Ghost Read online

  contents

  title page

  dedication

  preface THE LIST

  PART ONE: ROOKIE YEAR

  one THE BURIED BODIES

  two DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE

  three NIGHT TRAIN

  four THE DARK WORLD’S REDHEADED STEPCHILDREN

  five CHASING SHADOWS

  six NO SPACE BETWEEN BLACK AND WHITE

  seven THE MAD DOG OF THE MIDDLE EAST

  eight TWO HITS FOR EL DORADO CANYON

  nine HUMAN POKER CHIPS

  ten ONE MORE GOLD STAR

  eleven THE GRAY HELL OF WAIT AND HOPE

  twelve THE STENCH OF GOOD INTENTIONS

  thirteen SHIPWRECK

  fourteen THE BEER HALL ENCOUNTER

  PART TWO: THE VETERAN

  fifteen LITTLE ITALY

  sixteen MICE

  seventeen THREAT MATRIX

  eighteen THE BRONZE STAR ASSASSIN

  nineteen PAK-1 DOWN

  twenty NIGHT FLIGHT

  twenty-one IN COUNTRY

  twenty-two PAKISTANI TWO-STEP

  twenty-three ONE HOUR TO NOWHERESVILLE

  twenty-four THE BUFFET AT THE END OF THE WORLD

  twenty-five PUZZLE PIECES

  twenty-six THE PERFECT MURDER

  twenty-seven AUTUMN LEAVES

  twenty-eight TWO-MINUTE FREE FALL

  PART THREE: WAR WEARY

  twenty-nine STREET DANCE

  thirty THE COLONEL’S REVELATIONS

  thirty-one WATCHING THE WATCHERS

  thirty-two THE WORLD’S MOST-WANTED MAN

  thirty-three DEADLY EQUATION

  thirty-four MONEY CHANGES EVERYTHING

  thirty-five FINALE IN PAKISTAN

  thirty-six LILLYBROOK

  epilogue BROTHERHOOD OF THE BADGE

  author’s note

  acknowledgments

  about the author

  copyright

  This book is dedicated to Special Agent Brad Smith, deceased, Counterterrorism Division, Diplomatic Security Service, U.S. Department of State

  preface

  THE LIST

  I carry a list of names with me at all times. It is written in the black ink of a fountain pen in a hardback black Italian moleskin journal, and it travels with me around town in my weathered Ghurka shoulder bag or, when I’m on the road, in my small Zero Halliburton aluminum case, right next to my Smith & Wesson Model 637 five-shot revolver.

  There are about fifteen names on the list at any given time, but really the number varies, depending on the speed of justice in the world. Some of the names on the list are known actors, while others are aliases or secret code names. I classify some as UNSUB, spook language for an unidentified suspect. A few are rogue intelligence operatives who have carried out assassinations and bombings over the years.

  Mostly the names are those of the so-called puzzle makers: the tactical commanders who put together terrorist operations and dispatch the foot soldiers to carry them out. They are the brains behind the attacks. Every attack has a cycle of planning and execution, and I have always been fascinated by the planners who can put it all together.

  A few of the names on my list are those of the watchers, a phrase stolen from John le Carré’s stories about George Smiley of British intelligence. The watchers conduct the preoperational surveillance—the crucial first phase of the attack cycle. Lurking in the shadows, or operating openly with a laptop perched at a Starbucks table, they study a target in detail to find openings to attack. The good ones move like a gentle breeze, are never noticed, and rarely leave a trail.

  Others on my list have been trigger pullers in an assassination operation, placed a bomb on a plane, or attacked a building containing innocent children. These are the cold-blooded knuckle draggers, the shooters. In the bloody aftermath of most of these things, a political group will claim credit under the banner of jihad. But in my mind, the prime responsibility goes to the one who squeezed the trigger or connected the detonator’s wires. They are special to me.

  Each name on my list has eluded pursuit and is still out there, on the loose. There is a story behind every one. Images of their victims still hover in my view. Some are frozen in time, forever young, with loved ones and family members and children standing by grave sites, left, sometimes forever, to wonder what happened.

