Perspectives, An Intriguing Tale of an American Born Terrorist (4 page)

“I haven’t had a chance to read it yet. Can you guys believe this stuff? Give me a couple of minutes to read this and get caught up?”

As Jonathan read the
Washington Post
article, he tried to figure out how the story could have leaked so thoroughly explaining virtually every aspect of the operation to the American people.

“Do they know who the rat is?” Jonathan asked.

“Nope,” answered Ron. “At least if they do, they’re not telling us.”

“Do you think someone on the inside is responsible for the attack?” asked Jonathan.

Ed shrugged, indicating that he didn’t want to comment. He put his hand on Jonathan’s shoulder. “Prepare yourself for a pretty good shakedown, my friend.”

“What’s the agenda here, anyway…standard debrief?” asked Jonathan.

“Yeah, our orders are just to keep the press away. The Director’s coming down to give you a little pep talk and they’ll bring the professionals. It should be pretty standard stuff. Until they get here, we’re just going to keep you safe.”

“You mind if I flip on the TV? I’m still just trying to digest all of this.”

“Not a problem, you’ve been gone awhile. But it’s good to have you back.”

He flipped the television between CNN, MSNBC and Fox News and heard analyst after analyst explain the likely objective of project
Blue Heron
and watched footage, mostly from home video cameras of the explosion and then the toppling of the Federal Building at 1941 Jeff Davis Highway. Most of the commentary was very critical of the CIA and their stupidity in placing a covert operation in such a vulnerable building. They were equally hard on the administration for the loss of all the children as if the government was responsible for planting the bombs. The President came back strong with threats to find the baby killers using any means necessary, including nuclear arms to stop the countries that support them. From the videos Jonathan could tell by the magnitude and intensity of the blast, that there were tons of explosives that somehow found their way into the building and he knew for certain that the explosion killed everyone on the first 5 floors instantly and was thankful that Matthew had not suffered. The hospital staff were the only other people allowed in the room and they elevated his bed, adjusted his medication and did the usual probing and prodding as he sat up talking with Ed and Rob.

He wasn’t too worried about the upcoming interrogation because he knew the CIA’s methods, having conducting several hundred interviews over his career. He could expect agents at different levels and with different skills, all asking similar questions to gain clues and piece together a puzzle that might take several weeks to see clearly. He would tell them everything he knew, which wouldn’t be much, because he didn’t remember anything that had happened the day of the explosion. Honestly and directly he would answer question after question,
I don’t know
.

At 3 p.m., William Reed, the Director of the CIA, and PD McVay, Director of Human Resources, came into his room with a small entourage of security and sat down in chairs next to his bed. Jonathan had met Mr. Reed before at the inaugural briefing for his covert operation and thought it an honor that he would visit him in his hospital room. He was a tall, thin man, with a full head of gray hair in his early sixties who had aged gracefully considering that he had worked 20 years in the field, before accepting the President’s appointment to the top post. His hands were big and his fingers were long and he moved them oddly as he spoke, each moving independent of the next. PD was an old friend of Jonathan’s, about six feet five and over 300 lbs. He also was about 60 years old and bald, looking every bit like the former professional football player that he was. Jonathan was captivated by Bill Reed as he switched between stroking his chiseled chin, and pressing the tips of his fingers together as if he was in prayer. Their movement reminded Jonathan of the legs of a spider. But he spoke with the requisite compassion of the head of the world’s most powerful intelligence agency.

“I’m very sorry for the loss of Matthew,” were his first words.

Jonathan absorbed the words.

“How are Mary and Carly?”

“I guess Mary’s handling it as good as can be expected.”

“I understand that you told her about the operation.”

Jonathan was stunned, realizing now that the room was bugged and they were listening to his every word.

The Director put his hand on Jonathan’s arm. “You don’t think she leaked it to the press, do you?”

“I don’t know why she would.”

“All she would have to do was to tell one person.”

“But I didn’t tell her enough for her to spill all that detail. Look at this.” Jonathan picked up the newspaper. “They knew everything. No way Mary could have gotten all this from our conversation. It has to be coming from someone who worked inside the operation. She could only confirm a small portion of this.”

