“That thought has crossed my mind.”
“Why is that?” Christine asked.
“The SEALs on the first and second floors were issued strict orders to remain on their floors after the compound was secured, and not venture up to the third floor. It’s understandable to some degree. Each team was assigned to a floor — to neutralize or disarm all threats, contain and control any noncombatants, and, once the compound was secure, strip the area of anything that might be of intelligence value: documents, computers, thumb drives, phones, and other electronic gear. We didn’t have extra time to tour the compound and gawk at bin Laden’s body.
“As a result, only the SEALs on the third floor knew the identity of the second man. By the time he descended, he had already been hooded. Once we landed in Afghanistan, he was taken to a separate hangar and I never saw him again.
“Regarding the dead man on the third floor, a positive ID couldn’t be made in the compound. He took two bullets to the face, leaving a gory mess, which made it difficult to verify his identity via facial recognition. Even when he was cleaned up afterward, we couldn’t achieve one hundred percent identification visually. We had to rely on DNA analysis.”
McFarland examined the files on her computer.
“I have the photos,” she said. “Want to take a look?”
Christine nodded.
McFarland paged through three sets of photographs: bin Laden on his bedroom floor after being killed; in an aircraft hangar at a military base in Afghanistan after he’d been cleaned up, which were the most recognizable and gruesome; and those taken prior to the burial at sea before a shroud was placed around his body. There was extensive facial damage from the two bullet wounds — one bullet had blown out his left eye and a large part of his frontal bone, and the other had collapsed a good portion of the right side of his face.
McFarland broke the silence after viewing the macabre pictures. “I have to agree with Harrison. Based on these photos, positive visual ID wouldn’t have been possible. Regarding DNA analysis, how many times have we dealt with screwups using DNA identification?”
“We’re not talking about a screwup here,” Rolow replied. “If the dead man on the third floor wasn’t bin Laden, we’re talking about a deliberate cover-up to ensure the public didn’t learn that bin Laden was taken alive. They could have either faked the DNA results or taken a sample from an alive-and-well bin Laden and submitted it for analysis.”
“Then there’s the burial at sea,” Christine said. “No body to dig up for further analysis. There’s no way to prove bin Laden was actually killed, in case conspiracy theories circulate and take hold.”
“You mean, there’s no way to prove the body wasn’t bin Laden’s,” Rolow replied.
“Exactly.”
“I have the video of bin Laden’s burial at sea. Want to take a look?”
There was a murmured consensus, so McFarland activated another video file, and the clip began playing on the conference room display. The video appeared to have been taken from Vulture’s Row, high atop an aircraft carrier’s island superstructure, looking down at the carrier’s flight deck, and McFarland provided details as the video progressed.
Osama bin Laden’s body had been flown to the aircraft carrier USS Carl Vinson for burial at sea. Within twenty-four hours of his death, Muslim religious rites were performed: the body was washed and wrapped in a white shroud, and prayers were offered in Arabic. Bin Laden’s body was then placed in a black plastic bag along with three hundred pounds of aircraft tie-down chains to ensure the bag sank, then taken topside for burial. At the edge of the carrier deck, the body was placed on a flat board, which was tilted upward, and the body slid into the northern Arabian Sea.
After the video clip ended and the display went black, Christine pondered the burial-at-sea decision, which ensured the body could not be inspected later if anyone doubted bin Laden was killed. Was it possible he had been taken alive, with the CIA kept in the dark? If so, who was pulling the strings and how far up did the deception go?
“Here are my thoughts,” Christine said. “A four-pronged plan to run this to ground. First, track down the SEALs on the third floor and have a conversation with them. Find out who they took prisoner.” Looking at Harrison, she asked, “Who were the SEALs on the third floor?”
He provided the names, which McFarland verified matched the mission report. “Checks.”
“Second, identify and interview every agency member who participated in Operation Neptune Spear. Piece together what we know. I don’t believe any of us were in our current position during the Abbottabad raid, so we’re at a disadvantage and need to get up to speed.” She looked at Bryant Monroe.
“That’s correct. I became deputy director four years afterward, and PJ and Tracey assumed their positions only a few years ago.”
“Third,” Christine said, “I’ll discuss this matter with the president. I’ll see what he knows or if he has any guidance on how to proceed.
“Finally” — Christine turned to McFarland — “I suppose we have the ability to infiltrate the JSOC data archives?”
McFarland smiled. “Depends on who’s asking…”
“Tunnel into the JSOC files. Find every bit of information on the Abbottabad raid and the prisoner they took custody of.”
“You got it,” McFarland replied.
26
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Christine’s Lincoln Navigator approached the White House, coasting to a stop beneath the West Wing’s north portico, offering protection from dark gray clouds that threatened to open in a downpour at any moment. After emerging from the SUV, she left her protective agents behind and entered the West Wing, on her way to an impromptu meeting with the president.
She was a few minutes early and decided to stop by the corner office occupied by Kevin Hardison, the president’s chief of staff and Christine’s White House nemesis during her three years as the president’s national security advisor.
While she was serving as NSA, Hardison had been a thorn in her side. She and Hardison had frequently found themselves supporting opposite positions on critical issues, and it hadn’t helped that she was a member of the opposite political party from the president and the rest of his staff and cabinet. Nevertheless, she had won more than her fair share of those debates, swaying the president to her side, much to Hardison’s chagrin, and the animosity between them had steadily grown over the years.
Hardison looked up from his computer when Christine appeared in his doorway.
“Afternoon, Christine,” he said in a surprisingly pleasant tone as he rose from his desk. “I see you’re here for a meeting with the president. Anything I can help you with?”
For the time being, Christine had decided to keep the Osama bin Laden issue between her and the president and had requested a private meeting. Hardison had no doubt noticed his exclusion.
“Nothing at the moment,” she replied. “But thanks for offering.”
“Not a problem,” he said as he approached. “I’ll walk you to the Oval Office.”
Hardison’s offer caught Christine by surprise. Since her transition to CIA director, Hardison’s demeanor had turned surprisingly cordial. The hostility toward her when she was on the president’s staff had been nothing personal, apparently.
As they strode down the seventy-foot-long hallway, side by side, Christine decided to probe where she stood with him — whether their previous adversarial relationship had truly been put behind them.
She began by inquiring about her replacement on the president’s staff. “How’s Thom Parham doing?”