  I have been told that it is normal to forget. That time heals. For some reason, that has not been true for me. Some nights, after the kids are in bed, I sit and look at the list and pick up my Parker rollerball pen to make updates, add new names, or relish the opportunity to finally cross one off when he has been arrested or slain. The fate of some will never be known. That troubles me the most of all.

  I don’t need the list to remember their names, for they are all burned into my memory like the sharp flash of a revolver in a dark alley. I close my eyes and recall the sophisticated street dances of surveillance, the code names and radio traffic chattering in my earpiece while my feet ached from standing so long on post, the sharp smell of a lit time fuse, the feel of an Uzi bucking in my hands, or the satisfying final crimping of a blasting cap. The shadow work, the attack cycle, safe-house meetings, eyes-only back-channel cables, black diplomatic passports in various names, cash reward payments in standard-issue black Samsonite briefcases, hotel rooms with signed receipts under code names, airplane fuselages split by explosions, and kidnapping victims chained to radiators. I remember the bodies of children made unrecognizable by the blast of a truck bomb, embassies lying in rubble, body bags on an airport tarmac. Unfinished business, all of it.

  I have been told that James Jesus Angleton, the legendary CIA spymaster known by the code name of “Mother,” kept such a private, handwritten list. Upon his death, Mother’s list was cremated along with his body by the old boys at the Agency, letting him take his secrets to his grave.

  My own list remains as current as today’s headlines. Most of the names have long been forgotten by the public, but not by me. I take it personally when justice has not been done, and I intend some day to catch up with every one of them, to help in some way to bring them down. Only then will I remove them from my list.

  I have been fortunate enough to have had a hand in scratching off a number of those names. I helped create and lead the Counterterrorism Division of the Diplomatic Security Service of the U.S. Department of State. Very few people have ever heard of us. My training for that work was as a street cop back when terrorism was in its infancy.

  In the old days, we cataloged what we knew about terrorists by hand on index cards. Today the agencies collect, sort, and store a daily avalanche of information and analysis with a state-of-the-art data-management system. But raw data does not bring wisdom. Information alone cannot distill experience. Computers do not go into the weeds after the bad guys. That is where guys like me come in.

  People have always been intrigued by what I do, particularly since most of it was so shrouded in secrecy. Counterterrorism special agents do not court publicity. We have no wish to become targets instead of hunters. We seek the shadows, using secure telephones and untraceable license plates to keep us hidden. Before I left public service, I wore a necklace of laminated identity cards that granted entrance to the inner recesses of the intelligence agencies. My special black passport whisked me past customs officers abroad. My bag was kept packed at all times to answer calls that would have me heading for the other side of the world within hours.

  But the rules have changed. It was once thought that security matters and knowledge of the inner workings of terrorism were best kept quiet and left to specialists within the intelligence trade. Now everyone needs to know more, for knowledge is always power. Be it a multinational corporation, a government agency, or an individual citizen, the more you know, the safer you can be.


  With this book, I hope to let readers walk in my shoes for a while, to go behind the curtain to look at the “how” as well as the “why” of what I call “the Black World.” I’ll explain the nuts and bolts of how terrorists plot, stalk, and kill, and how counterterrorism agents try to bring the perpetrators to justice. The difference between failure and success can depend upon tiny things: a piece of pocket litter or an offhand boast by an interrogation subject. The truth is often elastic, the process of seeking it like aiming a telescope through a rotating glass prism.

  This book is partly a personal catalog of balls dropped, leads not followed, opportunities missed and the ensuing cover-ups. I also have some successes to report and some conclusions that might surprise you, just to show that good things can happen when everything comes together the right way. All too often, success is not quantifiable, and many stories go untold because of the need to protect ongoing operations.

  The personal payoff for me comes when we bring down one of the terrorists. I never really care if he’s captured in handcuffs or loaded dead on a stretcher. I don’t care whether the takedown was the result of hard work, bravery, or pure luck. Whenever we take a bad guy off the board, I feel good. I can justify relaxing for a moment and spending time with my wife and children without a second thought. I can take a long jog with my trusty canine partner. I can watch a game of football or visit an old friend.

