Alex Berenson: The Shadow Patrol

BACK AT LANGLEY, the geeks in the Division of Science and Technology worked on trackers. A transmitter hidden inside a pill would have to be a low-powered radio unit that could be monitored only at close range. The DST preferred to hide a satellite transponder inside a heart monitor. When Rashid delivered the monitor to al-Zawahiri, satellites would autolock on him.

The night before the meeting, Holm couldn’t sleep. Around three a.m., she gave up, turned on a lamp. Her husband sat up, stretched his arms as if he’d been asleep, though she knew he hadn’t. “What if we’re wrong?”

“He’s already given us a bunch of guys. He’s proven himself.”

“I know I’m being irrational. Maybe it doesn’t make sense unless you’re a woman. But we’ve all had one of them. In college if you’re lucky, high school if you’re not. He’s older, picks you up at a bar. Doesn’t try to take you home that night. Gets your number, takes you to dinner, and he’s got a nice car. He’s so polite. Charming. Not like the stupid boys you know. You’re happy you dressed up for him. Then after dinner he takes you back to his place for a drink, and before you know it your skirt is off, and whether you want it or not, it’s happening. And when it’s done, he never calls again—”

“Did this happen to you?”

“I told you we’ve all had one of them. The point is, that’s the feeling Marburg gives me. He’s too good. Do anything to get in our pants.”

“Make sure they pat him down tomorrow. Before he gets inside.”

“I asked Manny and he says no. We haven’t searched him before, we can’t start now. Especially since he told us how much he hated those guys stripping him down.”

They were silent. Finally she said, “You know I can’t walk away now. It’s too late. Anyway, Manny has me believing I’m crazy to worry about this. Tell me I’m crazy.”

“The craziest woman I’ve ever met. Why I love you.”

She leaned over, kissed him. “Good night, sweetie.”

In the morning, she felt fine, chipper, even. She saw the truth. Marburg was not a double. He was her agent. He was about to give them Ayman al-Zawahiri. She showered and dressed and drank two big mugs of coffee and headed out.

The day was clear and crisp. A breeze splashed in from the mountains. They saddled up and flew to Camp Holux on two Black Hawks. The team totaled ten officers in all, including Cota and his deputy, the two top officers in Afghanistan. The most junior guy in the group was Tom Lautner, her husband’s brother, on his first tour in Kabul. He had been assigned to help provide security. She liked having him there.

The base was spartan, brick outbuildings that the CIA had rented from a local farmer, ringed with sandbags and barbed wire and low concrete blast walls. A South African contractor managed security, hiring Nepalese Gurkhas for the guard tower and locals to patrol outside the wire. In the one-room brick building that served as the communications center, Holm hailed Ted Khan, the officer overseeing Rashid’s pickup, on an encrypted radio.

“Stinson One, this is Holux, do you copy?”

“Copy. Awaiting subject. Over.” Even on encrypted frequencies, Khan wasn’t chatty. Holm was glad he was handling the pickup. He was half Afghan, and though he’d grown up near Los Angeles, he spoke perfect Pashtun.

Cota’s sat phone buzzed. “Yes, sir… Soon as we hear, sir.” He clicked off. “Erie wishes us luck,” he said to Holm. Erie was the code name for the deputy director of operations, the agency’s second-highest officer.

“It’s not even five a.m. back there.”

“He’s calling from home. Putting that encrypted line to good use.”

The radio crackled again a few minutes later. Holm reached for the handset but Cota grabbed it. “Firecracker here.” The code name for the chief of station.

“This is Stinson One. I have eyes on the subject. Umm, he’s wearing a jacket.”

“What kind of jacket?”

“A windbreaker type, not too puffy, but maybe loose enough to hide a vest. Request permission for a physical search.”

Do it, Holm mouthed at Cota. He raised a finger to his lips.

“Does he seem nervous? Head down, shuffling his feet?”

“Negative. He’s looking around for me, checking his watch.”

“No search. Subject is friendly and we’re gonna treat him that way. If you think he’s wearing a vest, you’re authorized to take action. But don’t be wrong.”

“Roger that. We’ll bring him in, then.”

The radio clicked off.

“Don’t say it,” Cota said.

“A windbreaker’s not his style. He’s never worn one before.”

“Come on. It’s thirty degrees. And I told Khan he was authorized to take action.”

“You also told him not to be wrong.”

“I think after today Marburg’s getting another case officer.”

They were all locked in, Holm saw. Cota was counting the promotions he’d get for running this op. The security guys would do what Cota said. She wanted to object, but it was too late.

Ten minutes later, Tom Lautner appeared. “They’re at the gate.”

THE OFFICERS FORMED an impromptu welcoming party outside the communications center. The gate rolled open and Ted Khan piloted his rusty old Toyota pickup through the chicane of concrete barriers just inside. Holm waved, and from inside the Toyota, Rashid waved back.

The pickup stopped a hundred feet from the CIA officers. Khan stepped out as Holm walked toward the SUV’s passenger side. Lautner and other security officers followed, their pistols holstered. Cota had told them no rifles. Too intimidating.

The front passenger door opened. Rashid stepped out, careful to make sure his gown didn’t touch the pickup’s muddy side panels. “Doctor—”

He stepped toward her. “Miss Simmons, salaam aleikum— ”

Before he finished the greeting, she knew. His face was even thinner than it had been in Karachi. But under his windbreaker, his body was thicker. Squarer. Whoever had built the vest had done a good job. It wasn’t obvious. If it had been obvious, Khan would have been sure, instead of just worried.

But it was there.

Rashid took another step toward her. His eyes opened wide. He smiled. She saw he wanted her to know. He wasn’t nervous either. He was ready. He was looking forward to this.

“Bomb!” Holm yelled. “Bomb!” No time to say anything else. She pushed Cota aside and down—

Behind her the security officers reached for their pistols—

They were all too late.

Ahmad Rashid, code name Marburg, reached under his sweater and pushed the detonator on his suicide vest. The seven pounds of Semtex strapped to his body blew. The blast wave tore Marci Holm into pieces so small that her remains could be identified only by her wedding ring. It ripped off the back of Manny Cota’s head. It killed seven other CIA officers, including Tom Lautner. Marci’s body partly protected him from the blast. He might have survived, but the overpressure wave caught him awkwardly and snapped his neck. Six other officers were seriously wounded, Ted Khan worst of all. The explosion blasted the 4Runner’s windshield into shards that cut up his eyes before he could blink. In a way he was lucky. He couldn’t see what had happened to his face.

EVEN BEFORE the wounded were loaded onto medevac choppers for transport to Bagram and then Germany, the Critic-coded transmissions began.

EXPLOSION HOLUX… MULTIPLE KIA… MULTIPLE WIA… EMERGENCY TRANSPORT EN ROUTE… REPEAT EXPLOSION INSIDE WIRE HOLUX. PERIMETER SECURE NO FURTHER ATTACK. SUICIDE BOMB SUSPECTED. MARBURG ASSUMED RESPONSIBLE.

REPEAT MARBURG ASSUMED RESPONSIBLE.

In the days to come, the dimensions of the catastrophe would become evident. A less important station would have been temporarily shut. Not Kabul. Not for a month or a week or even a day. Not with the Taliban spreading and the Afghan government too corrupt to function. Not with al-Qaeda regrouping over the border in Pakistan. Even before Manny Cota was buried in Georgia, Duto and his deputies on the seventh floor at Langley were deciding who would replace him. Duto himself flew to Kabul to rally his officers.