Mission Compromised (31 page)

The meeting ended without Kamil ever meeting the couriers who had traveled back and forth between Baghdad and Khartoum. As he rose to depart, Qusay said, “Kamil, when Osama arrives at my father's palace in Tikrit, he expects to see you there with at least two of each of your best chemical and biological weapons. And if you can build a nuclear weapon smaller than a truck by then, bring two of them.” With that, the young man who was the heir apparent to the presidential palace walked out the door without bothering to say good-bye.

The commander of the Amn Al-Khass sat back down at his desk and put his head in his hands. But he wasn't thinking about the meeting with Osama bin Laden in Tikrit on March 6. Instead, he was hoping that he could find some workable way to get out of Iraq and seek asylum in the West.

 

Parking Garage, FBI Building

________________________________________

Washington, D.C.

Monday, 16 January 1995

1300 Hours, Local

 

Newman had just finished a briefing at the FBI offices and returned to his car. Inside he took out his wallet and fished out a business card that was stuck in an inside pocket. It said
Keller's Auto Repairs and Service.
As he exited the J. Edgar Hoover Building's underground parking garage, he took out his mobile phone and dialed the phone number listed on the card. A voice answered, and Newman asked, “Do I have time to get in today for an oil and filter change?” He paused for
a response then said, “Great. Is two o'clock all right? Good. Oh, by the way, I want a wash and the inside swept out. Can you do that too? Excellent. I'll be there at two.” He looked at his watch and saw that he had enough time to run through McDonald's for a quick lunch before heading for Keller's Auto Repairs and Service.

He pulled the Tahoe into the two-bay service station on Clarendon Boulevard just a few minutes before 2:00 P.M. As he got out of his car, Newman was met by a middle-aged man with the name “Ed Keller” embroidered over one pocket and a patch that said “Manager.” Keller led Newman over to a nearby empty bay, asking him what kind of work he wanted done.

“I need your help, Ed. You gave me your card when we worked together four years ago. You used our Second Force Recon guys to support your CIA team when you tried to spring some defectors from—”

“Yeah, I remember. Newman, right?”

The two men spent a few minutes with small talk then Newman told him about his problem. “Ed, I need your help. And I'll have to ask for your discretion on this. I'm not sure, but I'm concerned that my car may have been bugged. And I need to know, without anyone else finding out that I'm suspicious. I know this sounds a little paranoid, but in the line of work we were once in, a little paranoia can keep you alive. Can you check the vehicle and just let me know if you find anything? And if you do find anything, don't disarm it or touch it, just let me know. I don't want to let anyone else know just yet that I'm on to them.”

“Gotcha, man. Any idea who planted 'em?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Newman said. “It might be another set of good guys who are worried about a joint venture we're about to take together. Probably just want to cover their six, y'know?”

The CIA agent nodded and went over to one of the employees and showed him a box that he had checked on the clipboard list. The other man nodded, went into the supply room, and came back with a large, battered toolbox. He opened it and took out a small set of wires attached to a wand, which was hooked up to a small oscilloscope. While another worker lifted the hood and began to drain the oil out of the engine, the man with the electronic equipment searched underneath the vehicle. Then he came up from the pit and went inside the car—with a hand vacuum that he didn't turn on—and searched the inside for electronic bugs.

“You're clean, Mr. Newman,” he said at last.

Then the other worker was done changing the oil and filter, and he closed the hood.

“That'll be $24.80. I'm giving you the senior discount,” Keller said with a smile.

“Very funny.”

“Will it be cash or plastic?”

“Credit card,” Newman replied and handed over his American Express card.

“He's our best guy for doing a sweep,” Ed Keller told Newman as he signed the credit card slip. “If he says it's clean, it's clean.”

“Yeah, that's reassuring. But a guy has to be careful out there, right?”

“He sure does. Well, you take it easy, Mr. Newman. Stay outta trouble.”

Newman nodded and climbed into his car while one of the workers wiped an oil smudge from the edge of the hood. As he drove out of the service station, Newman felt better. Tucking the credit card slip into his pocket, he felt the small object that he'd stuffed there when he
took the files out of what he now mentally referred to as
the fireplace safe.

He took it out and looked at it. It was an American passport. When he stopped at the light on Massachusetts Avenue he opened it to see whose it was. Inside was a photograph of Oliver North. But the name under the picture was “William P. Goode.”

He was distracted from examining the passport by a horn honking behind him. The driver threw an obscene gesture his way, and Newman looked up to see that the light had changed. He put the passport back into his pocket and turned to head back into Washington. On the east side of the Roosevelt Bridge, Newman got in the left lane to pick up the expressway that would take him directly to the South West Gate at the White House. As he came to a halt for the light at Seventeenth Street, he made his decision. Before telling anyone else about the contents of the safe, he would find out once and for all what all this was about. But that would have to wait until he got back to Fort Bragg later in the week.

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Narnia Farm

________________________________________

Bluemont, VA

Monday, 30 January 1995

0900 Hours, Local

 

I
t was a postcard in a stack of Monday morning mail. Lieutenant Colonel Oliver North, USMC (Ret.), probably wouldn't have taken the time at that moment to read it except that it was a picture that every Marine knows well—a photograph of the statue at the north end of Arlington Cemetery, the Iwo Jima Memorial. North read the caption on the postcard:

 

Six men, in battle dress, straining to raise an American flag atop an extinct volcano on a tiny atoll in the Pacific on
February 23, 1945. The moment captured in 1/400th of a second by Joe Rosenthal, an Associated Press photographer. The statue, sculpted by Felix de Weldon, is a five-times life-size, three-dimensional rendering of Rosenthal's Pulitzer Prize—winning black-and-white photo. The six Marines, intent in their purpose, stand like silent sentinels overlooking the nation's capital.

