Page 100 of Whisper
The vice president nodded to Director Thatcher, reached across the table and shook his hand. He turned to Kris. Glared, and said nothing.
The Secret Service was waiting for the vice president and his staff outside the conference room. They swept him up, passing him his Blackberry and his cell phone and escorting him through the building and back to his motorcade.
Director Thatcher slumped forward, bracing both of his hands on the table. He hung his head, his back bowing, shoulders slumping like the weight of the world was pulverizing his spine.
“Caldera…” He snorted. “That was a bold fucking career move.”
Chapter 16
CTC
Langley, Virginia
February 5, 2003
“Iraq today harbors a deadly terrorist network headed by Abu Saqqaf, an associate and collaborator of Osama Bin Laden and his al-Qaeda lieutenants.”
The secretary of state spoke as Saqqaf’s face appeared over the UN Security Council on a giant projector screen. Saqqaf glowered down at everyone, wrath and murder in his gaze, the image of a hardened devotee to an austere and ruthless brand of Islam, twisting the words of the faith until his followers believed they were walking in the footsteps of the seventh century.
“Iraqi officials deny accusations of ties with al-Qaeda. These denials are simply not credible. Al-Qaeda has bragged that the situation in Iraq is ‘good’, and that Baghdad can be transited quickly.”
Kris’s chin hit his chest. He wilted, slumping in his seat as his coworkers in CTC shook their heads and groaned.
Once again, he was alone, off in the corner, in a desk no one visited. Once again, his coworkers stared at him. This time, not for the clothes he wore, or the rumors about his sexuality.
But because everyone knew—everyone—that he was the vice president’s most-hated American.
That he’d bitched out the vice president.
And that he’d lost.
“Saqqaf and his network are responsible for the murder of an American diplomat in Amman, Jordan. After this despicable act, we demanded that Saddam Hussein turn over Saqqaf so that he can stand trial. However, Iraqi officials protest that they are not aware of the whereabouts of Saqqaf or any of his associates. These protests, again, are not credible.”
The secretary of state went on, outlining the United States’ case for invasion. Images of mobile weapons production facilities, storage bunkers, and surveillance overflights at Iraq’s nuclear sites were shown to the world.
On Kris’s computer, Saqqaf’s image stared back at him. Dark, soulless eyes, void of spark or life. A diffuse rage seemed to linger in his stare, a promise of brutality.
By all accounts, Saqqaf had been born a monster. The Jordanian Mukhabarat hadn’t been able to contain him. Twice he’d slipped their bonds, running off to Afghanistan.
Kris tapped away at the finishing touches on his report, a projective analysis of post-Saddam Iraq.
Without significant post-war planning and an immediate transition to a functioning, representative government, chaos and discontent will open the door to sectarian tensions. Chaos and sectarian tensions may be capitalized by foreign jihadists searching to destabilize both Iraqi reconstruction and/or any American/Western-allied endeavor. We should expect to meet significant numbers of foreign fighters in post-war Iraq if security and stabilization operations are not immediate benchmark successes.
An intercept from Jordan had picked up a message Saqqaf had sent days before. The printout lay on Kris’s desk, underlined over and over until his pen had gone through the paper. “Iraq,” Saqqaf had said over the scratchy phone line sucked up by the Mukhabarat listeners, “will be the graveyard of the Americans.”
ODA 391
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
February 7, 2003
“Haddad!”
David bristled. He waited for his sergeant, his stomach clenching.
“Haddad, you aren’t bringing it. You’re consistently lagging behind the rest of the unit. In the last exercises, you failed. You aren’t making it, Haddad. You’re a fucking embarrassment.” His sergeant’s vitriol burned into him, bellows that were more appropriate for a recruit than the fourteen-year veteran he was.
Nothing had gone right since his reassignment. His new unit hadn’t deployed to Afghanistan. They’d stayed in the homeland, watching as anthrax attacks paralyzed the nation in fear, as a Muslim shooter opened fire at LAX, as paranoia and hostility ratcheted higher and higher, turning to a hatred against Arabs and Muslims so thick and rancid David was choking on it. The guys talked about “getting some” and “taking their turn” at the “jihadis” and the “camel jockeys”. The “goat fuckers”.
