Anonymous Sources (30 page)

T
he president's national security adviser is an ex–Marine Corps general with ramrod posture and one lazy eye.

Mike Carspecken had a reputation for being difficult. I remember reading that he'd needed quite a lot of persuading to take the job because it required retiring his uniform and stepping down from active duty. He sat facing me now in a charcoal-gray suit and red silk tie. Both the tie and his cuff links flashed the Semper Fi crest. Apparently he was prepared to take the civilian look only so far.

After we were shown into his West Wing office, he had shaken our hands and then motioned us toward a bristly, blue sofa pushed up against
the wall. Hyde, Jill, and I sat down uncomfortably side by side, three ducks in a row. General Carspecken and the other White House officials took chairs facing us across a low table. Coffee was offered and politely declined; the general and Hyde exchanged pleasantries in a stiff way that suggested they had crossed swords before.

Finally the general smoothed his red tie and leaned back. “Let's get down to business, shall we? We have what appears to be a small situation on our hands. My understanding is it's under control, but it would be useful not to have inflammatory or inaccurate media reports circulate while we try to wrap things up.”

Hyde gave a snort.

General Carspecken ignored him. “As I was saying, I need to ask you to keep this matter quiet right now. For national security reasons. That has to be the utmost priority, naturally, for all of us. So what I would propose is that you hold your story for now, Alexandra.” He looked at me. “In exchange, I can give you a bit of context today, to enhance your understanding of the issues at hand. We can also discuss the possibility of your sitting down at a future date with senior administration officials, doing some exclusive interviews with them.” The general cocked his head toward the White House press secretary.

She nodded vigorously. “The SAOs would be on background, obviously. But they could fill in details that would put you well ahead of your competitors—”

“Oh, please,” interrupted Hyde. “Can either of you explain to me exactly how our story is supposedly going to damage national security?”

“Well, obviously, I can't comment on national security matters,” General Carspecken began testily.

“But what argument are you making, Mike? That we'll damage sources and methods? Disrupt an ongoing operation?”

“Yes, both of those. And it always complicates things once wild rumors start flying around in the press. You know it as well as I do.”

“I couldn't agree more,” Hyde said pleasantly. “Which is why, instead
of wild rumors, we were thinking instead of publishing facts. For example, the tracking number of a large fruit shipment that just landed from Pakistan. Or the fact that yesterday someone tried to kill the reporter who's been asking questions about that shipment. Or, let's see—the fact that the man who placed that fruit order, a member of Pakistan's nuclear establishment, has just been reported dead.” Hyde paused and looked down at his fingernails. “Frankly, Mike, we have so
many
fascinating facts to relate to our readers that it's hard to know quite where to start.”

The room fell silent.

General Carspecken cleared his throat. “I'm sure I don't have to explain why matters such as the ones you're describing might be . . . sensitive at this particular point in time.”

“No, you don't,” said Hyde. “And I'm sure I don't have to explain why matters such as the ones I'm describing add up to a pretty interesting news story. Or why—given the financial pressure I'm under to shut down the DC bureau completely—it would be nice to have the
Chronicle
out front on a major national story. So you're going to have to give us a better reason than ‘things are sensitive' to get me to sit on one.”

Silence fell again.

I had to hand it to Hyde. I might be out of my depth on national-security matters, but I had wheedled information out of enough reluctant officials to recognize a master at work.

After a moment Jill spoke. Her nose had twitched when Hyde made the threat about shutting the Washington bureau, but otherwise she hadn't entered the fray. “Why don't we start with what's happening now. When Hyde asked just now whether our publishing might disrupt an ongoing operation, you said yes. Can you be more specific?”

The general sighed. He must have been wishing he could order us to drop and give him fifty push-ups. Instead he smoothed his tie again, crossed and uncrossed his legs, and finally looked up at me. Or at least I think he looked at me; it was hard to tell with his lazy eye.

“Alexandra,” he said in a patronizing tone, “I suspect you've
never had reason to have heard of an organization called the Ummah Tameer-e-Nau.”

I pretended to think for a minute. “UTN, you mean? The group headed by Sultan Bashiruddin Mahmood? He's the guy who talked to Al Qaeda about selling them nuclear weapons technology. But I thought they'd been effectively dismantled. What's UTN got to do with anything?”

Jill stared at me. Hyde looked away, trying not to smirk.

The general shot a furious look at the press secretary, then turned back to me. “You seem well-informed for someone who usually covers the education beat.”

“I try to read widely, sir.”

“Of course you do,” he said coldly. “And you are correct that they were dismantled after 9/11. But there is some . . . evidence . . . that suggests perhaps offshoots remained active. And may remain dedicated to the original goal. Of course, we do not remotely believe they're capable of procuring or detonating an active weapon.” The general stopped, as if that pretty much covered things.

“What does that have to do with Nadeem Siddiqui?” I asked.

“He is someone we have monitored.”

“Why?”

