Against All Enemies

43 THE MORE THINGS CHANGE

Moore and Towers had hitched a ride back with Meyers and his agents, who’d dropped them off at the DEA office. Video taken by a woman waiting at LAX’s cell-phone lot showed three terrorists standing near a DirecTV satellite van. They wore jeans and flannel shirts like migrant workers, with balaclavas concealing their faces. Gigi Rasmussen was a nineteen-year-old USC freshman who’d started her recording with the launch of the second missile, the killing of a civilian who’d challenged the terrorists, and then their departure, all narrated by her as she gasped and repeatedly chanted “ohmygod” throughout the entire sequence. She’d sold the video to CNN, but the Agency had managed to stop its airing in the interest of national security, although Moore knew it’d eventually be released to the public. The missile launcher was identified as an Anza, the missile presumably an MK III, the same type used by the guys in San Diego. The Agency could now focus its searches for weapons deals on that specific ordnance, but even a cursory scan of the MANPADS’ specs told Moore enough: The weapon’s place of origin was Pakistan, and the MK III missiles were the Chinese version of the American Stinger. These were the types of weapons the Taliban might have access to and train with in Waziristan.

Moore reviewed every photo they had on file of Mullah Abdul Samad and zoomed in on the man’s eyes in each photograph. Then he compared those eyes to a still image he’d captured from the video. He rapped a knuckle on the screen and told Towers to look for himself.

“Damn, that could be him. And hey, they found what was left of the van at a Johnny Park on 111th Street. They burned it up. No weapons. No witnesses. You know why? Because they killed all the employees there. Gagged and taped them up, then stabbed them.”

Moore shook his head in disgust. “Mark my words, if they find any DNA at all, it’ll match what we got off the pendant. Samad led the team in L.A. I’ll bet my life on it.”

Towers considered that, then his expression grew odd. “There’s one other thing. Apparently these scumbags like chocolate. They found wrappers all over the floor mats. Foil survived the fire.”

“Maybe they’ll get some good samples off of those, but you know what’s scaring me now? The thought of how many sleepers they had helping them …” Moore flicked his glance up to the television.

All planes were on the ground now. FEMA teams were on the way. Roadblocks and checkpoints were going up within a one-hundred-mile radius of the six major airports where the incidents had occurred. Samad and his men must have accounted for those. Had they escaped before the checkpoints had gone up? Or would they remain within the secured zone for a few days or even a few weeks?

Meanwhile, the entire country was holding its collective breath, waiting to see what else might happen — chemical, biological, or nuclear — as the terrible, terrible images continued flashing across screens. People in Times Square had crowded into the streets and stood like zombies, their necks craned up to the towering images of charred landscape, scars across the soil and the fabric of the nation.

Six planes had been targeted on June 6. Two airliners whose engines had been struck by missiles had landed safely: Phoenix and El Paso. The Los Angeles flight had crashed, killing all passengers, crew, and hundreds of civilians on the ground. The Tucson flight proceeded without incident after a young kid named Joe Dominguez ran over one of the terrorists with his jacked-up truck. The San Antonio flight had crash-landed, with survivors being pulled alive from that wreck. The death tolls were mounting.

By nine p.m., the President of the United States was addressing the nation and quoting liberally from George W. Bush’s address on that fateful Tuesday in September 2001:

“The search is under way for those who are behind these evil acts. I’ve directed the full resources of our intelligence and law enforcement communities to find those responsible and bring them to justice. We will make no distinction between the terrorists who committed these acts and those who harbor them.”

“So if you’re Samad, where do you go?” asked Towers. “Michigan? Canada? Or the other direction…back into Mexico?”

“If he slips across either border we can still legally pursue him,” Moore said.

“You think that’s his plan?”

“Actually, I think he’s going to lay low. He’s got a safe house somewhere in L.A. He’s there right now. Probably some little apartment in the valley.”

“Well, if he doesn’t make a break for one of the borders now, he’ll have a hell of time after this.”

“Yeah, so it’s one thing or the other. He’s racing toward the border right now, or he’ll just sit tight till things cool off. Then he’ll make his move to wherever his final destination is.”

“Back to Pakistan?”

“Nah, too dangerous for that. We don’t have much on him, but we know he’s got friends in Zahedan and Dubai. We need to get his face out there. Some neighborhood kid could ID him.”

