Body of Lies (28 page)

Myra Callum returned looking even more teed off than before. The FBI man turned on the tape recorder again. They each introduced themselves again, for the record. Ferris did the same. They asked him if he was waiving his right to have an attorney present and Ferris muttered yes. Apparently they were worried that he hadn't spoken loudly enough, so they asked him to say it again.

"I am going to ask you some questions about your past activities," said Callum. "During 1999 and 2000, were you assigned to the CIA station in Sanaa, in the Democratic Republic of Yemen?"

Technically, the answer to that question was classified. Ferris looked at the lawyer from the General Counsel's Office, who nodded that it was okay to answer.

"Yes, that's correct," said Ferris.

"And was your position in the station deputy operations chief?"

"Yes," answered Ferris. "At first, I was just a CO. But after six months someone left and they made me deputy ops chief."

"And in that role," continued Callum, "did you maintain regular liaison with the security services of the host country, Yemen?" Her voice was dry and stern; it sounded as if it came from somewhere behind her, as if she were a ventriloquist's dummy and someone unseen was projecting the voice. Ferris didn't like her, and he truly didn't like the idea that he was being quizzed like a criminal.

"Obviously." He spoke with an edge that betrayed his anger. "Of course I maintained liaison with the host service. That's what agency officers do, all over the world. That is, the ones who are actually out in the field, as opposed to those back at Headquarters who make trouble for the people who do the work."

Croge, the agency lawyer, shook his head. Don't make these people mad.

"A yes or no will be sufficient, Mr. Ferris," said Callum. "And you can save your snide comments about the agency for your future bed-mates in prison."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" said Ferris.

She ignored him and continued with her questions. "Now, on February seventeenth, 2000, did you have occasion to meet with members of the Yemeni intelligence service, known as the
Mouk-ha-ba-rat
?" She said it phonetically, for whoever would be transcribing the tape.

"How should I know? I don't have my calendar."

"Perhaps I can refresh your memory, Mr. Ferris. On February seventeenth, February eighteenth and February nineteenth, did you assist the Mouk-ha-ba-rat in interrogating an alleged Al Qaeda member named
Sa-mir Na-kib
, who was in their custody?"

"Fuck me," Ferris whispered to himself. It hit him suddenly, with the force of a hammer against his head.
This is about Gretchen
. She had snitched on him. She had remembered a long-ago remark he'd made about interrogation in Yemen. He had told her that an Al Qaeda prisoner had died in captivity while he was present. She had admonished him never to repeat to anyone what he had done, because technically it was illegal. Ferris had forgotten about it, but she had held on to it these past few years, saving it in case she ever needed leverage. And now she was using it.

"Mr. Ferris, I am waiting," said the nasally voice of Myra Callum.

"Where did you get your information?" said Ferris angrily. "From an informant, right? An 'anonymous' informant."

"Where we got the information is irrelevant. Just answer the question. Did you meet with members of the Yemeni intelligence service on February seventeenth, eighteenth and nineteenth, 2000?"

"I decline to answer."

"On what grounds?"

"It's classified."

Croge interjected. "Speaking on behalf of the agency, I can assure you, Mr. Ferris, that Miss Callum, Agent Sackowitz and I all have proper security clearances. We are authorized to receive this information."

"Sorry. I've never seen any of you before today. I want it in writing from my boss, Ed Hoffman, chief of the Near East Division. Otherwise, no way."

Croge looked fatigued. Callum looked furious. The FBI agent looked bored. "Just continue with the questions," said Croge. "I'll call the fourth floor in a minute."

"In the course of interrogation of Sa-mir Na-kib on the aforementioned days, did you witness the beating of the prisoner?"

"I decline to answer."

"Why?"

"Same reason. It's classified. It would be a violation of law for me to answer without proper verification of your clearances by my superior."

"Did you witness members of the security service threaten the prisoner, Sa-mir Na-kib, with a cricket bat, and then hit him with the bat? In the head?"

"Classified. Classified."