The Director shook his head in disgust and then moved on, “Jonathan we have a serious problem. All of America knows we’ve had a horrible breach in security and I’m up to my ass in alligators trying to explain this disaster to the President. It’s not only the loss of life, it’s the way it happened and the aftermath. It looks like we don’t know what the hell we’re doing. But we do know that they were definitely targeting the operation and that we have a bad agent.”

“Who?” asked Jonathan.

“That’s the million dollar question. No one has claimed responsibility. The President thinks it’s operatives trained in Iraq, who are trying to bring the war to our soil.”

“Do you think they may be Palestinian?”

“Jonathan, we just don’t know. It’s will take months for the forensic scientists to work through the debris, but something will surface, it always does. We’ll put out big rewards and someone will talk. But don’t worry about any of this now, we’re going to get these bastards. I promise you and Mary that these bastards will pay. The President has appropriated 2 billion for us to hunt down these killers and the bill is flying through Congress and probably will be signed tomorrow. I wanted to come by personally and thank you for your service and let you know that we are going to be there for you and Mary during these horrible times. I’m recommending you for the Exceptional Service Medal for your heroism in this battle. This is a war, you know, Jonathan, and there were 1500 casualties on July 15th, 2012.”

“I don’t deserve any kind of medal,” answered Jonathan. “I didn’t do anything but survive. The people who died deserve the medals.”

The Director nodded his head and then continued. “First and foremost, you know the routine; do not talk to the media. They will all be looking for an exclusive story, so don’t answer any questions, do you understand, no book deals, no Oprah, no 60 minutes, no comment to anything. If I see you on TV, I’m going to personally cut off your balls.”

“Standard protocol,” answered Jonathan.

The Director continued, “Jonathan we want you to take your time and get well. We’re going to place security guards here with you and Mary and they will be outside your home for the next 30 days, just to make sure that you two are safe. The cover of the operation was compromised and the media knows what we were doing in there and has let everyone know that you’re the sole survivor, so we just want to be sure, that although unlikely, they don’t come back and try to finish the job. Finally we will need your full cooperation to track down all possible leads.”

“You know you will always have that, although now, I don’t believe I’m going to be of much help, because I don’t remember anything that happened the day of the attack. It’s like someone has taken a giant eraser and completely erased my mind.”

“It’ll come back. Huge traumas like this almost always produce short term memory loss. I was in Viet Nam and went down in a Huey and, like you, was in a coma for a month. It came back in little pieces and now I remember every detail from the noise of the rotor blades to the sound of the RPG hitting the tail boom. Sometimes I wish that I never remembered any of it.”

The Director hesitated and then looked over to PD, who nodded and Jonathan sensed that PD was about to tell him the real reason for their visit. PD cleared his throat and then began, “Now for your future, the operation is over and your new found fame is going to cause us to move you into a different position within the organization. Your days of being a covert operative are over; you’ve done your duty to your country, so I don’t want any bravado. I understand that you’ve been shaken badly by all of this and that you have a personal reason for going after these guys, but you have to let us take care of that. You have too much emotion and anger, and we need to stick to agency discipline and protocol. Like the Director said, we want you to take the next 30 days to get better, even longer if you need, why, Christ, we don’t care if you take a year. Then when you come back we’ll move you deep enough into the inside where we can use your talents and keep you out of the public and terrorists’ eyes.”

Jonathan had seen this before and knew that his career was over. The CIA didn’t want any celebrities or large personalities working on covert projects and because it was such a vast organization it could lose people in the cobweb of bureaucracy where they would never be seen or heard from again. Perhaps he’d end up as a supervisor over an Information Technology department or maybe a manager, training new agents on protocol. The agency was good about maintaining pay grades and benefits, but for him he was hearing the eulogy over his now dead career as a CIA agent.

“Where did they find Bob’s body?” he asked.

The Director answered, “They dug him out of the rubble.”

