by HN Wake
“I leave tomorrow.”
He squinted through a stream of errant smoke. “Better make it a memorable weekend then.”
She climbed up on him.
The next day, the drive to the airport through the mist was quiet. The car roared, occasionally belching. His hold on her hand was tight. “So, I’ll see you in two years.”
“For sure.”
They pulled up to the airport drop off. His voice was somber. “Be smart, Mac.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I do.”
“Come find me when you get back.” His aquamarine eyes were strikingly light against the fog outside the window.
Her eyes welled.
“Mac, I don’t wait for you. I’m just me and you’re just you and who knows what will happen?” He pushed her hair back. “Just take care of you on your big adventure and come back in one piece.”
25
North Capitol Hill, DC
Every chair in the top floor ATF New York Avenue building conference room was occupied by a man in either a blue or a grey suit. Another six men leaned against the back wall. All eyes were trained on an email exchange displayed on a large screen.
In a hoarse voice, Cal interpreted for the room. “This initial email is from Scimitar’s COO to Chuck Boare dated three months before the July shipment. As you can see, their code isn’t complicated.” Cal directed a laser pointer to highlight a single line on the screen. “The A’s are begging us for mgs.” He translated the email for the room. “We are confident - given the timing - that the COO means Afghanis when he types ‘A’s’ and machine guns when he types ‘mgs’ so he’s basically saying, the Afghanis are begging for M4s.”
On the screen, the laser pointer jumped to Boare’s reply. “What if we transfer P’s July package to A?” Cal interpreted again. “Here, Boare suggests the transfer of the 88088 Pakistani Army shipment to the Afghans. And here —” Cal pointed to the next line. “— the COO responds, with a ‘risky’.”
Cal’s laser pointer moved to Boare’s email response. “Worth twice. :) Blame it on chaos in P.”
The anger in the room grew as the men digested Boare’s intent.
Cal stirred their anger when he said, “The smiley face is a particularly nice touch.”
He turned to the room. “So, I think we can agree that this is clear intent to resell. Boare follows this note immediately. His next email is quite compelling.”
All eyes read the next line quietly to themselves. “Pre-empt P income that is turning off soon.” Cal again translated. “This is a direct reference to the Pakistani Counterinsurgency Capability Fund that is due to expire next year. Scimitar Defense has gotten $40M in contracts via PCCP since 2009. So Boare is literally referring to when the PCCP will no longer provide them easy funds.”
In the heavy pause, chair legs scraped across hard wood flooring. No one spoke.
Cal turned back to the screen, his pointer followed the email conversation when he said, “On the next line the COO asks a question to Boare.”
“Who have we got in P?”
“That logistics crew.”
“You trust them?”
“Yes. Connected to P Army. They do heavy lifting. Know transporters.”
“OK”
Cal said, “And here, in this last line in the email exchange, Boare signs off on the operation.”
“Good, let’s get this done. Pay dirt. :) Switch to gmail.”
An FBI agent whistled from the back of the room. The overhead lights came on.
Cal explained, “We initially ran keyword searches on well over 30,000 emails and thousands of their electronic documents. There were no matches. We found this one email through good old fashioned, slog reading. They were exceptionally cautious. Their code is simple but effective in thwarting a tech search. This is the only exchange from the evidence we pulled that implicates them in the arms trafficking.”
The room was still. Jaws were clenched, arms were crossed.
“That being said, we are - I am - fairly confident a trace on their gmails will produce a significant haul for the task force.”
Cal switched off the lights. A new document - a spreadsheet - illuminated the screen.
“We’ve got one more item to show you before we hand this over to the task force. Our team scanned Scimitar’s accounting Quicken records starting four months before the shipment and then the two months after. We found something exceptional.
“Two months before the shipment, their receptionist purchased a non-contract cell phone for $25 and a $100 prepaid card. She paid in cash at the local Best Buy. Cash. She was probably instructed to use cash.
“But she then went back to the office…and I can only assume that she didn’t want to be out of pocket for about a hundred bucks…so she submitted the receipt to the accountant for reimbursement.”
The laser pointer slowly circled two entries under the heading Q3 Expenses - $25.00 and $100.00.
“Her hard copy receipt was in the documents we seized. Local police visited the Best Buy. The manager was extremely helpful. Based on the time stamp on the receipts, we were able to confirm her on the store’s video.”
On the screen, a grainy image showed the Scimitar receptionist at the Best Buy check out counter.
In the crowded conference room, the men were still as statues.
“We tracked down the cellphone’s log. Prior to the shipment there are exactly nine calls made to the Khan Trucking Company in Peshawar and three made to an unknown number in Afghanistan.”
From the back of the room, someone blurted, “Holy shit.”
Cal set down his laser pointer on the long conference table. “They always overlook the little stuff.”
Someone called out. “Agent, you said you got an anonymous tip that led to the search warrant. Can you elaborate?”
Wilson shot a glance at Cal. Wilson was inscrutable.