“Sit tight, bro. When that DNA comes back from the van, I think your boys in Langley might be willing to go public.”

“They’d better be. So …there’s no way I can sleep. Let’s go up to L.A.”

Towers took a long pull on his coffee, nodded, and said, “It’s been one hell of a night.”

Dan Burleson squinted against the blinding lights and the cameras directed at him and the rest of the passengers as they entered the terminal, having just completed the inflatable-slide exit from the plane made infamous by a JetBlue flight attendant who, after being harassed by a passenger, had quit his job and subsequently exited the plane in the same fashion, in what some called the most epic resignation ever. Before exiting the plane, Dan and the others had been told that they would need to be quarantined and questioned briefly by federal investigators. Doctors would also be available, and vouchers to make up for the flight would be issued. The flight attendant who’d nearly been attacked had clutched Dan’s hand before he exited the plane and said, “Thank you.”

He’d blushed.

As they moved through the crowd of media held back by airport security guards, the black lady who’d told everyone to shut up lifted her voice to the crowd: “Jesus did his work tonight! And he gave us this great man right here! This hero who saved us from the terrorist on our plane!”

She pointed directly at Dan, who winced and waved and tried to move as quickly as he could past the throng as camera lights now went off like fireworks. He had a feeling that by morning, he’d be sitting in numerous TV studios and giving interviews about something that had never occurred to him as heroism. He wanted to believe that anyone in his position would have done the same thing, that there were still Good Samaritans left in this world. That’s all there was to it.

And, alas, the smallmouth bass would have to wait.

Joe Dominguez had been examined by the doctor, his arm stitched up, and then he’d been questioned by the local Tucson police and by two guys from the FBI, who must have asked him one thousand questions in just one hour.

His parents came down to the hospital, and after he was released, two cops said they would “help” get him back to his parents’ car. He didn’t understand what that meant until the automatic doors opened and they went outside—

Into a crowd of reporters, probably ten or fifteen of them, with cameramen and lights — and the sight of those cameras balanced on the shoulders of those men gave Dominguez a flashback to the moment, even as digital cameras began to flash. A reporter he recognized from the local news thrust her microphone into his face and said, “Joe, we know you were a hero out there, taking down the terrorists. Can you tell us what happened?”

“Uh, I wish I could, but they told me not to say anything right now.”

“But it’s true that you ran over the guys with your truck, then shot one of them in the head, right? We’ve talked to other witnesses who’ve told us that.”

Dominguez looked back at his father, who shook his head vigorously: Don’t talk!

“Uh, I can’t say anything. But if they tell me that I can, then, you know, hey, I’ll tell you all about it.”

“What does it feel like to be a hero?” shouted another reporter.

Before he could respond, the police forced back the reporters and steered Joe and his parents through the breach. By the time they reached his father’s battered white pickup truck, he was exhausted.

And his father was crying.

“Dad, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” his father said, glancing away, embarrassed. “I’m just so proud of you.”

About two and a half hours later, Moore and Towers were in Los Angeles, talking with the incident commander inside the parking garage.

Another of the CIA’s mobile labs had arrived to assist the FBI’s forensic teams. Moore spoke to the techs, who said they were using the new rapid DNA analysis platform, the same one they’d used on the pendant back in San Diego.

By morning he had his answer: The DNA on the foil wrappers they’d found matched what had been on the pendant.

Photographs of Samad, Talwar, Niazi, and Rahmani had been released to the world. The Agency had been denying any knowledge of exactly how the terrorists had passed into the country, and the talking heads were in their glory, with hundreds of hours of television programming easily filled by their speculation and arguments about better securing America’s borders and how the Department of Homeland Security, despite all the budget increases and measurable improvements, had failed the nation. TSA screeners were more adept at discovering transvestites and breast implants than would-be terrorists — so said the pundits. The comptroller general of the United States, the head of the GAO (Government Accountability Office), was being questioned about a recent performance audit of the DHS in which he stated that the DHS was not making its operations transparent enough for Congress to be sure the department was working effectively, efficiently, and economically, in view of its massive annual budget. The GAO would once again exercise its broad statutory right to the department’s records in an attempt to pinpoint where the failures had taken place. Moore could only hope that public pressure didn’t take the investigation to the CIA, to Calexico, to a border tunnel that had been controlled by the Juárez Cartel and exploited by terrorists, to a man assigned to shut down that cartel.

