Ghost (4 page)

So much for on-the-job training. Tomorrow, the real game begins.

three

NIGHT TRAIN

February 13, 1986
Outside of Philadelphia

The Amtrak coach rolls and sways as we clatter along the old tracks between D.C. and Philadelphia. Most of the passengers around me are trying to doze, but a few are busy reading under spotlights clicked on from the overhead panel above each seat. Periodically, we stream past a freight train, and I watch scores of boxcars swish past my window.

I love train travel. It harkens back to a more genteel time, when manners and style reigned unchallenged by the speed and utility of modern airliners. Indeed, this short voyage tonight on Amtrak’s rails should be a chance for me to relax far away from the rush-rush-rush of my new office.

But I am not relaxed. Tonight, when I exit this car at the 30th Street Station, along Philadelphia’s Schuylkill River, I will meet with a source I know nothing about. Gleason merely told me the rendezvous point and the recognition signal. Since I’ll be alone on this mission, I’m mimicking Mullen’s habit of carrying extra firepower. Before I left D.C., I strapped my Smith & Wesson Model 60 into the ankle holster now riding on my right shin.

The source says he knows something about our hostages in Lebanon. For the past few years, Hezbollah and criminal gangs have snatched American citizens off the streets of Beirut. The gangs sell their catches to Hezbollah. Right now, there are dozens of hostages in their hands, including one very special one: William Francis Buckley.

Before I left for Charlottesville and my first rendezvous with an informant on Tuesday, I read through the Buckley file. He was grabbed as he left his house in Beirut. For him, it had started out as any other day. His pattern rarely varied, which was an obvious mistake. He’d get up, get dressed, have breakfast, and walk out to his car. A short drive through the city and he’d be at the U.S. Embassy. A typical commute story, only this one went through the middle of a civil war. Somebody took notice of this well-dressed, dapper-looking American. Somebody like Hezbollah.

On March 16, 1984, a four-man snatch team rolled up in front of his house, surprising Buckley before he could reach his car. The terrorists seized him and dragged him back into their ride. In seconds, it was over. Buckley had been armed, but he’d stuck his pistol inside his briefcase. The abduction happened so fast he never had time to go for it.

File that one away in the lessons-learned category. After that, word went out to every American in the Dark World: Carry your weapon on you at all times. Don’t stuff it in a bag and expect to be safe.

It happened that quickly. A matter of seconds and Hezbollah—the Iranians—had triumphed again. There had never been a worse defeat for us within the Dark World. William Buckley had not been an ordinary embassy employee. He was the CIA’s station chief.

Another freight train thunders past, and our coach car rocks in its slipstream. A few of the dozers pop an eyelid, look around, then return to their naps. They sleep in blissful ignorance. Do they understand what a luxury that is? I wonder if I’ll ever enjoy that sort of unencumbered sleep again.

When Hezbollah nabbed Buckley, they brought down every current operation and operative in the entire Middle East. Nothing like this had ever happened. Even the KGB had never dared to seize a station chief. With Buckley in enemy hands, the Agency had to assume that all the information inside his head would be compromised. Hezbollah and the Iranians were not known to abide by the Geneva Convention. Torture, intimidation, beatings—those were how they debriefed their captives. Certainly, Buckley would not be spared their worst.

It was a catastrophic blow to our intelligence efforts in the hottest spot on the planet. After he was grabbed, we basically had to start from scratch, building new networks, running new agents. In the meantime, we operated with almost no HUMINT—human intelligence. All the gadgets, satellites, and eavesdropping our technology affords us cannot compare to one good agent in the right place and time. Hezbollah poked our eyes out with Buckley’s abduction. What are we missing? What won’t we see coming? It is chilling to realize how vulnerable we are.

Our train rounds a gentle curve and hits the industrial outskirts of Philadelphia. I stare out the window at a parade of rusting factories and wrecking yards. The darkness makes the scene particularly bleak.

Before I left the office today, Gleason took me aside and gave me one other directive: Find out if this informant knows where Buckley is. He is our priority. The Agency, furious, humiliated, and loyal, is desperate to get him back. They have unleashed a massive effort to find him. So far, every tip has been a dry hole. But each one must be checked out.

