Alex Berenson: The Faithful Spy

“American,” he yelled down the hill in English. “I’m American. Don’t shoot. I’m friendly.”

A burst of machine gun fire whistled close above his head.

“I’m American,” he yelled again. “Don’t shoot!”

“If you’re American, stand up!” a voice yelled. “Where we can see you. Arms over your head.”

Wells did as he was told, hoping they wouldn’t cut him down out of fear or anger or just because they could. He could hear men walking up the slope toward him. Two searchlights popped on, blinding him. “Step forward, then lie prone, arms out.”

Wells planted his face in the rocky dirt and kissed the earth. His plan had worked. He’d made contact.

BEHIND WELLS THE soldiers scuffled around. “What the hell?” someone said as they found Hamid and Abdullah. A spotlight illuminated the ground around Wells as a rifle muzzle pressed into his skull.

“Stay very still, Mr. American,” the voice said, close now. “Who the fuck are you? And what happened to your friends back there?”

“I’m agency,” Wells said. “My name’s John Wells.”

The muzzle jerked back. A sharp whistle. “Major,” the voice above him said. A whispered conversation, then a new voice. “What did you say your name was?”

“John Wells.”

The muzzle was back on his skull. “What’s your EPI, Mr. Wells?” Emergency Proof of Identity. A short phrase unique to each field agent, allowing him to prove his bona fides in situations like this. Normally not to be revealed to anyone outside the CIA. But Wells figured he’d make an exception, because they’d obviously been briefed that American agents might be operating behind the Taliban lines. And because of the rifle poking at his cranium.

“My EPI is Red Sox, Major.” More seconds went by. Wells heard the soldier above him paging through papers.

“No shit,” the voice said, friendlier now. A light southern accent. “So it is. I’m Glen Holmes. You can stand.”

Wells did, and Holmes — a short, muscular man with a crew cut and a reddish-blond goatee — shook his hand. “I’d love to offer you a beer, Agent Wells, but they’re back in Tajikistan.”

“Call me John,” Wells said, knowing Holmes wouldn’t. Wells could see that the Special Forces didn’t really trust him. They took his rifle and pistol and the knife strapped to his calf for “safekeeping.” But they seemed to believe him when he told them how he had maneuvered his men into their ambush so that he could talk to them. In any case, they didn’t hog-tie him or put a bag on his head to make him more cooperative.

So he told them what he had come to tell them, what he knew about the Qaeda camps, the training that the jihadis received, Qaeda’s experiments with chemical weapons. “It was tenth-grade chemistry. Mix beaker A with beaker B and see what happens. Kill a couple dogs.”

“What about bio? Nukes?”

“We didn’t even have reliable electricity, Major. We — they—” As Wells switched pronouns, confusion overcame him. He was American, now and forever, and he would never betray his country. But after years in the camps he had grown to like some of the men in them. Like Ahmed, whom he had just helped kill. Wells shook his head. He would sort all this out later.

All the while Holmes watched him, saying nothing.

“They would have loved to get that stuff, biological weapons, nukes, but they didn’t know how.”

“Does it feel weird to speak so much English?” Holmes said suddenly.

“Not really,” Wells said. “Yes. It does.”

“You want to take a break?”

“I’m fine. Only…” Wells hesitated, not wanting to seem foolish. “Do you have any Gatorade? I really miss it.”

“Fitz, we have any Gatorade?”

They mixed him a packet of orange-flavored Gatorade in a water bottle and Wells guzzled it like a conquistador who’d found the fountain of youth. He told them what he knew about bin Laden’s inner circle, which was less than he would have liked, about the way Qaeda was financed, where he thought bin Laden had fled. The SF guys taped everything. He poured out information as fast as he could, clocking the hours as the moon moved across the sky. He wanted to get back by morning. The more confusion when he returned, the fewer questions he’d face about what had happened to his squad. Hundreds of Talibs and Arabs had died this night. Who would notice six more?

The sky began to lighten, and Wells knew he had to leave. “That’s it,” he said. “I wish I had more time. But I have to go back.”

“Back?” For a moment Holmes’s eyes widened. “Don’t you want an exfil?”

An exfiltration. Don’t you want to go home? Somehow Wells had forgotten even to consider the possibility. Probably because it seemed about as likely as going to the moon. Don’t you want a box seat at Fenway? A look at the ocean? Don’t you want to see a woman in a miniskirt? Don’t you want to leadfoot across Montana toward home? Don’t you want to kneel in front of your father’s grave and apologize for missing his funeral? Don’t you want to see Heather and Evan and your mom?

The answer to all those questions was yes. Home was life, his real life, and suddenly the pain of losing it hit him so hard that he closed his eyes and dipped his head in his hands.

“Wells?” Holmes said.

Then Wells remembered the glee that spread through the camps on September 11, the singing and boasting, the prayers to Allah. He had known something big was coming, but not the details. He should have tried to find out more, but he’d assumed Qaeda was aiming for an embassy somewhere, a Saudi oil pumping station. He hadn’t wanted to raise suspicions by asking too many questions. Not the World Trade Center. It was so grand, so destructive. His imagination had failed, like everyone else’s. And thousands of people had died.

Wells had made a promise to himself that day: This will never happen again, not as long as I’m alive to stop it. Nothing else mattered. Not that he had much else. Heather had remarried, and Evan probably had no idea who he was. Would he even know Evan? He hadn’t seen a picture of his son in years. His real life, whatever that was, had vanished. What he’d done tonight proved that. Killing the men he commanded in cold blood.

How would his family recognize him when he couldn’t recognize himself?

“No exfil,” Wells said. “Can I have a pen and paper, Major?”

Holmes handed him a pad and a pen. Wells scribbled: “Will pursue UBL”—the agency’s initials for Osama, which it called Usama. “No prior knowledge of 9/11. Still friendly. John.”

He bit his lip and added one more line. “P.S.: Tell Heather and Evan and my mom I miss them.”

He tore off the page, folded it, wrote “Exley” across the front. “Will you get this to Jennifer Exley at CIA? My case officer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’d rather you didn’t read it.” He handed the page to Holmes.

“Roger that.” Holmes pulled out an envelope from another pocket and sealed the paper inside.

“Major, can I ask you something? What was it like?”

“What?”

“Two months ago. September eleventh.”

“Nine-eleven?” Holmes shook his head, seemingly replaying the day in his head. “Like the whole country got smacked in the gut. People just sat home watching TV. Watching those towers fall, again and again. The jumpers, the second plane hitting…. It was unbelievable. I mean, I really couldn’t believe it. If Tom Brokaw had come on and said, ‘Hey, America, we were just fucking with you, ha ha,’ I would have said, ‘Well, okay.’ That would have made more sense than what actually happened.”

“These guys, they’ll do anything.” Wells knew it was a less than profound insight, but he was suddenly bone tired.