Three Weeks in Washington, page 26
part #3 of Titus Ray Series
The taxi driver had immediately recognized Pike as a journalist, and he’d tried to engage him in conversation. However, Pike wasn’t interested. He was more concerned about where the driver was taking us—like right into a red zone, a strict no-go area where Sunni opposition forces weren’t friendly to journalists, especially American journalists.
Pike began shouting commands at the man. “Turn here. No, don’t go there. It’s this way.”
The driver kept yelling back at him, but Pike was so intent on making his own opinions heard, he wasn’t listening to anything the taxi driver was saying.
I’d heard the driver say his cousin was a tribal leader who wanted to talk to a journalist, and when I’d had enough of their nonsense, I grabbed Pike’s arm and said, “Shut up, Keever. He’s offering you a story.”
Pike stopped yelling long enough to ask, “Will I get a chance to write it before I’m shot?”
The driver shrugged and said, “You’ll have to negotiate those terms with Hussein.”
Hussein turned out to be Hussein Ibrahim, the leader of an Islamist Sunni group, a person the State Department had hoped would serve as a buffer between the Iraqi Shiite forces and a new group of radicals calling themselves ISIS.
The Agency had been trying to locate the charismatic leader for several months, and when the taxi driver brought us right up to the house where he was staying, it was obvious Pike could barely contain his excitement.
But, to be honest, I was pretty stoked about it myself, and I would have given anything if Carlton had been with us.
Pike had an easy time interviewing Hussein Ibrahim. The Sunni leader was eager to give us his opinions on how to stop the infighting among the tribal leaders in Iraq. In fact, Pike ended up writing an extensive piece on Ibrahim, and all the major papers had picked it up.
After the story ran, Ibrahim agreed to meet with us occasionally, but he always insisted on meeting in a different location every time. Even though we were usually forced to listen to his views on a variety of topics, we were still able to pick up some tidbits of useful intel at the same time.
During one of those get-togethers, we convinced Ibrahim to talk with some of our “friends” from the State Department. During that meeting—after receiving a promise of unlimited financial support—he had agreed to work with U.S. officials on the ground in Iraq to bring together a hodgepodge of other militant groups who would serve as a bulwark against ISIS.
Unfortunately, ISIS had prevailed, and now, Ibrahim had faded into the Iraqi countryside. The last I’d heard of him, he was living in some obscure village near Fallujah, trying to escape the creeping onslaught of a black death squad.
Now, as I observed Pike giving Trudy his opinion on the best route into the city, I suddenly remembered how Pike had described Hussein Ibrahim in his article.
“This is a man so passionate about his own opinions, he fails to listen to the opinions of others.”
At the time, I’d been struck by how well Pike had managed to capture the essence of Ibrahim, while characterizing himself at the same time.
From all indications, Pike hadn’t changed all that much in the last four years.
* * * *
The airport was located just east of Damascus, about thirty miles from the heart of the city, and the Agency’s safe house was twenty miles further north, near the Anaser Mosque in the Al Tal suburb.
Due to several checkpoints and heavy traffic along the way, a trip that should have taken us less than an hour to complete took us almost two.
Pike used the time to quiz me about how I saw the operation playing out.
In true journalistic style, he questioned me about everything—from what I thought about Marwan Farage to the intel I expected to gain from General Suleiman’s visit.
“I see Marwan a little differently than you do,” he said, after we’d talked for a while. “The asset I was running inside Naballah’s inner circle described him as being sure of himself. He never said anything about him being nervous or afraid of anything.”
“That may have been true when Marwan was around Naballah, but when he was in our custody, he was definitely distressed, especially when he thought his wife and daughter were in danger. That’s when he started sweating buckets and agreed to cooperate with us.”
“But will he be able to handle himself in the company of General Suleiman?”
“After I meet with him tomorrow, you’ll have to make that determination. I’m the second chair in this operation.”
Pike shook his head. “Being designated the primary wasn’t my idea. That was strictly the DDO’s choice. I never—”
Trudy suddenly brought the Renault to a complete stop.
“We’ve got trouble,” she said.
* * * *
On the road in front of us were several men dressed in military gear. They appeared to be members of the Syrian Army.
The men had surrounded a battered old BMW and were forcing its passengers to exit the vehicle. There were four young males inside, and when they were told to get out of their vehicle, they immediately put their hands on top of their heads.
“Do you have a—”
“There’s a loaded revolver underneath your seat,” Pike said, anticipating my question.
He’d already removed a weapon from his side holster, and, as I reached underneath the seat, I saw Trudy remove her own handgun from her purse.
After locating the revolver, I left it on the floorboard within easy reach. Then, I glanced out the back window. “We’re boxed in here. We have cars on both sides of us.”
“They’re just kids,” Trudy said, watching the scene unfold.
Pike said, “They’re probably conscripts who’ve refused to fight their fellow citizens. They’ll be arrested, and after a couple of beatings, they’ll be more than happy to put on a uniform.”
