Twelve Days (8 page)

TEN DAYS . . .

WASHINGTON, D.C.

R
oom 219, Hart Senate Office Building.

Unlike the White House Situation Room or the Pentagon’s Tactical Operations Center, 219 didn’t show up often in movies. But everyone at the CIA knew its importance. The “room” was actually a suite of offices that housed the staff and hearing rooms of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. Unmarked frosted-glass doors hid 219’s real front entrance, which was permanently guarded by Capitol police officers who shooed away tourists and other uninvited guests. Behind the second door, a corridor turned sharply right, a way to keep anyone in the foyer from glimpsing the offices inside, or the staffers who worked in them. At the end of the hall, a biometric lock secured access to the conference room where senators received briefings from the DCI and top intelligence officials. The hearings took place within a huge elevated vault, a larger version of the secure rooms that the CIA operated inside American embassies. The room was mounted on pillars so that technicians could easily sweep its steel walls for bugs. The steel itself blocked noise and electromagnetic signals from escaping. No one had ever
managed to spy on the hearings. Information regularly leaked nonetheless, in the simplest possible way—from the committee’s senators to reporters.

After all the security, the vault’s interior usually disappointed visitors. It had the same furniture as any congressional hearing room, with wooden conference tables that looked decent from a distance, cheap up close. But the room had played host to plenty of fireworks over the years. During the 1980s, when some senators called for the CIA to be abolished over the Iran-Contra scandal, case officers called 219 as the Lion’s Den. Since 9-11, the acrimony had faded for a while. Aside from libertarians like Rand Paul and liberals like Ron Wyden, Congress generally supported the War on Terror. But the recent revelation that the agency had spied on committee staff members as they prepared a report about CIA interrogation programs had again poisoned relations. And today, Brian Taylor feared the room might live up to its old nickname.

—

Taylor was deputy chief of base for Istanbul. (Technically, the CIA’s station in Turkey was located in Ankara. By long-standing tradition, the CIA could have only one “station” in every country, so it referred to its office in Istanbul as a “base.”)
He had found the weapons-grade uranium that the United States accused Iran of producing. He was the only agency officer ever to meet Reza, the Revolutionary Guard colonel who had tipped the CIA to Iran’s plans. Now Reza was in the wind, and the United States and Iran were close to war. And after initially rushing to support the President, members of Congress were expressing concerns about a military confrontation.

“This isn’t Iraq. We know the uranium is real,” an anonymous senator had told
The Washington Post
that morning. “But we need to know why the White House is so sure it’s from Iran. Just like we need to know who blew up that jet. The hearings today and tomorrow will be critical.”

A laundry list of top officials would testify at the hearing, including
the DCI, Scott Hebley. But Taylor knew he would be the star witness. Without him, none of this would have happened.

The agency understood the importance of his testimony. It had flown him and his boss, Martha Hunt, to Virginia three days before. Since then, Hebley’s aides had rehearsed with him nonstop. Max Carcetti, Hebley’s top lieutenant, played the committee’s head, an Illinois senator named Laura Frommer. Carcetti cut Taylor off, jumped on inconsistencies in his answers.
You
just told us that Colonel Reza claimed Iran had produced
enough uranium for several nuclear weapons. Earlier you said ten.
Which is it, Mr. Taylor?

Hunt, the Istanbul chief of base, would attend the hearing but wasn’t scheduled to testify. Part of Taylor wished she’d stayed in Turkey. She was slim and beautiful, her delicate blue eyes hiding her intelligence and toughness. For as long as they’d worked together, Taylor had had a hopeless crush on her.

But he and Hunt had worked side by side to find the uranium. Suddenly, his crush didn’t feel so hopeless. On the charter home, they hadn’t done anything as obvious as hold hands. But Hunt had slept beside him on the otherwise empty jet. Close enough for him to smell her perfume, something light and floral and faintly sweet. She’d settled in, with her head almost on his shoulder. Almost.