  But for a great many years, during my whole tenure in government service, I found that no matter how much I wanted to leave the Dark World’s burdens behind, the call of the next operation always seemed to bring me back. I couldn’t ever stop thinking that how hard we terrorist hunters worked would determine the speed of justice in the world. And I couldn’t wait for the next opportunity to scratch another name off my list.

  one

  THE BURIED BODIES

  0500

  February 10, 1986

  Bethesda, Maryland

  On my morning run through February’s chilly darkness, my chocolate Lab, Tyler Beauregard, sets the pace. This is our routine together, though we always vary our route now. At agent training, which I just completed, they drilled into us the notion that in our new lives, routines will get us killed. When you join the Dark World, you must become unpredictable. Erratic. We must strip away all the conventions of our old lives and fade into the background. We’ve been trained. We’ve practiced. Today, I begin my life as a ghost.

  These morning runs will be my one tip to the old life I’m leaving behind. Still, today I take new precautions, such as the snubby Smith & Wesson Model 60 .38-caliber revolver tucked away under my belt.

  I love these morning runs with Tyler. She is a remarkable animal, my familiar, a canine that intuits more about loyalty and honor than most of the people I encountered as a police officer in Montgomery County, Maryland. She pads along, tongue lolling, breathing steady. She’s a pro. She could run marathons of her own.

  My footfalls echo across the empty Bethesda neighborhood. The tidy brick houses and apartments are dark. In my new life, I’ll be spending a lot of time in darkness. I’ve learned to be paranoid. I’ve learned to look around corners and watch my back. Our instructors warned us that the KGB opens a file on every one of us new agents as soon as we graduate. Then they probe our lives and backgrounds in search of weaknesses, skeletons, or any sort of leverage by which to exploit or co-opt us. Sooner or later, they will make contact with an offer. Or a threat.

  I glance behind me, half expecting to see some Eastern Bloc thug in a trench coat shadowing me. But all I see is a thin layer of fog and an empty suburban block.

  I look behind me a lot these days. It goes with the job. Situational awareness is essential if we are to stay alive. I don’t run with a Walkman banging out Springsteen’s Born to Run anymore. My ears are unbound and tuned to the street. Every little sound, every shuffle or distant downshift of an automobile on MacArthur Boulevard registers with me. I file each new noise away in my mind, cataloging it so I’ll notice anything out of the ordinary. I’ve been trained to be an observer. Since I started my training last November, I hone and refine this skill on every morning run.

  Tyler picks up the pace. She’s taking me toward Glen Echo, a small town on the Potomac. We reach a little jogging trail that runs along Reservoir Road. Here, we escape the suburbs and plunge into the woods. Just before we enter the tree line, I steal a sidelong glance behind me again. I practice this move every day; it is something we learned in training. The trick is to be unobtrusive, to not reveal that you’re clearing your six. It has become automatic for me now.

  No tails. We’re not being followed.

  Today my life changes forever. I have no idea what is in store for us new guys. I just know that a year ago, I was a Maryland cop. I protected my community. I loved law enforcement, but I wanted something more. So I applied for federal service, and the Diplomatic Security Service offered me a job. Until last fall, I’d never even heard of the DSS.

  I started my training in November 1985, just a few weeks after terrorists hijacked the cruise liner Achille Lauro and executed Leon Klinghoffer for the crime of being an American citizen—and a Jew. They shot him then dumped him overboard in his wheelchair.

  The world needs more cops.

  Only three out of every hundred who start the training get to the finish line. I felt lucky just to be there. After the ceremony, we stood in alphabetically arranged lines waiting to receive our first assignments. Our class coordinator, Special Agent Phil Whitney, began reading off our names and telling us what we’d be doing for the next phase of our lives. Some of us picked up overseas assignments in our embassy field offices. Some landed protective security tours, guarding our diplomats and the secretary of state. Whitney told a few they’d be assigned as diplomatic couriers, where they would carry our nation’s most-guarded secrets from one place to another all around the globe.