The train begins to slow, and the dozers around me sense the change in speed. A few yawn and reach for their bags. A few gaze out the windows, and I can see their faces reflected in the tinted glass. Average Americans. These are the people I’m sworn to protect. Our job is to keep the Dark World from their doorsteps.

Just this week, Gleason, Mullen, and I found almost a dozen credible threats in the cable traffic that landed in FOGHORN’s claustrophobic recesses. A dozen a week. Year after year after year. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know the odds are stacked against us. The CIA, the FBI, the DSS—they can have tens of thousands of field agents and all the money any hungry bureaucracy can burn and still some of these plots will escape our attention. It takes only one terrorist to bring tragedy and trauma—and lots of media coverage. Thinking about those long odds has kept me awake this week. We can’t be 100 percent right forever. But we have to try—and therein lies the weight of the world that has sagged Gleason’s shoulders and worry-worn his face these past few years. He’s handled this staggering load by himself until now. I can’t imagine how he’s done it.

We roll into the 30th Street Station. Around me, the coach bustles with activity as passengers grab their briefcases and detrain. I step onto the passenger concourse and marvel at the rectangular windows that make this station such a spectacular architectural achievement. The concourse glows gold from the lantern-style lights suspended overhead.

I walk outside and pass the six thick columns that stand watch over the station’s entrance. They give the station a sort of ancient Greek temple look from this side. It is bitterly cold, and I pull my jacket tight around my collar as I make my way toward the line of cabs on the street.

I gesture to one of the cabbies, and he pops a door open for me. I give him the address of the motel that will be our rendezvous point and ask him to drop me off a few blocks short. I want to be able to scope out the territory before I go in. Also, I don’t want anyone watching to know that I’m alone. There will be no backup if things get rough.

Charlottesville was an easy assignment compared to this one. That’s probably why Gleason had me warm up with it. I took one of our State Department Jeep Wagoneers, the kind with the faux wood finishing on the sides, and drove down through blue-blood country until I reached a horse farm set back from the road. The house had been built on a hill, giving anyone inside a clear field of vision to see a visitor’s approach. Well-manicured landscaping surrounded it, but none of the bushes were tall enough to mask intruders from the house. The place gave off a strange vibe—it was too neat, too picturesque. An Agency safe house? George Smiley’s summer home? Whoever owned it clearly had money.

When I rang the bell, a stunningly attractive Latina in her midthirties answered. Her white blouse accentuated her tan, and she’d pulled her dark hair back into a ponytail that gave her an athletic look. She invited me in and we drank coffee. The day before, FOGHORN had received an incoming cable from Santiago, Chile, regarding a potential hit on our ambassador there. This woman knew one of the names mentioned in the cable. My job was to get as much information on him as possible.

It did not take long. She didn’t know much. She was a grad student at the University of Virginia who had had minimal contact with the individual named in the cable. She spoke openly of what she knew, and I dutifully took notes so I could write it all up for Gleason when I returned to the office. I enjoyed the coffee and the company, left my business card, and drove back to D.C. Easy. This spy stuff didn’t seem all that hard.

Until tonight. The cabbie plunges us deep into an urban jungle. Run-down row houses, abandoned warehouses, and garbage on the streets mark my descent into Philadelphia’s dark side. We finally stop a few blocks from the motel. I’m in dangerous waters now. I hand the cabdriver a few bucks, then climb out.

A transient lies in a doorway across the street. Nearby, drug addicts are sprawled around a set of stairs leading up to a row house. One’s shooting up as the others watch. The cabbie, clearly uncomfortable, speeds off the moment my feet hit the sidewalk.

I shouldn’t have worn a suit.

As I start walking toward the motel, the local wildlife locks on to me. Red-rimmed eyes size me up, calculating whether or not I’d be easy to roll.

On the next corner, I move through a small squadron of prostitutes. Tube tops and miniskirts abound, though a few have on leg warmers, too—a
Taxi Driver
meets
Flashdance
sort of fashion statement. A few call to me. I ignore them and press on, wondering how they can endure the almost freezing temperature in such dress.