Once again American flags were being raised over homes throughout America, and those who’d been largely apathetic about their patriotism suddenly found it once more. Cries in Congress for a military response like the one seen after 9/11 got citizens enraged and protesting for an overwhelming response. Thousands rallied on Capitol Hill. Gun sales increased tenfold. Mosques were bombed and looted.

Then, on the seventh day after the terror strike, a victory was reported in the tribal lands of Pakistan: Mullah Omar Rahmani was, according to Moore’s colleagues, dead, killed by a Hellfire missile launched from one of the CIA’s Predator drones. His death was the only good news to reach the American people since the attack. The hunt for the other terrorists was ongoing and thus far unsuccessful, despite thousands of man-hours and tens of thousands of leads.

The President gave a press conference to confirm that the “mastermind” behind the airliner attacks had been killed — and country-music stars were already releasing new songs about how America kicks ass.

Moore hardly celebrated Rahmani’s demise. He had not heard back from Wazir, and the old man’s silence deeply troubled him and robbed the so-called good news of any pleasure. He told Slater and O’Hara that he would travel to Pakistan himself to ID Rahmani’s body; it was something he had to do. At the same time, he would try to reestablish contact with Wazir. He also reminded his bosses that killing Rahmani might have made it impossible to find the others. While he didn’t like it, Moore understood why his request to have the drones stand down had been denied. The American people wanted blood, and the Agency had been under extreme pressure to give it to them. The days of the Colosseum had returned.

Moore had flown into Islamabad and thought he’d first stop at the embassy to surprise Leslie. He’d learned through a mutual friend that she’d been transferred from the embassy in Kabul back to the one in Islamabad, where they’d first met.

He caught her in the parking lot as she was heading out for lunch.

“Oh my God,” she said, then lowered her glasses to stare over the rim. “Am I dreaming?”

“No, I am.”

She shoved him hard in the shoulder. “That’s cheesy, and you, uh, look pretty good. You clean up well. I like the haircut. It reminds me that we should do more to strengthen our bilateral relationship.”

“You mean we should get something straight between us?”

“That’s inappropriate.”

“I’d like to get inappropriate with you.”

She took a deep breath and turned away.

“What?”

“What do you mean ‘What?’ What did you expect? I gave them my two weeks’ notice. I’m leaving at the end of the week, going back to the U.S.”

He threw his hands up, knowing how much she’d put into the career. “Why?”

“Because this isn’t for me anymore. I thought a transfer back to Islamabad would make a difference, but it hasn’t. The only thing that made it fun and exciting was you.”

“No, no, no. You need to slow down. Let’s go over to Club 21 like old times. They still got the best beer in this town.”

“The only beer in this town.”

He moved to her, put his hand beneath her chin. “I owed you a real good-bye — not that awkward, uh, whatever that was on the phone, and that’s why I came back. If this made it worse, then I’m just an idiot, but I didn’t want to leave it like that. I felt terrible.”

“You did?”

He nodded, and two rounds of beers later, he dropped her off at the embassy, and there was a moment where he held her hand, squeezed it tightly, and said, “You’re going to have a great life.”

Before driving up to North Waziristan, Moore stopped off at Forward Operating Base Chapman, one of the CIA’s key facilities in Afghanistan, located near the eastern city of Khost. Chapman was the site of the infamous suicide attack that, on December 30, 2009, killed seven CIA operatives, including the chief of the base. The Agency’s primary mission at that time was to gather HUMINT for drone attacks against targets located within the tribal lands, and those attacks had incited retaliation from the Taliban operating across the border. The attack was one of the most lethal ever carried out against the CIA. Moore knew three of the dead men and had spoken on the phone with all the others. He’d walked around in a daze for about a week afterward. It was, for everyone, a devastating loss.

Rahmani’s body — or what was left of it — had been transferred there, and while the torso had been shredded by the bombs, his face had remained somewhat intact. Moore was probably imagining it, but it almost seemed that he’d died with a sardonic grin on his face.