Still, Taylor knew that if he blew his testimony, she’d never forgive him. The night before the hearing, after a dinner of mushroom pizza at their Reston safe house, she walked Taylor through his testimony yet again. “Stick to the facts. They ask why you think Iran would do this now, that’s above your pay grade. They ask about alternatives to an invasion—”

“That’s above my pay grade.”

After an hour, Taylor rebelled.

“Martha. Stop treating me like your idiot little brother.”

“I am limiting your downside.”

“And yours.”

She stood, put her fingers to her lips, blew him a kiss. “See you in the morning.”

“You have nightmares, you know where to find me.”

“Night, Brian.”

—

Taylor hardly slept that night. At 5 a.m., he gave up trying. He showered, shaved, dressed. He spent two hours trying not to drink too much coffee while he read over his reports and checked his email. They didn’t have full access to Langley’s classified feeds here, but they could port in through a virtual private network.

Not much had happened overnight. Reza was still missing, still hadn’t touched the hundreds of thousands of dollars that the CIA had put in a Swiss account for him. No surprise there. Taylor didn’t expect him to turn up. In India, the leads in Mumbai pointed to Hezbollah. But despite a lot of door-kicking, the Indian police had no suspects. Meanwhile, Israel reported that Iran had mobilized its “Widows Brigade,” seven hundred female suicide bombers who would attack American soldiers if they crossed the border.

More proof that an invasion of Iran would make the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan look easy. Iran was larger, its army better trained. Most important, its people were far more unified than Afghanis or Iraqis. In those countries, the United States had fought factions. In Iran it would be at war with a nation.

Hunt emerged from her room at 7:30, showered and scrubbed. “You sleep?”

“I look that bad?”

“I’ll put some foundation on you. Hide the circles—” She swept her hands under her eyes.

“Martha, I am not wearing makeup.”

“It’ll be subtle.”

Much as he wanted to feel her fingertips on his skin, he had to draw this line. “No one’s expecting me to be minty fresh.”

“Minty fresh? I don’t suppose you want to go over your talking points one last time.”

“If you weren’t my boss, I’d tell you what I really want.”

—

Three hours later, Taylor sat in the secure room at the heart of 219 as Senator Frommer and the rest of the select committee took their places on the dais before him. Frommer had asked for Taylor’s testimony first, in place of the DCI, a not-so-subtle shot at the agency.
This hearing runs on our schedule, not yours.
She was in her early sixties, with a helmet of dyed black hair and a face whose wrinkles had been Botoxed into submission.

She’s smart,
Carcetti had told him.
And she trusts her instincts. She can afford to. She’s in a safe seat and she’s got no plans to run for President. They listen to her on that committee. Both parties. They like her. Keep her on your side, you’ll sail through.
He didn’t have to say what would happen if Taylor couldn’t keep Frommer on his side.

Hunt sat beside Taylor at the witness table. Carcetti had wanted a lawyer, too. But Taylor insisted a lawyer would only make him nervous, and Carcetti finally agreed.

She’s not much for ceremony, Madame Frommer,
Carcetti had said.
At ten-thirty sharp, she’ll hit that gavel to get started and get to the point. That’s one reason they like her.

Sure enough, as senators were still settling themselves, Frommer tapped the gavel. “We will begin this hearing of the Select Committtee. I am not sure I’ve ever been involved with a more important session. A few days ago, the President of the United States presented the American public with shocking news about Iran’s nuclear intentions. The United States believed that Iran could be a partner for peace. But if the White
House is correct, the Islamic Republic has secretly been preparing for war all along. Under such circumstances, I think we agree that the President has the right to defend our interests and keep Americans safe.

“Unfortunately, recent history compels us to treat presidential pronouncements about weapons of mass destruction with skepticism. Over the next two days, we will hear testimony from the DCI and other members of the intelligence community. But I want to begin by hearing from the CIA officer who found the uranium. We are in closed session. I am going to use your real name, sir, Brian Taylor. And your real title, deputy chief of base for Istanbul. Mr. Taylor, please stand and raise your right hand, so I may administer the oath.”

Taylor stood, raised his hand. “I, Brian Taylor, do solemnly swear—”

For the next forty-four minutes, Taylor explained everything that had happened in Istanbul since the day when the first letter from Reza arrived on his desk. “Thank you for allowing me to testify,” he said when he was done. “It’s an honor. I’m happy to answer any questions.”