Cal cleared a scratch in the back of his throat. “I received a phone call last week Monday. The unidentified male said only, ‘Scimitar Defense stole their own guns in Islamabad last year.’ I started digging. I traced their DOC license for Pakistan. Two pieces of evidence emerged that got us the warrant. One: the routine Blue Lantern checks, that are in your packets, indicated there was a problem. Two: we were able to connect Scimitar and Chuck Boare to telephone calls placed again this year to the transport company in Pakistan. It’s all there in your packets.”
Another question was called out. “Why didn’t the Blue Lantern investigation turn up Scimitar’s involvement?”
“I think the very simple answer to that is that they didn’t have access to domestic phone records.”
Wilson stood, crossed to Cal, and thumped his back. “Congratulations, Agent Bertrand. To you and your team. We’ve got a very strong case against Scimitar Defense for a task force investigation. Fine, fine work.”
A soft applause went up around the room.
A blue suited man in the front row asked, “We’ve all seen the New York News article this morning. Are you angry about the leak and are you concerned that the early press will affect your case?”
Wilson stepped in front of Cal. “I can’t say reporters are our best friends.” A few in the room chuckled. “But it is what it is and no, I don’t think it will affect our case any more than early press has ever affected a case.” He looked around the room. “We should know by the end of day how the Task Force is going to shape up. Thanks for coming by this morning. All questions can be directed to my office. We’ll let Agent Bertrand get some sleep.”
ONE WEEK BEFORE THE SENATE VOTE
A group calling itself Australian Cultural Terrorists and demanding increased government funding for the arts claimed responsibility today for the weekend theft of a $1-million Picasso oil painting.
- LA Times, August 4, 1986
It was Dora who continually reminded Picasso of the tragedy.
- James C. Harris, MD
10 months earlier - Kabul, Afghanistan
Sometimes she had trouble breathing in Kabul.
It could have been the ever-present dust. It could have been the stench from the stagnant trash along the roads. Or it could have been the ethical maze of working in the world’s most primitive nation. Maybe it was a psychological issue; the oppression of the women - the burkhas, the segregation, the slavery - had felt so immediate. Whatever the reason, the city weighed heavy on her chest.
She had been here three times over the last two years to visit her friend Neha Malhotra at the US Embassy. Graceful, thoughtful, smiling Neha had not gotten many friends to visit. But given the huge Agency presence, it wasn’t difficult for Mac to drum up excuses for official travel based on a ‘critical connection’ to an Asian operation. In fact, the Agency approved almost all her travel requests for risk-free, ‘internal meetings’; hectic travel schedules made the Agency look busy when HQ reported to Congress.
Mac and Neha walked side by side through the empty Afghan Museum. The Kabul sun beamed through the rebuilt windows. The Hindu Kush mountain range beckoned in the distance. The museum housed only 70% of the collection it had before the Soviet invasion, the US support of the Mujahideen, the 20 years of tribal wars, the Taliban, or the NATO invasion. Looters loved chaos.
Neha stared down into a case of gold coins. “Sometimes I get mad at the mothers. It’s the women who suffer here, have suffered here. Why don’t they change it? Why don’t they rebel? Groom their sons differently? Change their daughters?” She changed her mind. “Ok, ok, 20 years of boys growing up in military camps without education, without women, brainwashed in a personality cult of Islam. All Lord of the Flies shit. I get it.”
They wandered down a dusty hall.
Neha grumbled again. “Sometimes I think what I’m doing is ridiculous. Over-ambitious. Arrogant.”
Mac had only a dumb, easy answer. “At least you’re trying?”
“I guess. But distributing medicine to clinics housed in mud buildings seems so insignificant compared to the history of this country, compared to the current events. Pakistan, the Saudis, Iran, Iraq - they are all still playing chess.”
“You have to start somewhere?”
“Does that sound, I don’t know - naive - to you?”
Mac conceded, “Yeah. It does.”
Neha stared out the window at the mountain range. “They don’t want us here. Never have. We’re not liberators. We’re invaders.”
Outside, they sat on a courtyard bench. The dust prickled their sweaty skin. In the near distance, MRAPs (Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected) rumbled past on a side road. Neha fished in her leather courier bag and pulled out a worn Saints baseball hat, worked her ponytail through the back opening, and slid it down on her forehead. She asked, “What are you working on?”
“You know I can’t tell you.”
“Where are you?”
Mac replied, “Mostly Vietnam, Hong Kong, Indonesia. I do a lot around China, not always in China.”
“Huh. Those places sound better than here.”
“I get to scuba dive.”
“Fuck you.”
“Right?
“Are you helping them?”
“Who? The people in those countries?”
“Yeah.”
Mac laughed. “Hell no. I’m helping the Agency. I’m helping the US. In most cases I’m fucking the people in those countries.’
“Does it bother you? That you’re not really helping them but you’re living there?”
“I’m not living there. I’m visiting. Undercover. I’m not even myself.”
“But does it bother you, that in most cases you’re fucking them?’
Mac looked out over the scrubby lawn. “We all choose sides. You’re the best the US has to offer. I’m probably the worst.”
“If I’m the best we have to offer, we’re not offering much. I’m pretty sure we’re going to leave this place worse than when we got here.”
