Page 96 of Whisper
From behind, Kris saw the director’s hands clench, his fingers lace together until his knuckles went white. The Pentagon’s intelligence office had been micromanaged by the vice president, twisted and twisted until it put out exactly what the White House wanted to hear.
“I hoped you would say that, Geoff.” The vice president flicked open his padfolio. Top Secret folders lay inside, and a classified memo rested on top. “What about the Iraqi intelligence officer’s meeting with Bin Laden in Sudan in 1996? Or the meeting between Atta and the Iraqi intelligence office in Prague? Al-Qaeda and Iraq’s discussions about explosives and chemical weapons training? The Salman Pak terrorist training facility in southern Iraq? I mean, Jesus, Geoff, this is just the tip of the iceberg!” The vice president tossed his pen onto his folders and sat back. “Can your people provideanycredible intelligence?”
Silence.
Throughout the conference room, Kris heard the inhalation of breaths, and the sudden quiet of air being held inside lungs. All eyes slid to Director Thatcher.
“My people have been working extremely diligently—”
“Where’s theproof?” the vice president cried. He spread his arms wide, scoffing. “Where is your intelligence?”
“Mr. Vice President.” Kris leaned forward. “Regarding your claim that an Iraqi Intelligence Services agent met with Bin Laden in Sudan in 1996. We’ve also seen that intelligence report. It was passed to a foreign government’s intelligence service from a thirdhand source through an unverified network of informants. In the vernacular, Mr. Vice President, it’s arumor. Furthermore, this rumor states that the Iraqi agent met with Bin Laden in July 1996. That’s a problem.”
All eyeballs in the conference room snapped to Kris. The air vibrated, almost enough to make the water glasses sing.
The vice president stared. “Why is that a problem?”
“Bin Laden left Sudan inMay1996. By July, nothing of al-Qaeda was left there.”
“And how do you know this?”
“I personally interrogated the individual responsible for transporting Bin Laden and his men from Sudan to Afghanistan: Abu Zahawi.”
The vice president’s eyes narrowed, dangerous slits. “What’s your name?”
“Kris Caldera, sir.”
“Mr. Caldera is one of our foremost targeteers and al-Qaeda experts—” Thatcher said, his voice rumbling.
The vice president interrupted. “I know who he is.”
Silence.
Kris barreled ahead. “Furthermore, allegations that there is a ‘terrorist training camp’ at Salman Pak in Iraq are erroneous.”
“The Iraqi Intelligence Service is running a state-sanctioned terror training facility at Salman Pak,” the vice president insisted, speaking over Kris. “Two airplanes were spotted at the facility. A Boeing 707 and a Tupolev Tu-154. Both were used to train foreign terrorists in how to hijack airplanes. This report has been confirmed by three Iraqi sources.”
“Yes, I know the sources.” Kris read off the names from his own notes. He heard Director Thatcher’s quick inhale, a hiss of breath, beside him. “Two of the men are associated with the Iraqi National Congress, a political lobbying group that has for years peddled misinformation in an attempt to foment political support for regime change within Iraq. Their claims, up until this year, have been roundly debunked. There is no proof that their claims of a terrorist training facility at Salman Pak are anything other than fiction this time around. They are opportunists, manipulating information and outright faking intelligence.”
“And the third source?”
“The third source, a former captain seeking asylum in a foreign nation, stated in his debrief that Salman Pak was acounterterrorist training camp for the Iraqi military. But thecounterportion of that phrase seems to have gotten lost in translation. I have the original debrief from his petition for asylum here.” Kris tossed a folder onto the conference table.
The vice president did not reach for it.
“Reports of a plane in the desert south of Baghdad have been confirmed,” Kris continued, his voice softer. “It was a plane crash out of Baghdad Airport. The plane is a wreck. It’s not a training facility. Satellite photos show it has mostly been picked apart by civilians desperate to sell the metal and the wiring for a few bucks.”
“Mohamed Atta, the lead hijacker, met with an Iraqi intelligence agent at the Iraq Embassy in Prague in April 2001.” The vice president stated the information like it was fact, chiseled in stone.
“That intelligence was provided by the Czech intelligence service. They refuse to give up their source for this report, so we cannot verify the credibility of the reporting. However—” Kris took a breath, folding his hands together. The pressure in the conference room had increased a thousandfold. It was as if only the vice president and himself were there. Even Director Thatcher seemed to have faded away.
“However,” Kris continued. “We have worked backward and created a day-by-day profile of Mohamed Atta’s movements in the year before the hijacking. Atta was photographed at an ATM in Virginia Beach on April fourth. On April sixth, seventh, eighth, tenth, and eleventh, cell phone records place him in Coral Springs, Florida, where he and Marwan al-Shehhi had an apartment together. We’ve checked every airline. Every route into and out of the US. Every passenger manifest. Every passport entry recorded for the first fifteen days of April. There is no sign of him ever leaving the United States, entering the Czech Republic, or returning to the United States.”
“There are no records of Atta’s movements on the ninth of April.”
Kris licked his lips. “That’s true. We don’t have any cell phone activity on the ninth. No email activity. No images of him captured at any bank or closed-circuit TV in the Coral Springs area.”
“Then that’s the day he was in Prague.”
