The Assassins

by Oliver North

  He turned left on Reservoir Road and stretched out his stride, heading west on what would normally be a busy commuter artery. It, too, was empty of the usual heavy incoming traffic. His disposition was as overcast as the sky by the time he got to the intersection of Whitehaven Parkway and MacArthur Boulevard and saw the signs on the two gas stations: “Regular $5.95.” Instead of continuing further west, he crossed over to Whitehaven and turned east, jogging back toward Foxhall and his house. A half mile from home the rain that until then had been a mist, turned into a downpour. He arrived at his front door soaking wet, groped the key out of the zipper pocket on his sweat suit, and let himself in.

  Twenty minutes later he was back in the kitchen, showered, shaved, dressed in a civilian coat and tie and carrying his forest green Marine “Alpha” uniform in a garment bag. It was just 7:30, and the room smelled like cinnamon.

  Jimmy was alone at the table, playing with a pocket video game from which various sounds emerged as the boy rapidly moved his fingers over the toggle switches beneath the tiny screen.

  “Where is your mom?”

  “Aww, she's down in the basement with Lizzie the Lizard doing laundry or something.” Then, seeing the garment bag in his father's hand, he asked, “Are you leaving again, Dad?”

  “Nope, just going to work,” Peter replied. “The bag has my uniform in it. Why?”

  The boy gave his father a funny look and said, “We have a game tomorrow, Dad, remember?”

  Newman didn't but was saved by Rachel's return from the basement with their daughter and a laundry basket full of clean clothing. As the eight-year-old ran to her father and wrapped her arms around his legs, Rachel said, “That's right, if they have school, tomorrow is the day for their big game. The coach said James will be on the starting team. He wants you to be there, to cheer for him.”

  “Well, I don't think there is going to be school tomorrow, Jim, and I'm not sure that I'll be home in time—but if I miss it, I'll catch the next one,” Newman said, trying to be helpful.

  “Yeah, right,” the boy said glumly. “I should've known.” With that, he left the room.

  “I said we'll do it next time,” Newman called after him. Bending to pick up his daughter, he looked at Rachel for help in knowing what to say.

  “He doesn't know what you do, Peter. He has no idea. To him, it seems like you're just avoiding him—shutting him out of your life— and that you aren't really interested in his life.”

  “But…”

  Rachel touched her finger to his lips, stopping the words. “Just remember, they both miss you when you're away—more than you think.”

  Rachel had read his mind again. There were times when he thought of how much he was missing by not being with his children during these important years that they were growing up. He frequently resolved to make more time for them but all too often felt pangs of guilt when he realized that he had not done so.

  “'Bye, Daddy,” Lizzie said, squirming out of his arms and running out of the kitchen to find her big brother. When she got to the kitchen door she paused and said, “If you're going someplace, be sure to send me a postcard.”

  Newman grinned and said, “OK” as the child disappeared. Ever since the children were toddlers he had made it a practice to stop in airport gift shops and buy postcards to send to them, each with their own special messages. Over the years they had saved them, many from unusual and exotic places around the world. On short trips the postcards often arrived several days after he'd already returned home. But that didn't matter. The postcards were treasured and on rainy days, or when their father was away, the children would sometimes take the cards out of the shoeboxes in which they were stored, to look at them as a reminder of the man who had sent them.

  Alone again with her husband, Rachel said, “Come on, sit down here and have a cup of coffee before you run off to your new job.”

  As she poured them each a cup of coffee, Rachel said lightly, “This is the first time you have been for a jog through the neighborhood since you left Monday for your ‘cave’ in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Did you notice anything different?”

  “Yeah, there's practically nobody home.”

  “Right, General Newman—you get an ‘A’ for observation,” Rachel said, smiling. But she suddenly became serious. “Look, Peter, I've been following the news nonstop since this stuff in Saudi Arabia started. Almost all of our neighbors except the Schmidts and the Wilsons down at the end of the cul de sac have gone on early winter vacations. The Armentrouts, across the street—he works for the French Embassy—the couple with the two children the same age as ours—are leaving today to go back to France because they're scared.”