Moore arrived in Miran Shah in the late afternoon. The dust and squalor and antiquated influences of Western culture struck him once more. This time, however, without Rana as his driver, he was aggressively stopped by four guards, members of the Army who were pleased to show him the business ends of their AK-47s. Frowning, one of them shouldered his weapon and shook his finger at Moore. “I remember you.”

“I remember you, too,” Moore lied. “I’m heading up to see Wazir.”

The guards looked strangely at one another, and then the one who remembered Moore said, “ID, please.”

Moore waited while the man inspected the document.

“Okay,” he said, returning the ID. “Where is your young friend?”

Moore averted his gaze. No reason to lie now. “He died.”

“Sorry.”

The guards lowered their rifles, and he was waved on. Moore followed the dirt road, remembering the turn to the right and the ascent through the foothills. He pulled up near the two brick homes with satellite dishes on their roofs and the collection of tents rising behind them. The goats and cows were shifting in their pens behind, and in the valley below were dozens of farmers working the fields. He had never smelled air so clean.

An old man came out, leaving the door open behind him, and Moore did a double take. This man wore black robes and a matching vest, but his beard was much shorter than Wazir’s. Two more men appeared — soldiers with rifles pointed at Moore. He shut down the engine and stepped out.

“Who are you?” asked the old man.

“My name is Khattak. I’ve come to see Wazir.”

“Wazir?” The old man faced his guards, then gestured for them to return to the house.

“Is something wrong?” Moore asked.

The old man made a face. “I’ll take you to see him.” He started around the house and past the tents, working his way along the animal pens and through a serpentine path toward the hillside beyond. Moore followed in silence.

“So, you are a friend?” the old man finally asked as they mounted the hill.

“Yes. And you?”

“Oh, yes. Wazir and I fought the Soviets together.”

Moore took a deep breath and hoped against fate that his suspicions weren’t true. “What is your name?”

“Abdullah Yusuff Rana.”

Moore stopped walking and turned back toward the valley. This was Rana’s grandfather and the reason why young Rana had known Wazir all of his life. Moore wanted very badly to tell the old man that he knew his grandson, that the boy had worked bravely for him, given his life for what he believed in, and that Moore owed him everything.

“Do you see something?” the old man asked.

Moore shook his head. “Just beautiful up here.”

The older Rana shrugged and led him farther up the hill, where near the top lay a deep crater with pulverized stone lying in curious lines and fanning out in all directions. Off to the left was a rectangular mound lying in the shade of three tall trees. A grave.

Rana pointed. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

Moore tried to breathe. Tried. “What happened?”

“I thought you knew.”

Moore shook his head vigorously.

Rana looked to the sky. “Wazir liked to come up here to read and meditate. The drone flew over and dropped the bomb on him. As far as we are concerned, he was a martyr, buried in the clothes he died in, lying on his side and facing Mecca, and it was Allah’s will that he died in his most favorite place.” Rana closed his eyes and added in Arabic, “Inna Lillahi wa Inna ileyhi Raj’oon.”

Truly we belong to Allah, and truly to Him shall we return.

“I will leave you alone,” said Rana, heading back the way they’d come.

Moore stepped over to the grave site. He’d been planning to take Wazir up on his offer:

“When you’re ready to talk, come back to me. I want to hear your story. I’m an old man. I’m a good listener.”

I’m sorry, Wazir. You did everything you could for me, and I got you killed. I came here looking for answers. Now I won’t get any. I wanted to tell you about the most difficult thing I’ve done in my life. Do you know what it is? Just trying to forgive myself. I don’t know how.

Moore rubbed the corners of his eyes, then started back down the hillside. The breeze caught his hair, and he thought he could hear the old man’s voice in his ear, but it was only the rustle of leaves.

Samad and the rest of those evil bastards would escape because of big bureaucracies and impatience and actionable intelligence that excused murder. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

When he reached the front of the house, Rana was waiting for him and said, “Please stay for the evening meal.”

It would be rude for Moore to decline, but he was too depressed to do much more than leave.

A tug came at his sleeve. It was the boy who’d helped Wazir serve them stew. He was Wazir’s great-grandson, Moore remembered, maybe eight or nine years old. Between his thumb and forefinger was a slip of yellow lined paper folded in half. “My great-grandfather said if you came when he wasn’t home, I should give this to you.”