Alex Berenson - The Midnight House

“It was reported in Germany last year. A prosecutor in Berlin opened an investigation into our rendition tactics. But the names of the squad members weren’t mentioned, not in the papers and not in the prosecutor’s report. As far as we know, they’ve never leaked.”

“Doesn’t mean jihadis couldn’t find them. Maybe they got help from somebody in Poland,” Shafer said. “Or somebody in the prosecutor’s office.”

“There’s another reason to believe it’s Al Qaeda. Yesterday morning a group calling itself the Army of the Sunni posted a claim of responsibility online. It refers to the murder of Mike Wyly. Looks authentic. At the time it was posted, his death hadn’t been reported. This morning the FBI backtraced the posting to a pay-per-minute computer at a Dunkin’ Donuts in L.A. The kind where you literally feed cash into a box. But the place doesn’t have cameras, and the counter guy doesn’t remember anyone special.”

“What’s the posting say? ”

“That the killings are revenge for the way we treat detainees. These sites are in Arabic, so the media hasn’t noticed it yet. But eventually they will. You can see the headlines. Payback for rendition, et cetera.”

“If it’s true, it’s got to be personal,” Wells said. “I can’t see why you’d pick these targets otherwise. Somebody who 673 interrogated and let go. But they’re all in our custody, right? ”

“All but two. One of them we can rule out. His name’s Mokhatir. A Malaysian national, caught in the Philippines with three soda-bottle bombs, looked like the kind you’d use to take out a plane. He was in custody for a few weeks, had some kind of health issue. They sent him back to the Philippines. He died in detention maybe eight months ago.”

“A health issue? ”

“That’s all we heard.”

“How’d he die? ”

Duto shook his head. Dead is dead. “If you care, ask the Philippine army. I wouldn’t bother. The other guy is the one we need to find. Alaa Zumari’s his name. We sent him back to Cairo two years ago, give or take.”

“Halfway through 673’s tour.”

“Give or take. He was arrested in Iraq with a bunch of cell phones and cash, suspected of being part of the insurgency. But 673 cleared him.”

“Anybody over there tried to talk to him? ”

“Tried, yes. Succeeded, no. The Egyptians lost him a few months ago. He’s gone.”

“Vinny,” Shafer said. “I’m still not clear on what you want from us.”

“I want you to investigate,” Duto said. “Start with Alaa Zumari.” He looked at Wells. “Go to Egypt, find him. If I recall, your particular skill set might come in handy for that.”

The idea was implausible. Wells had burned the jihadis twice and couldn’t see how he could get inside a third time. Even so, his pulse quickened. Aloud, he said only, “I’m guessing the FBI has about a hundred agents on this? ”

“There are complexities here. Which they may not see.”

“Just tell us,” Wells said. “What you’re dancing around.”

“Because this is interagency, the FBI is reporting to the DNI”—Fred Whitby, Duto’s boss, the director of national intelligence. The position had been created after September 11, when Congress and the White House decided a new Cabinet-level post was needed to oversee not just the CIA but the entire intelligence community. “I’m concerned that Whitby may not be giving the full picture to the Feds.”

“Meaning?”

“I can’t tell you more. At this time.”

“You want us to sneak behind your boss’s back—”

“He’s not my boss, John.”

“Actually, he is,” Shafer said. In fact, the relationship between the DNI and DCI was still being defined.

“I run the CIA. Fred Whitby’s got no operational authority here.”

“Have I touched a sore spot, Vinny? ”

Always, Wells thought. At Langley, and all over Washington, the men and women at the top always focused their attention on power plays and turf grabbing, as if the world outside the Beltway didn’t exist except as a kind of simulated reality, a way to keep score.

“You want us to interfere with the FBI,” Wells said. “Operate on American soil. Which is illegal, last time I checked. And you won’t even tell us why, exactly, except that you don’t trust Fred Whitby. I didn’t know we were such good friends.”

“It’s not interfering. It’s piggybacking. I’ll get you access to the 301s—” the reports that FBI agents filed after interviews. “The physical evidence. Lie-detector tests. After that, you do what you like. Say John wants to go to Cairo, find Alaa Zumari before the Feds or the Egyptians? Nobody can stop him.”

“What is it you’re not telling us? ”

Duto paused. “Without going into details. These guys, they broke something important. Major security implications.”

“Related to this Egyptian, Zumari? ”

“No.”

Wells and Shafer waited for Duto to go on, but he didn’t. The silence stretched on. The room’s air seemed to thicken. Even Tonka’s breathing slowed.

“I can’t tell you,” Duto said finally. “Not even you two. Only about eight people in the country know the whole story.”

“Vinnie, you know as well as we do, we’re coded for everything.”

“Everything here. These files, they’re at Liberty Crossing”—the buildings a couple miles west of Langley where the office of the director of national intelligence had its headquarters. “And Whitby’s holding them tight. He’s not even planning to tell the FBI what I just gave you. The Feebs, they’re getting the names of the squad members and the names of the detainees. Not their full records, just their names. I think there are ten. Along with the barest outlines of the way 673 worked. Nothing more. Nothing at all about what they found. I think Whitby’s making a mistake, and I told him so. But I’m overruled. So, yeah, I want you involved. Maybe I can feed you tidbits. The bureau comes back with a suspect, makes an arrest, great. They get lost, maybe you come up with something they don’t, steer them the right way.”

“And you embarrass Whitby and the FBI by doing what they couldn’t,” Wells said.

“You’ve gotten so cynical, John.”

“At least give us access to the full detainee records—”

“I don’t have them.”

“Then no,” Wells said. “Forget it.”

“We’re in,” Shafer said.

Why?” “When the director asks, it’s best to agree,” Shafer said.

“When the director asks, it’s best to agree,” Shafer said.

After the meeting, Shafer suggested they leave Langley, get some air. They were standing along the black granite wall of the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial. Tucked behind the Mall, on the southwest edge of the Tidal Basin, the monument rarely attracted attention.

“New philosophy for you, Ellis,” Wells said. “Whatever this game is, I don’t want in.”

“Let me explain something, John,” Shafer said. “In five minutes you would have done it anyway. Here’s how it would have gone. Duto would have said it was a chance for you to turn the page with him, build a new relationship. And when that didn’t work, he would have appealed to your sense of duty, told you you needed to avenge Jerry Williams and the rest of the guys. That probably would have done it. And if it didn’t, he would have challenged your manhood and you would have bitten in about half a second.”

“No, he—”

“Yes, he. Because that’s what I would have done.”

Does Duto think he can manipulate me that easily? Wells wondered. Followed by, Am I that easily manipulated? Even now, after everything he’d done, he suspected that these men, Duto and Shafer, saw him as little more than a door kicker, playing the role they gave him.