by Oliver North
At the start of the formal session, the Chief Justice reiterated the importance of security, then added, “If you will indulge me, gentlemen, I want you to think of yourselves as a jury—and consider the contents of this notebook to be evidence in an indictment—just like a criminal trial. Unless any of you demur, that's how I intend to conduct these meetings.”
Scironi paused and looked around the table. He noted that old Gen. Conrad Vassar, the former CJCS was nodding his head as was retired FBI Director, Gerald Donahue. Former Secretary of State James Cook appeared lost in thought. Russell Bates, the retired CIA Director, was paging through the red notebook as though looking for something.
The Chief Justice continued, “With the President's permission, I've added two people to our number as my nonvoting, personal assistants. They will join us this afternoon. Since they're both from this area, their presence here in town should not become an issue for the media. Neal Frey was U.S. Attorney for the District of Colombia before retiring. He has agreed to serve as the ‘prosecutor’ to clarify any of the information against any of the people charged in this indictment,” he said, tapping his copy of the red notebook.
“I've also asked my old friend, Georgetown law professor Richard Chambers, to serve the ‘defense attorney’ during our deliberations.”
At this, Bates emitted a quiet snort. Scironi, peering over his glasses, simply said, “Russell, do you have a problem with that?”
Bates looked right back at the Chief Justice and said, “I don't know why any of the people in this notebook needs a ‘Devil's Advocate.’ All of these people deserve to die. That's why we're here.”
“If I may, Russell,” the Chief Justice responded quietly, and then looking around the room, continued, “all of us—and this includes you, General Newman—are here for a very solemn purpose. We're here to decide whether someone lives or dies. I'm not quite sure what the authors of the bill creating this Commission intended—for debate on the matter was depressingly abbreviated. But I do know what the President told me—and I know my own conscience. We will weigh each individual case presented to us. We will decide each case based on the evidence available—and if we decide that the individual is ‘guilty as charged,’ General Newman's personnel will carry out the sentence. If any of you do not wish to proceed in this manner, please tell me now so that I may inform the President.”
Scironi's soliloquy had the intended effect. Bates nodded his head with the others, and, after a brief pause, the Chief Justice continued, “Gentlemen, inside the red notebook you will find the names of one hundred individuals—and a summary of what our government knows about them. This document was prepared by the CIA, and you will note that the names are listed in alphabetical order. Between now and our next formal session commencing at one thirty this afternoon, I would ask you to peruse this information and come prepared to place them in order of priority, one through one hundred.”
Donahue, the former FBI Chief, raised his hand and Scironi nodded and said, “Gerald?”
“What criteria do you want us to use, your honor…er, Mr. Chairman? Just thumbing through this notebook since we've been here, I see names that go back to when I was Director—and that's quite awhile.”
“I don't want to tell you what criteria to use,” Scironi responded. “You all have long experience in government. Use your best judgment and assign each name a number. When we reconvene this afternoon I'd like to simply add up the rankings you all assign, and the one with the lowest total will have the highest priority, all the way through to the one with the highest total having the lowest priority. Any questions?”
The only one not nodding his head affirmatively at this point was Russell Bates, who interjected, “What do you suggest we do, Mr. Chairman, if we believe that there are some serious omissions to this list. How do you want us to proceed?”
“I'm not sure that I understand, Russell,” answered the Chief Justice. “Do you believe that we need to add some names to this list?”
“Yes, Mr. Chairman, I do,” Bates responded emphatically. “Just like Gerry Donahue recalls names from his tenure as the head of the FBI, I have a few of my own from my days at the CIA. I'm asking how we get them on this list.”
Scironi sighed and said, “Well, Russell, I was of the opinion that one hundred names was more than enough for us to contend with for the time being, but if you feel strongly about this, or if any of the rest of you wish to add more names to this ‘indictment,’ I suppose the best way to proceed is for you to give General Newman the names, and he will contact the CIA so that the Agency can provide the same kind of information as we have on these one hundred.”
