Page 1 of Whisper
Then
September 11, 2001
Chapter 1
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
September 11, 2001
It was supposed to be a good day.
Kris poured his creamer into his second cup of coffee. He heard feet pounding down the hallway. “Itmustbe an accident.”
“But it’s such a clear morning. How did the pilot lose visibility?”
He hurried after his coworkers to the Counterterrorism Center, CTC, housed deep inside Langley. CTC looked like a Vegas sports bar: monitors spanned one giant wall with video feeds showing live TV, news, surveillance from a dozen overseas operations, status of forces deployed around the world, and more. In a pit before the monitors, lines of workstations stretched in rows. One wall was packed with racks of communication equipment. Radios, satellite phones on charging stands, humming servers that communicated with CIA stations around the world.
Everyone’s eyes were fixed on the wall of monitors.
Every screen showed the same thing.
New York City. Lower Manhattan. Smoke rising from the North Tower of the World Trade Center.
Murmurs rose, the ebb and flow of uncertainty. More people padded in. Analysts, officers, the deputy director. Clandestine Special Activities Division personnel.
Everyone waited for the news anchors tosayit, to confirm it was an accident. A tragic, horrific accident, but still.
Anaccident.
One hundred CIA officers watched live as United Airlines Flight 175 slammed into the South Tower of the World Trade Center. The fireball filled the whole wall of monitors, stretching from one end of CTC to the other, as if they were right there in the center of the fury. Fire broke over the world, coloring CTC in waves from Hell.
Gasps rose, followed by screams. Kris dropped his cup. It shattered, coffee splashing his pants and the shoes of the analyst beside him.
No one noticed.
No one moved. No one spoke.
It was like the world had stopped turning, like time was frozen. Breaths seemed to take an eternity. Reality only existed in the billowing smoke, the flames roaring above New York. The desperation in the survivors’ faces as they leaned out of the windows above the impact site and the roaring inferno. As they chose to jump, leap from the building, fleeing one certain death for another.
Twenty minutes later, American Airlines Flight 77 crashed into the Pentagon.
“Jesus Christ, it’s al-Qaeda.” Voices rose, comments over the din of the whispers. “This is their attack.”
Kris started to shake, violent trembles as flashes of intel cables and reports he’d seen over the past two years came together like a terrible jigsaw puzzle in his mind.
Too late. We were too late.
“Will someoneplease lead?” a voice shouted from the back of the room. “Will someonepleasefucking do something?”
Clint Williams, Director of CTC, turned and stared. He blinked, as if trying to visibly restart his brain, as if he remembered he had men and women standing before him. “We’re under attack!” he shouted. “And Langley could be a target! Evacuate!Now! Everyone out!”
Kris had woken up in a good mood.
The night before, he had lightly flirted with an attorney while watchingMonday Night Footballat a little bar in Georgetown. He’d cheered on Denver while the attorney rooted for the New York Giants, and they’d playfully jabbed at each other throughout.
At the end of the game, the attorney gave him a long, lingering stare over his slim chinos, his tucked-in button-down, open at the neck and showing off his undershirt and his shell necklace, the one he wore when he went out, to his spiked hair.
