Page 6 of Whisper
He stumbled out of the cot, almost falling on his face. Someone loaned him a fleece pullover with the CIA crest. He ditched his button-down and slid into it. The arms were too long, but it covered his unwashed stench, mostly. He shaved quickly and splashed water on his face, gargled some mouthwash, and met Williams at the east entrance.
A full motorcade waited for them.
“We’re going to the White House with the director. He’s in the next SUV.”
“Geoff Thatcher? CIA Director?”
“Yes. The president wants to know everything about Afghanistan. Thatcher said to bring the experts. That’s you.” Williams shifted, the dark leather seat creaking as the motorcade pulled away from Langley. “Kris, the president is getting ready to make a decision. We’re going to respond to these attacks, and we’re going to respond quickly. The CIA is going to do something we haven’t done since we were OSS, back in World War II. We’re going to go to war, and we’re going to lead this war. This is the last briefing before the president decides exactly what our response is going to be.”
Kris sat, speechless. He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t a presidential briefer. He was just an analyst. AjuniorCIA officer.
But who was ever ready for their world to be upended, for planes to fall out of the sky, for buildings to tumble like blocks, and for the weight of thousands of lives to hang around their neck? Failure tasted like ash, like flame, like dust that filled his teeth and gathered at the junctures of his bones. Shame was his shadow.
He took a breath. “What do you need me to do, sir?”
“The president is a talker. He thinks with his words. Goes with his gut. Thatcher is good at talking him through things, thinking out loud. With this president, the last in-person briefing will usually be the deciding factor. He’s going to be listening to what you say, to any answers you give, very,veryclosely.”
“Who else will be there?”
“The vice president and the national security advisor.”
Kris nodded. His mind whirled. It didn’t get any higher than that.
“Listen, the national security advisor and Thatcher don’t get along. She’s a tough nut to crack. She and Thatcher are like oil and vinegar. The VP thinks he’s the smartest guy in the room. He’ll go behind all our backs and double-check, triple-check everything we say. Don’t worry about talking to any of them. Speak directly to the president.”
He could smell himself as they clambered out of the SUV at the secured entrance to the West Wing of the White House. Secret Service agents hustled them inside quickly, past a massive show of defensive force. Agents with snarling dogs, rifles, and heavy weaponry were on full display, ready to destroy any intruder who dared bend a blade of grass on the White House lawns.
Kris tried to keep his arms down to hide his unwashed stench. He couldn’t do anything about the bags under his eyes, but hopefully the president wouldn’t remember him as ‘the smelly one’. He hadn’t been home in three days.
In the Oval Office, the president and vice president sat side by side in the spindly armchairs before the fireplace, with the national security advisor on the sofa next to the president. They stood, shook hands tersely, and beckoned Thatcher, Williams, and Kris to sit on the other sofa.
“Break it down for us,” the president said, lacing his fingers together. His Texan drawl was deep, a sign of his stress. “What do we have today?”
Director Thatcher spoke urgently, summarizing everything the CIA had learned in the last twelve hours. He’d been briefing the president three times a day or more since the attacks. Everything he shared, Kris had been a part of, working with the response team in the basement.
While Thatcher spoke, the vice president stared at Kris, watching him closely. Kris stared back.
The president pursed his lips as he frowned. “Musharraf in Pakistan has come around. He’s decided the Taliban aren’t worth committing political suicide over.”
“Good. We’ll need their full cooperation. Border posts and frontier bases along the border with Afghanistan opened up to American forces, a rescinding of all ‘no-go’ areas in Pakistan, unrestricted access to Pakistani airspace and full, unimpeded landing rights at all air bases and airports.” Thatcher scrawled notes as he spoke.
“State is working on it.” The national security advisor’s voice was clipped, perfunctory.
The president’s gaze flicked to Kris. “Director Thatcher says you’re the agency’s number one Afghanistan analyst. That you know that country better than anyone. Tell me. Do you think the Taliban will give up Bin Laden?”
Everyone looked at him.Everyone.
The president had issued an ultimatum to the Taliban the day of the attacks: give up Bin Laden, or your government will be destroyed.
Bin Laden had been granted refuge in Afghanistan since his exile from Sudan. As the president had said, as smoke still rose from Lower Manhattan and the Pentagon, any nation that harbored the terrorists would be treated as an enemy of the United States.“You’re either with us or against us.”
What Kris said next would shape policy. Shape the world. The unit secretary at CTC still couldn’t remember his name, even after two years working there. He wasthatinconsequential. The security guards hated his guts. Yet here he was, briefing the president. Deciding the course of history. His palms slicked with sweat. Ice flowed down his spine.
“Mr. President, the Taliban will never surrender Bin Laden.”
“Why?” The national security advisor frowned. “If they want to survive, they have to give him up.”
“It’s not thePashtunwaliway.” Everyone frowned. “The Taliban blend tribal traditions and fundamentalist Islam into their repressive form of totalitarian rule. It has less to do with Islam and more to do with tribalism.Pashtunwaliis their ethical code. It’s so ancient, the tribes view Islam as a modern add-on to their worldview. That part of the world has operated onPashtunwalifor millennia. Specifically,melmastia, hospitality and protection of all guests,nanawatai, the right of a fugitive to seek refuge within the tribe, and,badal, blood feuds and revenge.”