“What if we have sources outside what the CIA knows?” pressed Bates.
The patience of the Chief Justice was wearing thin, but he tried hard not to let his exasperation show. “Well, let's proceed along the following lines. If you will please provide your name or names to General Newman, I'm certain that he will endeavor to amplify your information with whatever our government has, and it will all be added to the notebook. May I inquire whom you wish to add?”
Bates leaned back in his chair and said, “Samuel Mubassa.”
Former Secretary of State James Cook reacted as though he had been stuck by a bayonet. Staring at Bates, he said, “The Samuel Mubassa at the UN? If he's a terrorist it's news to me, but if he is, just send the FBI to New York and arrest him.”
“First of all, he has diplomatic immunity,” replied Bates, almost sneering. “Second, he's not in New York right now—he's in Caracas, Venezuela—very likely cavorting with several others from the Valdez regime who also belong on this list.”
Before the meeting could degenerate further, the Chief Justice raised his hand and said, “Very well, gentlemen. Russell, if you would provide your information to General Newman, he'll compile it with whatever the CIA can assemble, and we'll include it in the notebook for our deliberations this afternoon. Are there any other comments or questions before we close this session?”
“Just one, Mr. Chairman,” said General Vassar, speaking for the first time. “Perhaps I've been retired too long or I've failed to keep up with the acronym explosion here in Washington, but I'm curious. The title of this document is ‘100 HVTs.’ What does HVT stand for?”
The Chief Justice of the United States looked gravely at the old general and said, “I'm afraid, sir, that acronym is a sad testament to what we're here for. HVT stands for High Value Target. I guess we've just added another one.”
No one noticed the smile on Russell Bates's face as he left the room.
Oval Office, The White House
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Washington, DC
Monday, 22 October 2007
1130 Hours Local
“Sir, you'd better take a look at this,” said Bruce Allen, the President's Chief of Staff, as he entered the Oval Office and walked hurriedly over to the television set across the room. It was already tuned to one of the news channels, but the sound was muted. Allen turned it up.
“—too early to tell. But first, we go to our Middle East correspondent John Corrigan in Baghdad. Tell us about the breaking story over there, John,” said the perfectly coiffed and tanned face, sitting at a horseshoe-shaped anchor desk in Atlanta.
“The United States has been given another ultimatum by the Islamic Brotherhood, the same group that exploded a nuclear bomb a week ago today, and on Saturday claimed responsibility for destroying the U.S. Embassy in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia,” the correspondent said. Corrigan was standing on a hotel balcony overlooking the city of Baghdad. It was already dark in that part of the world, and the buildings in the background were already lit up. He continued his report. “We've obtained a copy of a videotape that was sent to Al Jazeera studios in the United Arab Emirates this afternoon. The tape claims to be from the Islamic Brotherhood, the organization that issued this newest ultimatum. Here is what they said.”
As the control room played the tape, it showed a bea
rded Arab in dark, clerical robes, reading from a prepared text. His words were in Arabic, but a translator's voiceover gave the message in English: “We send this message to the unholy infidels of America, and to their satanic allies in Great Britain and Israel. You have been warned, and yet you still choose to defy our warnings by trying to ignore us. The holy Islamic Brotherhood has demonstrated its commitment to drive out or destroy all infidels who continue to stay and defile the land where the prophet walked.
“On Monday last we showed you the fire and fury of Allah when we exploded one of our nuclear weapons—a course of action that was taken only after the ‘great Satans’ did not respond to our ultimatum to leave our lands. Now we give you our final word on this matter.
“Here is the warning to unholy Americans and other infidel nations—if you do not leave all Islamic lands, we will see to it that the next nuclear explosions will take place on your lands.
“Each month, beginning with the next month, a nuclear detonation will wreak destruction in one of your cities and kill millions. If you still persist, and do not leave the Islamic lands, another city will be destroyed. And if you continue your defilements, another city—until finally your entire country—will be destroyed. You cannot stop us,” the spokesman said, staring directly into the camera lens. “You have been warned. There will be no further warning. If you do not leave Islamic holy lands, then you will die, and your families will die. Your nation will die. In the name of Allah, the Almighty.”