  Peter's reply was an effort to recapture Rachel's good humor: “Yeah, what do you expect; they're French.”

  Rachel didn't laugh. “This isn't a joke, Peter. I've been thinking that the children and I should leave town for awhile.”

  Newman looked at her quizzically. “Leave Washington? Why? Where would you go?” he asked.

  “We could go down to Boot Key,” Rachel said emphatically.

  Peter realized from the way his wife had spoken that this was not a spur-of-the-moment idea. The beach house on Boot Key had been built by Rachel's father in the 1950s as a respite from winters in Charlottesville. Peter, Rachel, and their children had visited there many times over the years. When her father died in the spring of 2002 and her mother, later that same year, Rachel inherited the beach house. Since then, it had become the Newman family “getaway.” Rachel and the children had spent most of 2003 and 2004 there while Peter was deployed for Operation Iraqi Freedom.

  “Is this because of what's happening…” he started to ask her.

  “Honey, this town is all but shut down already. Congressmen and Senators are going off on vague ‘fact-finding’ trips, or returning to their districts. You wouldn't believe the level of anxiety.”

  “Yes…I would,” Newman muttered.

  “Well, think about it, Pete. When I called the school this morning, a recording said they had to stay closed today because too many teachers called in sick. The shelves in the grocery stores are almost bare. You can't get a flight out of here without waiting for days, maybe weeks. Services are shutting down for lack of help...and if we have to do without heat in our house, with winter coming, I don't know how we can live here.”

  Newman considered what she was saying in light of what he knew—things that hadn't yet been reported on the news. From a selfish point of view, he'd rather have her and the children close. But he said, “The only problem with going to Florida will be getting there. I really don't feel good about you and the kids driving there in the Suburban all alone and not knowing how you're going to get gas for that thing. But I do think you're right. Why don't you start getting ready, and I'll see what I can figure out. It'll take you a few days to get everything packed, so we'll have some time to talk it over.”

  After a final kiss, Newman picked up his bag and headed for the front door. Rachel followed him to the doorway and watched as he got into the blue sedan that the White House motor pool had dispatched to pick him up. Then, as she'd done so many times before, she gave a final wave.

  She watched as the car pulled away, closed the door, and leaned up against it. With her eyes closed she whispered, “He's Yours, Lord. Please protect him and bring him safely back to us.”

  American Embassy

  ________________________________________

  Baghdad, Iraq

  Thursday, 18 October 2007

  1430 Hours Local

  “But I have an important message that I must get to an American official,” said Samir Habib in English to the impassive Sikh security guard at the gate labeled “Visitors” in Arabic and English.

  The contract-sentinel, standing behind thick panes of blast-resistant glass, inside the thick-walled, air-conditioned guardhouse, replied through a speaker, “As I told you, Mr. Habib, you must have an appointment. Otherwise I cannot permit you to enter.” />
  Though he tried not to let it show, Samir's frustration was nearly overwhelming. He had departed Anah early in the morning, endured 145 miles of potholes, bumper-to-bumper traffic at four security checkpoints, and air filled with vehicle exhaust, oil refinery fumes and wind-blown dust—just to get to Baghdad. Once he arrived in the city center, he had to park his pickup almost a mile from the four-squaremile, heavily fortified “Green Zone.” But even without a vehicle, getting inside the high walls, barbed wire, and sand-filled barriers that enclosed the American Embassy and most of the Iraqi government proved to be an onerous, time-consuming ordeal.

  Samir had been frisked and pat-down searched three times, passed through two metal detectors, and forced to transit a 250-yard-long maze of razor wire and concrete jersey walls where he was observed by Iraqi men in blue uniforms carrying submachine guns and wearing helmets and body armor. They had directed him to the proper gate at the next high wall—the one surrounding the American Embassy.