"Did you at any point attempt to stop the members of the Yemeni Mouk-ha-ba-rat from these activities, as required under U.S. Executive Order 12333 and other relevant agency internal orders?"

"Classified. Classified. Classified."

Callum looked at Ferris with a black dart of pure hatred in her eyes. To her, he was one of the bad ones; one of the men who had taken away her promotions, held her back from advancement, taken risks that caused trouble for everyone else, made messes they expected other people to clean up.

"Mr. Ferris, I reject your reason for declining to answer. I am
fully
authorized to receive this information. You are insulting me and the Office of the Inspector General in questioning my clearances, and you are stalling. In addition to being in potential violation of U.S. criminal statutes, you are arrogant, and I'm going to make sure you pay for it."

Ferris looked at her and smiled for the first time since he had entered the room. He had gotten to her. He had ruffled her lawyer's confidence. That was worth something. "Just get Ed Hoffman," said Ferris. "Show me written authorization from my boss that I am allowed to discuss these matters, and then I'll talk to you. Maybe."

T
HEY ADJOURNED
the session a short while later. They were getting nowhere, and Croge was worried that Ferris might actually be right about needing written authorization to discuss details of liaison activities, which were among the agency's most closely guarded secrets. They gave Ferris a temporary badge. When he had left Headquarters, Ferris called Hoffman and asked him to meet him at the Starbucks in the McLean Shopping Center.

24

WASHINGTON

S
TARBUCKS WAS NEARLY DESERTED
in late morning. The only person nearby was a frizzy-haired student typing on her PowerBook and listening to music on her iPod. Ferris was sitting in a dark corner eating an oversized banana-nut muffin in the hope that all those calories would make him feel better. Hoffman ordered an almond Frappuccino and was slurping it through a fat straw when he sat down beside Ferris.

"Well, at least I know now what this is about," said Ferris. "It's my wife, Gretchen. I told her once about some bad stuff that happened in Sanaa when we were interrogating an Al Qaeda prisoner, and how I didn't do anything to stop it and the guy eventually died. Now she's using it to squeeze me because I want a divorce. Believe it or not, that's what this is about."

"I'm impressed," said Hoffman, putting aside his drink. "She must really love you. But that doesn't alter the fact that you are in some serious shit."

"You don't mean they take this nonsense seriously?"

"Unfortunately, yes. My spy in the IG's Office says their informant--your charming wife, presumably--has a lot of political juice. Friends in high places, clout with the White House. So when the informant passed along the information, the IG's Office had to pursue it. My spy says they don't think it's much of a case. If you wanted to prosecute all the guys who've sat in on nasty interrogations, half the DO would go down. But they have no choice, unless their informant recants. I talked to my lawyer, Mark Sheehan, by the way. He has all the clearances, and the General Counsel's Office says it's fine for you to talk to him. In fact, I think the GC wants this to go away. He knows it doesn't smell right and that it's trouble. Sheehan will see you this afternoon, at five or six. I forget which. I told him we need you bad on something and we can't waste time with all the legal crap. We need to
move
."

Ferris thought a moment, over the sucking noise of Hoffman draining his Frappuccino. "So if the informant withdraws the complaint, the IG's Office would drop the investigation? Is that what you're telling me?"

"Yeah. Maybe. Ask Sheehan. That's the sort of stuff he's good at. The thing is, they can't prosecute without witnesses. And if nobody talks, they don't have diddly. I mean, God knows, the Yemenis aren't going to talk. They killed the guy. And the victim isn't going to talk, because he's extremely dead. So what have they got, actually, at the end of the day? Fuck-all. So keep cool in Kabul. This is a case without witnesses. Did you tell anybody else about this, other than your wife?"

"No. I put a note in the file to the effect that this guy had died after interrogation. That's what they must have found. But I didn't put in any details. I didn't even tell you. At least, I hope I didn't."

"No way," said Hoffman. "If you had, I would have had to report it. Now get out of here. Go see Sheehan. A good lawyer can fix anything. I need you back in Amman. The clock is ticking."