On the road to the Green Zone, Neha steered the Humvee around a goat. Somber, scarfed women gazed from dark doors. Kids caroused in the street as ISAF (International Security Assistance Force) soldiers passed on patrol. A white, UN Range Rover pulled behind them; there was security in numbers.
Neha’s voice dropped. “Shit goes on here…shit that’s covered up. It’s not good, Mac. Night raids. Villages. Killings. A completely hidden war. The Afghans know all about it. Americans back home don’t. It’s got your Agency’s fingerprints all over it.” She looked in her review mirror, as if checking for surveillance. “Counterterrorism dominates everything. There are over 1,000 CIA staff here. It’s bonkers. You walk into a room and you can’t tell where CIA ends and Special Forces begins. I get we’re at war, but it’s like the CIA are their own paramilitary unit, a killing machine. They find targets, make arrests, and kill suspects. Who holds them accountable? I’m pretty sure the CIA is in charge most of the time. This is far from a traditional war. This whole fucking place is a CIA operation. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all about getting those fuckers out of here to help build democracy, but at the end of the day, who is watching over the CIA? At least the military has to report their shit to Congress.”
“Yeah, I hear you.”
As they near the Green Zone, two hulking MRAPs pulled in front of them, joining the convoy. Red dust enveloped them, the rumble vibrated in their chests.
Neha shifted the Humvee down into first gear. “And do not get me started on the drones. It’s all anyone talks about now. I mean, how many drones has the Agency flown over here and dropped on militants? I’ve heard the number of those killed by the drones is upwards of 2,000 since 2001.” She shook her head. “I’ve met the Agency targeters here. It’s weird having a drink with them, talking to them, knowing that all they do is stare at data all day trying to identify their next target. It’s all they want to do. They get promoted for it.
“They’re not like you. They get a bit bent, if you know what I mean. They can’t have joined the Agency for this, but this is where they are - in the heart of military operations in Afghanistan. You wouldn’t have joined for that, would you have?”
Mac shook her head, staring ahead.
“I’m just saying, Mac, this doesn’t sound like the kind of Agency you signed up for.”
“It’s not.”
“Have you been to the Counterterrorism Center in Langley?”
Mac gave a small nod.
“So the build up, the militaristic shit - it’s not just here.”
“No. It’s not just here.”
They were sitting over beers in a dark, almost empty restaurant in the Green Zone. A few military types stood quietly around the bar. The small, chipped wood table between them wobbled.
“Please tell me you did NOT just say that.” Mac chortled.
Neha twisted her long dark hair into a top knot and clasped her hands behind her neck. “No lie, I just put my head back down on the pillow and I look over at him and I said, ‘I gotta leave soon, Honey.”
“Oh my god. What did he do?”
“He rolls over to me and literally says, ‘Can’t I get some snuggles?’”
Mac snorted loudly. “What did you do?”
“I said, ‘Yeah, not today, Sugar, I’m super busy.’ So I got up, pulled on my clothes and bee-lined it out of there.” Neha’s smile was huge, beaming.
“That’s priceless.”
“He’s like totally after me. He keeps finding me, asking me out.”
“Seriously? That’s fucking priceless.”
“I know, right? Who knew being so hard-to-get would actually pay back in spades? All these years it was us doing the chasing and - boom - in the snap of a finger I’ve turned the tables.” She laughed over the beer bottle. “What a great ego boost! Wait —” the bottle hovered by her lip. “— I have a photo on my camera. Wanna see him?”
“Uh. Duh!”
Neha dug through her bag past head scarves and a toiletry
bag. She pulled out a cracked cell phone and flipped through her photo gallery. She handed Mac the phone with a photo of a lean, well-built army officer standing near a military tent.
Mac whistled. “Dude, he’s F.I.N.E.”
“Right?”
They tapped beer bottles. Mac said, “Here’s to something good coming out of Afghanistan.”
“Baggage-free, manly sex!” Neha’s demeanor changed slowly. She stared directly at Mac. “We just heard SIGAR - Special Inspector General for Afghanistan Reconstruction - estimates $100 Billion has been spent here in non military aid. 100. Billion. All through contractors to State, USAID, DOD. Contractors in Afghanistan are building latrines without plumbing, cafeterias without kitchen facilities and getting paid millions. We’ve got fuck all to show for it after a decade. 100 Billion. Christ.”
“The cost of war and rebuilding?” Another limp answer.
Neha shook her head. “It’s more than that. The CIA is literally handing bags of cash over to Karzai.”
Mac hushed her. “You’re not supposed to know about that.”
“Yeah, whatever with the ‘I’m not supposed to know that’. You hear a lot of things out here. People forget we’re going go back to the real world at some point and it won’t be all ‘what happens on tour stays on tour’. Guys here were talking about when they were in Iraq and they were moving wrapped cash on pallets between unsecured sites. They were saying stacks of hundred dollar bills often left those pallets and ended up in duffel bags.” She took a sip of beer. “And sometimes one of them would just pick up a duffel bag on their way to Kuwait for R and R. That’s some crazy shit.”
“Yup.”
“You see that shit?”
“Yup. It was a cash economy. No other options.”