The television camera returned to John Corrigan, standing on the balcony overlooking the city of Baghdad, who added, “That tape was given to Al Jazeera this afternoon from a group calling itself the Islamic Brotherhood. That's the third time I've watched the tape today, and it's no less chilling now than when I first saw it.”
The picture cut back to the anchor in Atlanta: “John, we noticed that there were a few facts that were different from other information we've been given. Our sources at the White House and CIA have been claiming all along that the only Islamic nation with nuclear weapons is Pakistan, and the White House continues to tell us that Iran doesn't have them—ironically, exactly the opposite of what they told us about Iraq in 2003. And we found out during Operation Iraqi Freedom that Saddam didn't have nuclear weapons. So, John, I guess the question of the day is—just who does have a nuclear arsenal? Who is this voice claiming to speak for all Islamic nations? Do we know anything more about this group calling itself the Islamic Brotherhood? What do the FBI or CIA have to say?”
“Well, concerning the Islamic Brotherhood, out here we're being told that this is a new organization. It has never shown up on the terror watch list before, and apparently nobody in our military or intelligence services knows who they are—or if they do know, they aren't telling us,” Corrigan said.
“And what about their claim that there's more than the one nuclear weapon—the one they exploded over a remote area of Saudi Arabia last Monday night? What are you hearing from the ‘Arab street’? Could this ‘Islamic Brotherhood’ represent some kind of Muslim coalition? I believe it was Dr. Qadeer Khan, the man who helped Pakistan get the bomb, who had aspirations for an Islamic nuclear arsenal. Do you think that's something that may have happened, John?”
“It's only a guess. Off the record we hear speculation that the Islamic Brotherhood itself is some kind of coalition, but we're also getting a fair share of denials all around. While some in Washington believe that Iran is behind the whole Saudi Arabia crisis, others say no single Arab country—not even Iran—could pull off the creation of nuclear weapons without tipping their hand. Our sources at the U.S. State Department and intelligence agencies say that the administration is pulling out all the stops to contain this crisis and get to the bottom line—the same question you asked of me earlier—'who's behind it all?' Meanwhile, as the crisis continues, the White House seems to be in a state of paralysis. Back to you in Atlanta.”
The President's Chief of Staff muted the TV sound once again. “Shall I get Jeb Stuart on the line, sir?” he asked.
The Chief Executive sighed deeply, and then he nodded. “Yeah…tell him it looks like another all-nighter in the Sit Room. Tell him to pull the Crisis Team together and meet me there at two o'clock.”
ELEVENS
EVERYWHERE
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CHAPTER ELEVEN
Guantanamo Naval Base
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Guantanamo, Cuba
Tuesday, 23 October 2007
0145 Hours Local
Where did these two ‘misfits’ come from?” asked Patrick “P. J.” Krull, the CIA's senior interrogator at “Camp Delta,” the U.S. military detention center at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. He was looking at a closed-circuit television monitor in the office of the Camp Delta executive officer as U.S. Army MPs escorted the newest “shipment” of detainees into the facility. The prisoners had just arrived via a USAF C-17, direct from Jordan.
Lt. Col. Tom Maloney, USMC, the Detention Center's XO peered at the wide-screen TV monitor as a dozen individuals in orange jumpsuits were paraded past a row of bright floodlights—and hidden camera lenses. As Krull and Maloney watched, the disheveled, bearded men were locked inside 8' × 8' individual “holding pens” awaiting “inprocessing” and medical evaluation. All were wearing shackles on hands and feet and around each detainee's neck was a round, white plastic disc, about ten inches in diameter on which was emblazoned a number. “Which two?” asked Maloney, now looking closely at the video screen.
“Those last two—numbers 3163 and 7895,” Krull said, pointing to the screen.