Jonathan clenched his fists and the Director sensed his rage. “This is exactly what we’re talking about, you have to let this go and let us handle it. You’re much too emotional and hurt. Wounded people make the worst agents, because of the passion. Now, you need to get some rest and we'll take care of the investigation. You have a lot of healing to do.”

The Director gave Jonathan a light tap on the shoulder and a patronizing wink as both he and PD got up and walked out the door. Jonathan knew that he would probably never be in a place of significance to speak with the Director again.

Once outside the door, PD looked over at the Director. “Is he going to be okay?”

“What the hell were his kids doing in that building?” snapped the Director.

Mary came back at about 5 p.m. without Carly. He asked her how Carly was and she said “better” and that the visit seemed to do her good. He asked her to bring her back tomorrow and she agreed. Mary stayed until he went to sleep at about 10 p.m. after reading several of the letters and cards sent to him from people he didn’t know thanking him for trying to save this country from brutality. A few of the cards were from relatives of people who died in the explosion and they were very angry. Mary would scan and put those aside, but Jonathan insisted that she read those to him, too. Mary seemed to have shaken the harsh edge, but would occasionally remind him with a sarcastic remark or a hateful look that she hadn’t forgotten, nor was he off the hook.

At 6 p.m. the President called to tell him how proud he and all America were of him, but Jonathan didn’t receive any comfort from the call. The President’s words sounded like he was reading from a 6 by 9 index card that he kept in his desk drawer, written for this type of occasion.

All in all, it had not been a good day and the thought of what had happened to him, to his son, to his wife and his agents created a depression that lay upon him like the physical weight of 1941 Jeff Davis Highway.

Every day for the next 2 weeks Mary and Carly visited him as he began the long process of rehabilitation. The therapy was difficult, his head ached and his body was sore from the bruises, burns and sores. His swollen arm itched horribly beneath his cast and every time he exerted himself his broken ribs bit into his lungs making him wheeze like a broken accordion. He could see a little more sparkle in Carly’s eyes which seemed to be linked to her realization that her daddy was getting better. She always kept Bruiser very close, whether he was in her Barbie backpack, in her arms or she was dragging him helplessly along by his only arm. She would often put him on her father’s bed, as if to share the magical healing powers that were helping her cope with her confusing little world.

Jonathan had always been close to his little girl but sensed a deepening spiritual bond that he could only attribute to the sameness of the physical and emotional suffering that they were enduring together. It was to him that she spoke her first words since the explosion. She was always watching him with her big eyes and touching him softly with her gentle hands. She was there when the nurses were helping him out of his bed for his daily therapy. He tried to sit up and twisted his rib cage in an unusual way, causing his torso to contort. He doubled over and gasped for air, but pushed the nurses away when they tried to help. “I’m okay,” he said to them. “I can do this.”

Carly grimaced as if the pain was her own and blurted out, “Ouch, it hurts!”

He reached over with his left arm and put his big hand on her tiny shoulder. “Darling, I’m going to be fine once the bones inside me heal.” Jonathan looked over at Mary and winked, but Mary just looked away.

It was nearly 3 weeks after he awoke that he was set free from his hospital jail and allowed to go home to his cedar-clad contemporary retreat overlooking the Occaquan River. He and Mary loved living among the insects, squirrels and birds in a forest of maples, birch and oaks without all the artificial suburban landscape and middle class pretense. They enjoyed the home’s proximity to the river where they could hear the rushing and splashing of water and catch glimpses of its beauty through the trees. The Occaquan community prohibited any motorboats on the river, because of noise and pollution. Occaquan residents were nature freaks who loved the outdoors, and if they happened to own a boat, it was one of a benign variety such as a canoe, kayak or paddle boat. Occaquan had rightfully earned a reputation for harboring the “free spirited” souls of the Washington metroplex. They were labeled nudists, pot heads, hippies and “tree huggers.” The Andersons’ home was contemporary with large windows throughout, completely engulfed by the forest. It was a 3500 square foot three story house, with a play room and bar partially underground on the lower floor, a living room and kitchen on the middle level and four bedrooms upstairs each with their own bathrooms and each of the bedrooms had a deck that reached out towards the forest, with the master deck having the best view of the river.