  But now this guard was insisting that in order to enter, Samir had to have an appointment with someone inside—and a line was beginning to form behind him at the sentry post. Once again the guard's voice came through the speaker: “Do you have the name of the official you wish to see? Perhaps I can call them from here to have you admitted.”

  Eli Yusef had told his son to get a message to William Goode at the CIA in America. But Samir had no idea who the Agency's Station Chief in Baghdad was now—and he knew better than to shout out “CIA”—even inside the Green Zone. In desperation, he spoke the name of the only American he could think of, though he knew this person was no longer in Iraq: “Please tell someone inside that I know Marine Col. Peter Newman.”

  As the Sikh security guard stepped away from the window to consult a list of names on a clipboard, a broad-shouldered American in running shoes, shorts, and a sweat-soaked T-shirt stepped up from the line behind Samir and said suspiciously, “Excuse me, sir. What's your name—and what did you just say?”

  “My name is Samir Habib, and I said I know Col. Peter Newman.”

  “It's General Newman now. How do you know him?” said the man with the close-cropped hair.

  Samir noticed that on the man's wet T-shirt was a symbol he recognized: an eagle perched atop a globe and an old-fashioned anchor. He said, “I have helped him on various projects over the years. We're friends and fellow believers.”

  Until Samir uttered those last two words the perspiring Marine had been unimpressed. He responded, “Fellow believers, eh? What does your friend General Newman carry with him at all times, besides his dog tags?”

  Samir reached into his pocket and said, “One of these.” In his open palm was a tiny metal fish.

  The American grinned slightly, reached down inside his shirt, and withdrew the chain that was around his neck. Hanging from the chain was a dog tag—and an identical, tiny metal fish. The Marine said, “That's good enough for me.” Holding out his hand, he said, “I'm Gunnery Sgt. David Pennington. I'm the NCOIC of the Marine Security Guard Detachment inside this embassy compound. Let me get you cleared in here.”

  Pennington reached into a small zippered pocket in his shorts, withdrew two laminated cards, and pressed them up against the window and said to the microphone mounted beside the window, “I'll sign in Mr. Habib and escort him into the embassy.”

  Once they were through the gate, Samir asked, “Did you serve with Peter Newman?”

  Pennington said, “I was with him in RCT 3 during phase one of Operation Iraqi Freedom. By the time he was promoted to Brigadier General and named as the Assistant Division Commander, I was back out here for a second tour. He led a Bible study and he gave me my ‘Sign of the Faith’ that I keep with my dog tags. You said you had helped General Newman with ‘various projects’—what did you mean, Mr. Habib?”

  “Please, call me Samir. My father and I first came to know him in 1995. It was my father who rescued Peter Newman when his airplane was shot down over Iraq. Later in 1998, my father and I helped him on his mission here and in Syria. And of course, we tried to be of help in 2003 and thereafter, when he was here in our country.”

  Though Pennington knew nothing of the 1995 and 1998 events that Samir was referring to, he was well aware that Brigadier General Newman had served on “detached duty” for a considerable period of time back in the '90s. Like many others who had seen that phrase in Newman's official biography, he assumed it was with the CIA. By now the two had arrived at the entrance of the main embassy building. He said, “So who is it you wanted to see inside, Samir?”

  “It would be best if I could meet with the CIA Station Chief. I have some information that must get to Mr. William Goode at the CIA in Washington.”

  Pennington nodded, motioned to the Marine sergeant standing behind the thick, Mylar-coated, laminated ballistic-glass and lexan window at the security post, and said into the speaker, “Sergeant Nelson, have the Corporal of the Guard escort Mr. Habib to one of the special visitor's waiting lounges. I have to run upstairs to see if there is anyone who can speak with him. Please make him comfortable until I return or someone else comes down to escort him upstairs.”

  The Marine corporal replied “Aye aye,” and picked up a phone inside the booth.