 

North turned the card over and read a carefully handprinted note:

 

IRONHAND THREE ACTUAL, URGENT. REQ U RNDVU W/ FOX TWO ACTUAL AT SURIBACHI AT 1930 ON TUE, 7 FEB; WED, 8 FEB; OR THURS, 9 FEB. DO NOT BREAK EMCON. FOX TWO SENDS.

 

“Ironhand Three” had been North's radio call sign when he served as the Operations Officer—or the “S-3” in military-speak—for Battalion Landing Team 3/8 in the Mediterranean in 1980. “Fox Two” was the commander of the Second Platoon of Company F. The former Marine stood staring at the postcard for a full minute while he tried to wring from his memory banks which of the bright-eyed, young lieutenants had commanded the Second Platoon of Foxtrot Company.

He was about to give up when he remembered something. North strode over to the bookcase in his office and pulled a copy of the Third Battalion, Eighth Marine Regiment “Cruise Book” from the shelf. Much like a high school or college yearbook, it was a neatly bound collection of photos, notes, and memories of the unit's seven-month deployment as the landing force for the Sixth Fleet in the Mediterranean Sea in 1980. Best of all, it contained rosters and photos of every sailor and Marine in the command.

Next to the title “Platoon Leader, 2nd Platoon, Co. F, BLT 3/8” was the caption “2nd Lt. Peter J. Newman.” And there were pictures of him—one staring straight into the camera and another in front of his platoon formation. He was tall, straight, thin, and fifteen years younger than he would be today. He looked like a Marine recruiting poster model. And there was a third black-and-white photo. In this candid shot, the camera had caught him giving an order during a live-fire field exercise.

North recognized the terrain: Capo Teulada, Sardinia—the NATO live-fire training area. In the photo, the young Lieutenant Newman was holding a map in one hand and pointing out in the distance. His helmet and flak jacket were covered with dust. His radio operator at his side, the four other men in the photograph must have been his platoon sergeant and three squad leaders. The caption beneath the photo said, “Lt. Newman prepares 2nd Platoon for the night attack exercise.”

It all came back, unlocking North's memory. Newman had been leading a Marine rifle platoon in a simulated night attack when one of the Italian Puma helicopters flying over his unit had flown literally into the side of a mountain, six hundred yards off the Second Platoon's right flank. Lieutenant Newman, ten of his Marines, and a Navy medical corpsman rushed to the scene, and despite a fiercely burning fuel-fed fire, the lieutenant had personally rescued four of the helicopter's injured occupants before they could be immolated in the wreckage. He then skillfully directed medevac helicopters and rescue teams to the site.

Newman, two of his Marines, and the Navy corpsman all suffered burns themselves but refused to be evacuated until after the more seriously injured Italian troops had been flown for treatment to the
ships standing offshore. A few days later, when the Amphibious Squadron pulled into Naples for a five-day port visit, Admiral Crannick, the commander of NATO Forces in the Mediterranean, awarded the Navy-Marine Corps Lifesaving Medal to Lieutenant Newman, Corporal Ronnie Evans, PFC Filipé Enriquez, and HM3 Harold Benn.

Not to be outdone, the Italians had insisted on presenting an honor of their own: the Military Order of St. Boniface. Unlike the U.S. award, which was a medal pinned above the left breast pocket, the Italian decoration was a large medallion, suspended by a broad, multicolored ribbon to be hung around the neck. An Italian admiral gave a lengthy speech that no one could understand and, at its conclusion, insisted on kissing Newman several times on each cheek after he hung the medal around Newman's neck. In keeping with Marine tradition, instead of congratulating Newman on his honors, his fellow lieutenants kidded him incessantly, asking if he and the Italian admiral were now going steady.

Holding the postcard and looking at the Cruise Book, North remembered that, shortly after the battalion returned from its deployment to the Med in 1981, Lieutenant Newman had received orders to the Basic School at Quantico as a tactics instructor. It was a plum assignment—one that North had himself held upon his return from Vietnam. In fact, before departing Camp Lejeune for Quantico, Newman and his wife had come over to North's quarters to talk about what the Basic School would be like.

North also remembered that his wife Betsy and Newman's wife Rachel seemed to hit it off at once. Neither of them totally understood what their husbands did for a living, and they laughed together when Betsy began sharing. Rachel seemed to enjoy talking to another
woman who understood how frustrating it was to move four times in eight years and how she could never expect her Marine husband to provide her with a daily routine and schedule that she might depend on when scheduling important family events like birthday parties. Rachel had identified with all of Betsy's frustrations and offered several examples of her own of what it was like to be a junior officer's wife in the Corps.

Before Newman and his wife left that night, North had given Newman some of his old infantry tactics lesson plans that he'd used to good effect.

Shortly after Newman left the battalion, North was ordered to the Naval War College in Newport, Rhode Island, and then to the National Security Council staff at the White House. North recalled reading in the
Marine Corps Gazette
that Newman had been deep-selected—promoted early—to captain. And North had seen him briefly five years later when Newman had been a student at the Marine Corps' Amphibious Warfare School and North had been sent there by the NSC to give a lecture on counterterrorism.

When they met that day in 1986 at Amphibious Warfare School, Newman had a few more wrinkles around the eyes from too many days in the sun, but he had the same firm handshake and the same quiet confidence. That was the last time North had seen him. And he hadn't heard from him at all in the nine years since. But now he had this postcard with a cryptic note from him. At least North thought it was from him.

He looked again at the postcard. It was postmarked January 23, 1995—a week earlier—from Fort Bragg, North Carolina. It wasn't all that unusual to be getting mail from a Marine at an Army base—lots of Marines served in joint commands, attending other service's schools
and going through their training. What made North more curious was the cryptic wording of the card's message.