Maloney manipulated a joystick on the console in front of the TV monitor and the camera zoomed in on two sullen, well-built, fair-skinned, blue-eyed men in their mid-to-late-thirties, now locked inside adjacent isolation cells.
“Hmm…they don't look like your typical Taliban, do they?” said Maloney, who then sat down at the nearby computer and entered the registration numbers of the two detainees. Seconds later he said, “No wonder—look at this.”
Krull spent some five minutes reading the information that appeared on the screen and asked, “How soon can I send this to the CT Center at Langley?”
“You know the rules, P. J.,” said Maloney. “We can't send any of this out until we verify who these guys are and conduct an initial interrogation. Even if we put a priority on these two, it'll be sometime tomorrow.”
“OK,” Krull replied, “then I need to use your secure phone. You need to find something else to do for five minutes.”
Maloney looked at his friend, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “I'm going to go out and get a breath of fresh air. Keep an eye on things here in my office 'til I get back.”
As soon as the Marine left, Krull picked up the receiver on Maloney's secure phone and, from memory, punched in a series of numbers on the keypad. After hearing the encryption systems' electronic “handshake,” a voice on the other end—sounding like it was coming down a long tunnel—answered, “Operations, Stearman. Recording. Go ahead.”
“This is Krull at Gitmo. Who is the Senior Staff Duty Officer?”
“Assistant Deputy Director Callahan. He's asleep. Do you want me to put you through to him?”
“Yes.”
“Wait one.”
Krull heard a click and then the mechanical sound of the extension ringing in the Senior Staff Duty Officer's overnight “Ready Room.”
After three “rings” the phone was picked up and Krull heard a voice say, “Callahan.”
“This is Krull at Gitmo. It appears that two detainees who just arrived here may have been involved in the Saudi caper.”
Krull could tell that the deputy director was still not quite awake, and he could hear him rummaging around for his glasses and turning on the lamp on the bedside table. He was probably also digging out his note pad and a pen. When he asked, “Who are the
two men?” Krull knew that Callahan was ready to take notes.
“They are apparently Ukrainians, captured last Thursday, 18 October, off the coast of Lebanon,” Krull answered.
Callahan, now fully awake, asked, “Captured? Captured by whom?”
“By the Israeli Navy. These two were in a speedboat, apparently trying to make their way north to Syria when the IDF naval patrol picked them up.” Krull, reading from Maloney's computer screen, continued: “According to the info that we have from the Israelis, these two tossed their weapons in the drink when the naval patrol approached, but they kept a bag containing $72,000 in U.S. fifty-dollar bills. The IDF brought them back to the Duvdevan base outside Tel Aviv, suspecting that they might be foreign operatives working for the Syrians or even Chechnyans doing ‘bang-bang’ for Hezbollah. Both of 'em tested positive for nitrate residue on a standard paraffin test, and their genome blood test came back showing that they were Ukrainians, so the Mossad sweated 'em with psychotropic drugs for the next thirty-six hours straight.”
“Did ‘our colleagues’ ever figure out what these guys were doing in Lebanon?” asked Callahan.
“Oh yeah,” replied Krull. “They used a combination of scopalamine, benzadrine, and thiopental sodium—sodium pentothol—and both of 'em sang like canaries. They were apparently sent to Beirut to assassinate several members of the Saudi royal family and seize their royal yacht. Apparently these guys weren't quite as good as they thought they were. They killed the ‘royals,’ but the yacht caught fire in the gunfight and sank.”
“How did they end up in Gitmo?” asked the CIA's increasingly concerned Assistant Operations Director.
“It isn't pretty,” said Krull. “Once the Israelis figured out the connection to the Saudi mess, they contacted our military attaché in Tel Aviv, and he apparently unilaterally arranged to have these two characters transported to the U.S. military facility at the King Hussein Military Airfield outside of Amman. Yesterday afternoon SOCOM diverted a regular detainee flight to Amman and put these two clowns aboard. I became aware when they arrived here at Gitmo less than an hour ago.”