M
ARK
S
HEEHAN'S
office was in a fancy building on Pennsylvania Avenue. It was like entering another universe. A secretary sat Ferris down in a waiting room that could have received royalty. He was early--it turned out that the appointment was for six, not five, but that didn't matter to Ferris. They had comfy chairs and glossy magazines and there were real paintings on the wall, rather than lame prints like the ones at the agency. Sheehan over the years had become a guardian angel for case officers in trouble. He was one of the top criminal lawyers in the city, and he made a very good living representing corporate malefactors who probably deserved to go to jail. But Sheehan was an ex-Marine, and it made him angry to see good CIA officers being hounded by congressional committees and showboating lawyers and anybody else who felt like taking a whack at them. So he represented DO clients pro bono. Ferris relaxed in the temporary embrace of a white-shoe law firm. The secretary brought him coffee in a china cup and saucer, and then a Diet Coke and some cookies, and eventually they summoned him to meet Sheehan.

Ferris went through his story carefully. He described Gretchen's role at the Justice Department, and his suspicion that she'd played a role in drafting the DOJ interrogation policy. He also recounted, in grim detail, the three-day process of interrogation in an underground prison in Sanaa--the threats, the tools they had used, the spurt of blood from the head, the puddle of blood on the floor. He painted it the best way he could; he hadn't known they would use the cricket bat; he hadn't realized how seriously hurt the man was. But the basic fact was inescapable: The man had been tortured to death.

"Was any other American citizen present when the prisoner was beaten?" asked Sheehan. When Ferris said he had been the only person there from the station, the lawyer seemed relieved. That meant the only available "witness"--indirectly--was his wife, Gretchen Ferris. And her testimony could be impeached.

"What should I do?" asked Ferris.

"It would be nice if your wife changed her story. If she called back whoever she talked to and said that she wasn't so sure now. That would make things easier for everyone, including her."

"Look, I know what she wants. She wants me to call off the divorce. But I'm not going to do that."

"Understood," said Sheehan. "But maybe there's something she
doesn't
want. I'm not giving you any advice, obviously. But sometimes an informant realizes that it's not in her best interest to pursue a matter."

"Her best interest," repeated Ferris. That was certainly a concept Gretchen understood.

F
ERRIS WAITED
until nine that night and then called Gretchen's apartment. He made the call standing in an alley outside her building. When she answered, he cut the connection and went upstairs and rang the doorbell. She had the door chained and didn't let him in at first. Ferris thought she might have another man with her, but it wasn't that; she was doing her makeup.

"What a surprise," she said, unbolting the chain. "Have you come to your senses?"

She was wearing a long black sweater over the skirt and blouse she'd worn to work. From the inflection in her voice, Ferris suspected she'd already had her martini. She was trying to ruin him. He had to remember that as he looked at the beautiful woman who stared up at him with her lips parted ever so slightly.

"I know what you're doing," he said. "You're trying to destroy me. But it won't work."

"Don't be ridiculous, Roger. How could I destroy a big, strong CIA man who isn't afraid of
anybody
? You must be having delusions. It's you who is trying to destroy me, by demanding a divorce."

"I met today with the inspector general, and after that I hired a good lawyer. I know what's going on, and it won't work. There's no evidence, no witnesses, just your word against mine. And you are an angry soon-to-be-ex-wife, so nobody's going to believe you. I never told you anything about Yemen. I will swear that in court. You made it up to get revenge. The case is a loser. The problem is, I don't have time to go through all the legal maneuvers. So I want you to withdraw the compliant. Say you were mistaken. Say you're sorry. Just make it go away. And then we're even."

Her laughter was forced and slightly drunken. "That's absurd. You really are pathetic, Roger."

"Make it go away," Ferris repeated. "This is no joke." His voice was cold and unyielding, and for a moment she was taken aback. But she recovered quickly, and named her price.

"I'm not going to lift a finger to help a man who is trying to divorce me. The only one who can solve your problems is you. It's in your hands...darling. As a wife, I could not possibly testify against my husband. But as a soon-to-be-ex-wife, as you so coldly put it, that's a different story. So you have to decide."