  When he got to me, Whitney paused. He stared at his clipboard for a moment before saying, “Burton, Counterterrorism Branch.”

  I’d had no idea what that was. When Whitney reached the middle of the alphabet he called out, “Mullen, Counterterrorism Branch.”

  I looked down the rows of agents to John Mullen. His flaming red hair was easy to spot. I could see him searching me out. We were the only two to be sent to this puzzling assignment. We exchanged confused glances. What had we gotten into?

  At least I’d be going into it with a rock-steady veteran. Before he joined the DSS, Mullen had been an agent with the Drug Enforcement Administration, battling the growing narco-criminal element and cocaine cartels on the streets of New York City. Legend had it that he’d been in a nasty shoot-out and had run out of ammunition in the midst of the fray. After that, he always carried two guns. One he tucked away in a shoulder holster. The other he wore strapped to his ankle. He prepared for the worst and trusted in firepower. I swear we all thought he slept with those weapons. They were his pacifiers.

  A light rain drizzles down on us now. Tyler shakes her coat in mid-stride, sending water droplets flying. I wish I could do that. We’re still on a course that is taking us away from our little redbrick apartment, a fact that I sense is starting to disappoint my dog. I hurry forward until I’m even with her and bend down to run my hands through her damp fur. She looks up at me with pure love. I’ve already told my wife that when I die, Tyler’s ashes will be buried with me.

  Back home, my wife, Sharon, is probably just getting up to face her own Monday. We were high school sweethearts and have known each other most of our lives. Up until now, we’ve lived an average DINK life (Double Income, No Kids). She’s an accountant, a damned good one. She’s aggressive and driven and works long hours. Now, I’m a spook. Secrecy is our watchword. I realize with a grin that we’ll have nothing to talk about at cocktail parties.

  Tyler Beauregard dashes ahead of me again until she reaches a narrow footbridge. She waits for me to catch up. She knows this bridge. We’ve investigated it before. It is top on the lis
t of Dark World sites to see in Washington, D.C. Of course, there are no plaques or markers noting this piece of spy history. To the average workaday American—guys like me until four months ago—it was just a little bridge over a small creek.

  But now I know its dark side. This was Kim Philby’s dead-drop point. Philby was the KGB’s first true superspy, a British intel operative who embraced Communism while at Oxford in the thirties. He compromised hundreds of agents, destroyed scores of operations, and sold out the lives of countless patriots. When his cover was finally blown in the sixties, he escaped to Moscow and got what he deserved: a hellish life under the regime he had helped sustain. In the dingy concrete apartments he later called home, he devolved into a bitter, broken alcoholic given to frequent bouts of complete incoherence. His conscience became his enemy. He died in shame, his name a byword for treason.

  In the late 1940s, Philby was posted to Washington, D.C. It was said that he somehow learned the true size of our atomic stockpile, which was not large at the time. He passed that vital tidbit of national security on to the KGB by taping a tube full of documents under this bridge. Legend has it that the information the Russians retrieved here emboldened Stalin to blockade Berlin in 1948.

  This is my world now. The days of chasing speeders, driving drunken high school kids home, and taking down burglars is over. At least for me.

  Tyler senses I’m brooding and sets off again. This is her way of telling me it is time to return to the warmth of our apartment. I trail along behind her, my breathing easy. As I watch her galloping for home, it strikes me that she too has a connection to the Dark World. She’s from Winchester, Virginia. I bought her from a breeder there in town when she was just a pup. That’s John Mosby country. He was a Confederate colonel, a renegade guerrilla nicknamed the “Gray Ghost” who struck terror into the hearts of Union rear-area types during the height of the Civil War.

  Now I’m counterterror. Whatever that means. I suppose like every American who watches the evening news, I’ve seen Americans abroad fall victim to political violence. One terror attack after another has darkened the nightly broadcasts—the Achille Lauro, plane hijackings, car bombings, Beirut. We’re a nation still scarred by the Iran hostage crisis and that 444-day nightmare. Will I be fighting against this sort of criminal now? I’m not sure, but I hope so.