A few minutes later, the ranking officer lifted something out of the trunk of the BMW and nodded at one of the soldiers. The four males were immediately forced to their knees, and one of the soldiers put a gun to the head of the youngest kid.
I said, “This doesn’t look promising, Keever. It might be a good time for us to start acting like journalists.”
“My thoughts exactly,” he said, putting away his gun and pulling a PRESS placard out of the glove box. After placing it on the windshield, we waited to see if it drew any attention.
However, as the officer walked over to the kneeling men, he seemed oblivious to the parked cars and the crowd gathering to watch the drama play out on the street in front of them.
The officer went over and stood behind the oldest boy, leaning over and whispering something in his ear. The kid immediately began shaking his head back and forth.
The officer straightened up and hit him with the back of his hand. Afterward, he nodded at the soldier standing over the young boy.
The soldier pushed the kid’s head down with one hand while pressing his pistol against the back of his head with the other.
I immediately grabbed the Nikon, swung open the car door, and began shooting multiple frames.
Pike came out of the Renault right behind me, his press ID swinging from a lanyard around his neck. I suddenly realized I hadn’t dug mine out of my duffel bag at the airport.
Now, I wished I had.
Pike began firing questions at the officer, which caused the soldiers guarding the four boys to abandon their positions and move toward him.
I shouted at them in Arabic, “Press. Press. We’re journalists.”
The officer glanced over at the sign on the SUV, then back at the camera I was holding, and finally at Pike, who said, “Could I ask you a few questions?”
The officer ignored Pike and motioned at one of the soldiers, who walked over and grabbed the Nikon out of my hands.
“No pictures,” he shouted at me.
The officer turned and said something to the four boys, and the four of them took off running for their car.
Pike and I did the same.
Well, we didn’t actually run.
Both of us took very long strides, though.
As we piled back in the car, Trudy said, “That went well.”
Seconds later, as the cars ahead of us started moving again, Pike turned around and grinned at me.
“Support Services will want a four-page document explaining how you let some two-bit soldier take that expensive Nikon out of your hands. Remember to add a notation clarifying I explicitly told you not to take any pictures.”
“Since when have I ever listened to you?”
Chapter 35
The Agency safe house in the Al Tal suburb of Damascus was a two-story concrete building with a long narrow footprint and a satellite dish perched atop its low flat roof.
It didn’t look all that different from the other houses in the neighborhood. However, I had to believe some of the furnishings inside the house were substantially different from any of those found in the other residences.
Like most Agency safe houses, this one came equipped with a number of security devices, including a video surveillance system in every room, a backup generator, and a vast array of electronic equipment used to communicate with both intelligence officers on the ground and the Ops Center back at Langley.
As soon as we arrived at the safe house, Trudy told us she needed to get back to the EAI compound, and Pike walked her over to the mini-van parked at the curb, putting his arm around her for the benefit of any nosy neighbors who might be wondering why there was an EAI van parked in front of his house.
The vehicle had the relief agency’s familiar black and gold lettering on the side, and below the words, Emergency Aid International, was the EAI logo. It depicted a small child receiving a bowl of rice from a kneeling figure. A graphic artist had designed the EAI letters to form an umbrella over the two darkened silhouettes.
Underneath the logo was the relief agency’s motto written in both Arabic and English. The motto, “Kneeling In Service, Standing In Hope,” had come straight from the CIA’s Disinformation and Propaganda Department. Carlton said their director, Nora Kaylor, had come up with the slogan herself.
After Trudy drove off, Pike and I entered the safe house. Once he’d given me a quick tour of the layout, and I’d deposited my duffel bag in one of the bedrooms, we ended up in the kitchen.
It wasn’t a modern-looking kitchen by American standards, but it appeared to have all the basics, plus a well-stocked pantry. When I grabbed a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, I noticed it was also crammed with food supplies.
“Are you planning a dinner party? There’s enough food in here for an army.”
“I remembered your cooking fetish, so I had Trudy go by the market and grab some stuff.”
“I don’t have a cooking fetish, but if that’s your way of asking me to make you some of my world-class chili, then the answer is yes.”
He grinned. “I’ve always loved your chili. And your barbeque brisket. I even sorta like that chicken and spaghetti stuff you made one time.”
“You mean chicken tetrazzini?”
“Yeah ... that.”
Suddenly, his smile disappeared.
I thought I knew why.
* * * *
The night I’d added some chicken to some leftover spaghetti and called it chicken tetrazzini had been the night he’d gone off the wagon.
That night, the two of us were stuck in an apartment in Mosul doing surveillance on a couple of Iraqis across the street. The two men were suspected of being responsible for an attack on a resupply convoy in which four Americans had been killed.
Since Pike had only recently joined the Agency, it was the first time we’d worked together.
Around midnight, a call had come in from Communication Services informing Pike he needed to call his mother-in-law. After making the call, he’d come out of the bedroom, mumbled something about needing some air, and left the apartment.