One more block through the human flotsam and I reach the motel’s parking lot. The place is a dive, and I’m sure the proprietor is happy to charge by the hour—fresh sheets extra, of course.

Time after time, our instructors pounded into our heads that observant agents are live agents. Every day, I practice taking everything in, memorizing the things unfolding around me so that I can write them up later if necessary. It pays off now. I sweep the motel with my eyes. Metal stairs on either end give access to the second floor. The building itself is L-shaped. The parking lot is full of older junk cars. I scan the license plates. Most are Pennsylvania, some sport long-expired tags. At the far end of the lot, a prostitute struts toward the motel, a john in tow. They stare at me before disappearing up one set of stairs. A few seconds later, they’re out on the second floor, moving along the catwalk until they come to their room. The john casts a wary glance back over at me before closing the door to the night.

What a miserable place.

I take a few steps through the parking lot, still searching for clues as to who I’m supposed to meet. Is he a local? Is one of these beat-up cars his? Then I spot a shiny new sedan. New Jersey plates. It sticks out as badly as I do in this neighborhood. A rental car perhaps? Did my informant drive it over from the airport? I walk over to examine it. It is covered with water drops. Dew? The other cars are dry. This one’s been in the lot for a while, probably overnight. I peer inside the car. It is clean, though the ashtray’s open and full of cigarette butts.

The bums and hookers on the street are still watching me. Could any of them be backup for the informant? Is this a setup? I can’t tell. If anyone is covering the informant’s back, I can’t make him. All I see is a street dotted with human wreckage.

The rendezvous room is on the second floor. I climb the stairs warily, right hand inside my Barbour Beaufort jacket, fingers tight around my revolver’s handle. I feel like a cop again. It is the same tension I used to feel when responding to a burglary call.

I reach the door and tap quietly while standing to one side. Just in case it is a setup, I’m not going to get shot through the door. A few seconds tick by, but the door doesn’t open. I can hear someone moving around inside the room. I wait. The door cracks open a few inches.

Silence.

“Are you a friend of Steve’s?” I ask. This is the recognition signal.

“Yes, I’m Steve’s friend,” comes the accented reply.

The door swings open to admit me. I slip through inside the room and close the door behind me.

The informant sits on the bed. There’s a nightstand with an ancient lamp on it, and I study it briefly, looking for any potential threats. Nothing. The room is narrow with a chair and a small, scarred table rounding out the furniture. I run my eyes over everything, searching for weapons, recording devices, or anything else that could tip me off that this is a trap. I can’t see into the bathroom. Is someone in there? I’ll have to keep an eye on that door.

The informant fires up a Marlboro and waits. He seems jittery. His hands are shaking. He’s backlit by the only available light in the room—the nightstand lamp—but I can still see that he has an olive complexion, a stocky build, and is perhaps in his midthirties. His eyes dart between me and apparently random points in the room. He won’t stay focused on me, won’t look me in the eyes.

“I…know where the hostages are. My family is from Beirut. I was just there,” he tells me in a voice full of nerves. I don’t say anything. Better to let the informant talk, especially if there’s a listening device planted somewhere out of sight.

He studies me as if he’s trying to outlast my silence. He takes a long drag on his smoke, then exhales in frustration.

“I’ll give you their location, but I want money.”

There it is.

“How much?” I ask. In this meeting, I will measure my words. Less is best.

“One hundred and fifty thousand.”

I back against the wall across from the bed. A quick glance toward the bathroom door, then my attention refocuses on Steve’s friend. He stares at the frayed carpet at my feet. Is he ashamed, or afraid?

“For that kind of money, you’ll need to give us something first.”

“What do you mean?”

“How do we know you know where the hostages are?”

He deliberates for a few seconds, eyes meandering. Then he reveals, “They are in southern Beirut.”

“How do you know this?”

He launches into a long story about his family in Beirut. He claims he’s ex-Hezbollah, but that several of his relatives are still in the organization.

“While I was in Beirut, my relative told me he’d seen them.”

“Who is your relative?” I ask. A subsource is already in play here, which diminishes the value of the information. The further you go from the source, we were taught, the less likely the information will be accurate. It is sort of like a Dark World game of Telephone.