you assist the Mouk-ha-ba-rat in interrogating an alleged Al Qaeda member named Sa-mir Na-kib, who was in their custody?”
“Fuck me,” Ferris whispered to himself. It hit him suddenly, with the force of a hammer against his head. This is about Gretchen. She had snitched on him. She had remembered a long-ago remark he’d made about interrogation in Yemen. He had told her that an Al Qaeda prisoner had died in captivity while he was present. She had admonished him never to repeat to anyone what he had done, because technically it was illegal. Ferris had forgotten about it, but she had held on to it these past few years, saving it in case she ever needed leverage. And now she was using it.
“Mr. Ferris, I am waiting,” said the nasally voice of Myra Callum.
“Where did you get your information?” said Ferris angrily. “From an informant, right? An ‘anonymous’ informant.”
Body of Lies Page 21