When he’d staggered back in almost three hours later, he was plastered.
The next morning, fully sober now, he told me his ex-wife had been killed in a freak accident. He said his mother-in-law had been a nervous wreck when she’d told him.
I thought he still looked pretty shaken up by the news himself.
He said, “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell anyone I got drunk last night.”
“I can’t think of any reason I’d tell anyone. Even if I did, why would they care?”
He looked surprised. “My employment at the Agency is contingent upon my ability to stay sober. Didn’t you know that?”
“Why would I know that?”
“I thought everyone at the Agency knew.”
“Not me.”
I didn’t bother explaining I wasn’t all that sociable and seldom spent any time in the cafeteria listening to the latest gossip.
After Pike took a couple of aspirin, followed by several gulps of strong coffee, he explained the circumstances surrounding his CIA employment.
He began by telling me about his illustrious newspaper career. Even though I knew he’d been a respected journalist for a number of years and had won several awards for his writing before joining the CIA, I wasn’t aware he’d been fired by the last three newspapers he’d worked for. He said it was because of his drinking.
“The last time I was fired, I’d hit rock bottom. That’s when one of the suits from the Agency’s seventh floor found me. I can’t say who it was, because I’ve been sworn to secrecy, but you can probably guess his identity. Anyway, he came to me with a proposition, and I accepted.”
“He propositioned you and you accepted?”
He laughed. “That’s about it. He said he’d read all my stuff; he knew I was an expert on the Middle East and could speak Arabic. He told me if I would sign on the bottom line, I’d be able to file stories under my own byline again. He promised to send me to places where news was happening on every corner, and he assured me the stories I wrote would be picked up by all the major news organizations.”
“But there was a caveat?”
He nodded. “I had to stay sober. Before the Agency sent me to their spook training camp at The Farm, I had to spend twelve weeks in a recovery treatment facility, courtesy of Uncle Sam. Believe me, the latter was harder than the former.”
“So what happened last night?”
He shook his head. “I’m not sure, but I swear it’ll never happen again. I live in the best of both worlds now. Not only am I reporting the news, I’m trying to make a difference in the news I’m reporting. If you could keep last night’s slip-up just between the two of us, I’d really appreciate it.”
“As far as I’m concerned, it never happened.”
That was the end of it.
I had never mentioned Pike’s failure to anyone.
However, colleagues who share embarrassing secrets are sometimes reminded of them, and I felt certain Pike’s mention of my chicken tetrazzini had triggered both our memories of that night.
Now, an awkward silence hung in the air between us.
* * * *
I quickly changed the conversation from food to one of Pike’s favorite topics, one he could talk about for hours.
“How about my weapons package, Keever? Is it ready?”
“You bet. Come this way.”
I followed Pike down the hall to a back bedroom where he opened the closet and took out several aluminum cases. Each case contained a handgun.
Pike spent the next hour describing the pros and cons of each gun in much the same way a professional chef might describe the minute subtleties in a variety of cheeses.
Pike was a gun guy.
He loved guns; he collected guns; he told me once he even loved the smell of guns.
Okay, fine. I understood that.
Different strokes for different folks.
But, I wasn’t a gun guy.
I wasn’t all that interested in where, when, or how a gun was manufactured, and I especially didn’t care about the smell of a gun. What I cared about was a gun’s reliability.
If a gun fired when I pulled the trigger, and it was able to deliver the bullet reasonably close to its intended target, then that was the gun I loved.
Pike and I had discussed guns before—endlessly.
Now, after telling me more than I wanted to know about each of the four handguns he’d laid out for me, he asked, “See anything that suits you?”
“You know I’m not picky,” I said, taking the sub-compact Sig out of its case. “This is fine.”
He nodded. “That’s a good choice. Very reliable.”
He picked up the Beretta. “You don’t like the Beretta Px4?”
“It’s not a question of not liking it. I just chose the Sig instead.”
“The ergonomics on this Beretta make it a good choice.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll take the Beretta.”
He took the Sig out of my hands and handed me the Beretta, observing me closely as I checked it out.
“You’re right,” I said. “A Beretta’s an easy gun to handle, and this one feels well balanced.”
“If it’s balance you’re looking for, then a better choice might be the Browning Hi Power.” He lifted the HP out of its case and said, “It’s famous for its perfect balance.”
“I like the HP. I carried one in Iraq, but this Beretta’s fine.”
“No, if you’re more familiar with the HP, then you should probably take it instead. Give me back the Beretta.”
I handed over the Beretta and picked up the Browning HP.
“It looks brand new,” I said, examining the weapon. “Has it been fired before?”
“You’d prefer a used gun?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Here’s a 9mm Makarov I bought off another journalist,” he said, picking it up. “The Makarov is standard issue in the Syrian military. If our mission goes sideways, you can always wave this around and blend right in. I’ve carried one ever since I got here.”
I laid the HP back in its silver case and said, “I’ll take the Makarov then.”