  Pennington turned to Samir and said, “I'm going upstairs to see who's about. I'll need to borrow your Iraqi National Identity Card for a few minutes. One of my Marines will make you comfortable. Either I or someone else will come for you soon.” Samir handed the gunnery sergeant his ID card, and Pennington in turn inserted his own laminated card into the mag-card reader beside the door, stepped up to the retinal scanner, and was “buzzed” through the large steel-reinforced wooden door.

  Less than a minute later, another Marine opened the same door and said, “Mr. Habib, please come with me.” He escorted Samir through yet another metal detector, then to a small but comfortably air-conditioned waiting room, handed him a plastic bottle of cold water, and said, “Sir, if you will wait here, someone will be here to escort you upstairs.”

  Samir had been waiting less than ten minutes when the door opened and two Americans entered. The taller of the two extended his hand and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Habib. My name is Bill Ainsworth, and this is Larry Conway. Gunnery Sergeant Pennington says you have some information for us.”

  Conway handed Samir his Iraqi ID card, shook hands, and said, “How can we help you?”

  “Can I speak to the Station Chief?” Samir asked Ainsworth, who seemed to be in charge. “I have some information that needs to get to William Goode at Langley as soon as possible.”

  When Pennington had walked into his second-floor office and told him about Samir, Conway had groaned at the prospect of interviewing yet another “walk-in.” Yet within two minutes of scanning the Iraqi ID card into his computer using a device much like that at a supermarket checkout counter, his screen had turned red and a notice in large white block letters appeared:

  RELIABLE HIGH VALUE PROTECTED ASSET

  ADVISE CIA D/O ASAP

  Conway immediately summoned Ainsworth from another interminable meeting and the two men read what little information that was accessible on the Station Chief's computer, noted that Samir lived in Anah and that his father, Eli Yusef, also of Anah, was in a similarly protected status. They then proceeded directly to the waiting room, thankful that the Marines had placed Samir in one of the four private rooms off the main lobby instead of having him wait in the much larger public waiting area full of Iraqis and others waiting for appointments with other embassy officials.

  “Uh…follow us, Mr. Habib. We'll go to a conference room where we can talk.” Ainsworth led the way through yet another metal detector, waited for an electrically operated security door to open, and then led up a flight of stairs to a long corridor of offices.

  Samir followed Ainsworth to a locked conference room. The Agency officer used a swipe-card ID to get into the room, turned on the lights, and invited Samir to sit.

  “Mr. Habib, I'
m the CIA Station Chief here in Baghdad. Sorry for any delays you might have had getting in here. If you ever need to see me again, please call Mr. Conway and we can have someone meet you somewhere. It's a lot easier than coming here. Before you leave, Mr. Conway will give you a number where you can contact him any time, day or night. Now...what is it you have for us?”

  “I believe this information should go directly to Mr. Goode in Langley,” Samir began.

  Ainsworth noted to himself, This Iraqi knows where Bill Goode works—maybe he is somebody with something useful. “Do you mind if I tape our conversation?” he asked.

  “It is all right,” Samir said.

  Ainsworth took out a small digital recording device and pushed “record.” He was of the old school of technology—and used the expression “tape our conversation” although there was no cassette or tape involved. Sound was processed directly onto a tiny, removable digital storage unit. Such inconsistencies slipped by him as he spoke again, this time to create an introduction for the recording. “This is William Ainsworth, at 1455 hours on Thursday, October eighteenth, 2007. The interview subject is Mr. Samir Habib, an Iraqi citizen who resides in Anah. Go ahead, Mr. Habib...state your name for the record and begin.”

  “Uh…I am Samir Habib, an Arab Christian, and I wish to inform Mr. William Goode of urgent information that I have.” Samir cleared his throat and began his narrative. “My father—Eli Yusef Habib—and I believe that there is going to be a serious attack by the jihadists on Friday, October nineteenth—and many more in November.”

  Ainsworth sat up straight. “You mean tomorrow and this November?”