“We always worry about extremist links.”

“But did you have a reason in his case?”

“He . . .” The general hesitated. “We fear he may have been doing trial runs.”

“Trial runs? For what?”

“Siddiqui was ordering large crates of bananas.”

“I know. I saw one of them.”

“It was quite large?”

“Almost as big as a car.”

“Yes. I gather you've learned that among the unique qualities of a banana is that it produces radiation. Low levels, obviously. They're quite
safe to eat. But enough that bulk shipments don't get inspected. They set off the sensors, and then they get waved through. Literally hundreds of tons of them every day. An ideal hiding place, isn't it, if you were trying to shift radioactive material?”

“And so you think—”

“What I think is we would very much like to find and inspect that shipment that arrived at Dulles on Tuesday. And I think it would
not
be helpful for you to sow mass panic by writing about events that you know little about.”

Hyde rolled his eyes. “As it happens, she appears to know a good deal more about them than you do, Mike.”

Before the two of them could start bickering again, I cut in. “General, forgive me, but I'm still trying to get my head around this. Say for argument's sake that it's true, and somebody is trying to smuggle a nuclear bomb inside boxes of bananas. I mean, it's ridiculous sounding, but on top of that—how would they get it? Doesn't Pakistan keep that stuff locked down? Surely someone would notice if a nuclear weapon just walked out the door.”

The general shrugged. “You would think. A complete weapon would be very challenging to steal, I would hope. But weapons-usable material turns up fairly often on the nuclear black market. No one ever seems to notice it was missing until it gets seized.”

“But that's crazy. I guess I can see it for old Soviet weapons, rusting in a warehouse outside Kiev or something. But for an active program in a country like Pakistan? With terrorists running around? I thought I read that we were spending all this money to help them with high-tech launch codes and security protocols and stuff. Isn't someone supposed to be keeping track of where everything is?”

The general leaned forward. “Young lady, without confirming or denying the existence of any funds that may—or may not—have been appropriated to aid Pakistan's nuclear program, consider this scenario. The right person, placed inside the right laboratory, underreports just a little
every day how much nuclear material has been produced. Or how much is in storage. Over time you could have quite a sizable little stockpile that just . . . disappeared.”

“And you think—you think Nadeem Siddiqui was that person?”

“No comment.”

“But you're talking some sort of inside job. You're not suggesting the complicity of the Pakistani government, are you?”

“No. I don't think they're quite that insane. But given that you read so widely,” the general added mockingly, “you'll be aware that Pakistan's recent history doesn't suggest great success at detecting or thwarting threats from inside the military and nuclear establishments.”

I thought about this for a moment. Then I took a chance. Elias had suggested a couple of long-shot interview requests, and this seemed as good a time as any. “I'd like to meet with the head of the CIA. Get a full briefing on UTN and other radical offshoot groups.”

Everyone in the room, including Hyde and Jill, looked at me as if I were cracked.

“No,” said General Carspecken.

“Why not?”

“Why not? Well, let's see: he's a busy man, he almost never gives interviews, and we're speaking here off the record about classified information. Anyway, the CIA handles his press requests, it's got nothing to do with us.”

The press secretary bobbed her head in agreement.

I narrowed my eyes. “You're asking me to sit on what would appear to be the story of a lifetime. I'm asking you for an interview. An
on
-the-record interview.”

Back came the patronizing smile. “As I said, he's a busy man. I'll see what I can do.”

“Thank you. One last thing. What does any of this have to do with Thomas Carlyle?”

“With Thomas Carlyle?” The general looked blank. The press secretary
leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Ah, yes. I heard you asked Lowell about that. A bit heartless to trouble him with this nonsense when he's just lost his son, don't you think?”

“Heartless? I'm not trying to trouble him or not trouble him. I'm just trying to understand the connections.”

“There is no connection. Not that I know of. What would it be?”

“There is no connection?”

“Yes, that's what I just said, Alexandra,” the general said irritably. He looked around. “Okay. Are we good?”

Hyde stood up. “Just so we're clear, Mike. We're going to continue to aggressively pursue this story. I'll check in with you this afternoon to let you know where things stand and whether we intend to publish tomorrow. We'll obviously give you the opportunity to issue a statement on behalf of the administration.”

“You do that,” said the general, looking as if he sorely missed the days when people shut up and saluted when he gave them an order. “But just so we're clear too. I will use every tool at my disposal—including the full legal power of the White House—to prevent you from publishing.”

“Of course. Good luck with that,” Hyde replied. “I haven't been sued yet this week, I don't think. But, hell—it's only Thursday.”

    

    

L
ater that morning I got two interesting phone calls.

The first was from a spokesman for the CIA. He told me they had received my request and that they would be able to offer me a background briefing that afternoon.

“With the director?”

“No, I'm afraid he won't be available today. With Edmund Tusk.”

“Who's that?”

“The associate deputy director of the National Clandestine Service.”