Alex Berenson: The Shadow Patrol

“He doesn’t, no one’s going to put it on you. You handled him great. I watched the video from Karachi. He likes you, he trusts you.”

“I hope so.”

He sat down across from her. He tried to look sympathetic, but his tone was irritated. “So what’s wrong? You nervous that he’ll blow his cover, get strung up? He’s a big boy, he went in with his eyes open.”

“It’s not that.”

“Not the skiing , again. He’s not a double, Marci.”

“I like him, you know. He’s got better manners than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Better than me?”

“I’ve seen you pick your nose, Manny. You aren’t even in the same time zone.”

“Congratulations to him.”

“What if he’s too good to be true?”

“Marci. You keep forgetting, we’re not dealing with the KGB. These guys, their idea of tricky is Semtex instead of ANFO. No way they could run a double as sophisticated as this.”

“Maybe they got lucky with Marburg. We think we got lucky with him, right?”

“Give me something specific. Anything.”

“He’s not nervous.”

“What do you mean?”

“Even before I met him. The way he approached the muk in Amman. Walked right up to the gate. Who does that? He’s never nervous.”

“Maybe he doesn’t have a nervous disposition. Anyway, I saw the tape of you and him. He was nervous when he talked about his family.”

“Only for a few seconds, before he dropped it.”

“Because you reassured him. You did your job.”

“Or because he wanted to bring it up for sympathy, then let it go. He’s so afraid for his family, how come he didn’t ask for specifics of how we’re going to get them out of Amman? A written guarantee.”

“Written guarantee? You think he wants a contract that says, ‘If I deliver al-Zawahiri, my family gets free passage to the United States.’ What’s he going to do, keep it in his underwear?”

“I could hold it—”

“Then it’s really useful to him. Come on. You’re overthinking this. The guy’s a moderate Muslim, they do exist. He’s pissed that his brother killed himself, that’s a totally reasonable motive. Now he’s helping us. You’ve got evidence to the contrary, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

She had nothing to say. He rapped his knuckles on her desk.

“Good girl.”

FOUR WEEKS PASSED, no word. Despite — or because of — her fears about Rashid’s reliability, Marci was desperate to hear from him. For the first time, she understood what other case officers had meant when they said an assignment had eaten them alive. She felt almost literally as if she were being consumed. She hardly ate. She’d always been skinny, but now she could count her ribs. She pressed her husband for sex two and three times a day. Finally he rebelled.

“What you’re doing, it’s obvious.”

“I thought you’d like it.”

“Being used like a fence post so you can distract yourself. No. I don’t like it. I keep waiting for you to call me Marburg. ‘Oh, yeah, Marburg. That’s so good. Gimme some of that.’”

She had to smile. “I really have been unbearable, haven’t I? Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For putting up with me, you ninny.”

“Didn’t know I had a choice.”

She rested her arm on his chest. CIA guys came in three sizes: muscled-up ex-military types, trim guys who’d run in college, and chubby desk jockeys. Pete was a runner, with narrow shoulders and tightly knitted abs. “Have I ever told you you have a great body?”

“Never.”

“Well, you do.”

“I love you, Marci.”

“Love you, too.”

Outside, the wind howled from the north, promising fierce weather. She closed her eyes and slept without dreams for the first time in a month.

THE NOTE ARRIVED in her in-box the next morning. Rashid was supposed to use e-mail only to set up meetings. Instead he’d sent a full report — his first tradecraft mistake:

I have met our mutual friend. He is quite sick. In America, he would receive a pacemaker immediately. Unfortunately, I do not know where he is or how you can find him. They did as you suggested they would. I told them that to be searched in such a way was humiliating and unnecessary, but they insisted. This was in Peshawar. They even poured out my medicines and looked them over. They allowed me to keep the pills and bottles, but nothing else. They gave me new clothes, a robe and sandals. They put me in a van and blindfolded me and drove for hours. Then moved me to another vehicle.

When the second car stopped, I was led into a building. My blindfold was removed. I found myself inside a concrete room, no windows. I heard cars passing. After a minute my guards escorted me into another room with a long wooden table. They searched me again. This time they allowed me to keep on my clothes. We waited together — I don’t know how long. Finally, a car stopped outside. A minute later, our friend walked in, with four guards. He looked me over and said, “He has been checked?” and my guard said, “Completely.” He dismissed the guards, and I examined him. With the results I have already reported, I cannot do much for him here. Again as you suggested, his guards picked two pills at random from the bottles of medicine I’d given him and forced me to take them. I did not argue.

This meeting took place ten days ago. Until yesterday, I was confined at the house. They told me that they wanted to be sure the medicine “worked.” I told them that I was loyal and didn’t like being treated this way. Also that I wanted to consult with a specialist in heart failure to see if I could improve his treatment. Finally, they let me go. But I am sure they will bring me back to see him again.

I know I have gone on too long and that this is not the proper channel for this communication and I apologize. I am fearful now, but I believe that we have been given a great opportunity for justice. Whether they are watching me, I don’t know, but I am certain that I can find a way to disappear for a few hours if necessary. I look forward to seeing you soon.

THE NOTE WAS… PERFECT. Like everything else Rashid had given them. She forwarded it to Cota without comment. Three minutes later, he walked into her office.

“We’ve got to get a tracker on him. One they won’t find even if they strip him down again.”

“The pills could be the best way. They won’t check those twice.”

“Or he can tell them that he needs to bring some medical equipment this time. Point is, we want options for him when we meet him, and that’s going to take a couple days. Let’s aim for next week. At Holux.” Holux was a small CIA base near the Pakistani border. Two dozen CIA officers and contractors lived there, mostly directing drone strikes.

“You want to meet him on our base?”

“At least ten people are gonna be at this thing, Marci—”

“Too many.”

“Let him drive over the border, leave his car in Jalalabad, and we’ll pick him up and sneak him in.”

“Are you sure about this, Manny?”

“You don’t like it, you hand it off. I’m through debating. I reread the whole package, the walk-in, the surveillance in Amman, everything. And not just me. Both the Teds and Big Mike”—three of the top officers in the DO—“have looked it over. We agree. Marburg is clean. Marburg is gold.”

“I’m aware of the consensus.”

“You’re so worried about him, why’d you meet him one-on-one?”

“I had security across the hall.”

“We have a chance here to catch a guy we’ve been chasing a long time. End of story.”

Three e-mails later, she had set the meeting for Holux. As Cota had suggested, Rashid would cross into Afghanistan alone and meet a CIA pickup at Batawul, a village east of the camp.