He spoke mostly from memory, referring to his notes as little as possible.
Try not to read the whole time,
Carcetti had said.
Head up, so you can look the committee members in the eye. They like that.
Taylor wasn’t so sure. He’d expected his statement would sway the senators, break the tension in the room. It seemed to have the opposite effect. He felt like a kid who had broken a window and been called into the principal’s office. Only the faint hum of filtered air pumping through the vault’s narrow vents broke the silence.

Frommer cleared her throat. “Mr. Taylor. We appreciate your coming before us. You do understand, the story you’re telling is unusual.” She drew out the last word. “Would you agree?”

Defer when you can,
Carcetti had said.
She’s the boss. Don’t fight her. When in
doubt, stretch out the at bat, get more information. And
never cut her off. Never never. Senators don’t like that.

“I’m not sure exactly what you mean.”

“I mean the way you handled Reza’s recruitment and handling. The
fact that he came to you. That you never learned his real name or position within the Quds Force. Have you ever had another agent like that?”

“No, ma’am—chairwoman.”

“Senator, please. And the fact that the agency cannot find Reza despite a quote-unquote intense effort
,
that’s also unusual.”

“Yes.”

“What do you make of these oddities, Mr. Taylor? I remind you that you are under oath.”

If Frommer meant to intimidate him by mentioning that he was under oath, she succeeded. Taylor heard his pulse thumping in his skull, the blood surging through. The funny part was that he had told the truth. He believed in Reza. Even so, he felt like a kid caught in a riptide pulling him out to sea. If he kept calm, didn’t fight the current, he’d be fine. But it was hard to keep calm with the water lunging into his nose. The next few minutes would be crucial. If he failed, the President might face a revolt on Capitol Hill.

“Mr. Taylor? Still with us?”

Taylor didn’t know how long he’d been silent. Too long. Hunt leaned over, murmured in his ear, her breath warm against his skin, her perfume filling his nose. “You all right?”

Her words broke the spell. Or maybe her perfume. That fast, Taylor knew what to say. “Chairwoman Frommer. I’m sorry. I wanted to answer you as precisely as possible. You are correct that walk-ins are unusual. Most of the time, the agency makes the initial approach. That’s the classic method. In our training at the Farm, we spend a lot of time practicing recruitments. And it’s true that walk-ins can be double agents dangled by foreign services. I assume that’s your paramount concern, that Reza is working for a foreign agency trying to fool us into attacking Iran.”

“Yes.”

“But walk-ins have been among the best assets in the CIA’s history. They have unique advantages. They are often spies themselves, so they understand tradecraft and don’t need hand-holding. They give up vital
information quickly, because it is the very
importance
of the information that has caused them to approach us. Put another way, they’re motivated. We don’t have to play games with them. I hope that makes sense.”

When you’re answering, don’t go on and on,
Carcetti said
. Pause halfway through. Get them to buy in.

“I suppose.”

“I believe the man who called himself Reza was one of these ultra-high-value walk-ins. Do I wish I knew his name? Yes. That we had him under our protection, in a safe house somewhere? Yes. Would I prefer someone else had seen him? Of course. At least then I wouldn’t be the only one in front of the firing squad.”

Taylor thought he was close to breaking through. But Frommer merely shook her head.

“Mr. Taylor. If a firing squad is required, you won’t be its only target. We’re going to hear much more testimony today. And, of course, we will discuss next steps.”

“That’s above my pay grade.”

Even as the words left his mouth Taylor knew he’d made a mistake. Frommer was in no mood for canned lines.

“You are correct. Far above. Let’s focus on the question that you are here to answer. Is the man who calls himself Reza who he claims to be? Is he real?”

Taylor’s life had shrunk to the microphone in front of him. He reached for it, cupped it toward him. His hands weren’t shaking. A small victory.

“Believe me, I understand what that question means for our country, Chairwoman. I’ve spent more hours than I can count thinking it through. And my answer is
yes
.”

“Why?”