‘Choppered out of Tajikistan last year with a few of the boys on an Mi-8 that was damn near ready to fall apart. There was a few times I thought we were all fixin’ to eat dirt,’ she says, grinning at some recollection of peril, ‘but Massoud looked after us best he could. Didn’t seem to mind my being a woman.’
I ask if she thinks Massoud will survive the Taliban’s advance.
‘I don’t rightly want to think about it,’ she says. ‘He’s the last chance that darn country’s got. If the Taliban take the north and Massoud has to ride out on a rail, Afghanistan’s going to become one giant threat matrix that’s going to break everybody’s balls.’
‘Not yours, I take it,’ I say.
She laughs. ‘All depends. If the State Department keeps up its no-account fantasy of cosying up to the Taliban and we don’t get a result soon on Obi-Wan, then yes, mine too.’
Obi-Wan, I’m assuming, is her pet name for Osama bin Laden, a mild-mannered Saudi playboy turned anti-American jihadist. The Western world has hardly heard of him.
‘Had him in our sights a couple of times, but you have to promise me you’ll keep that dry. We even figured Massoud’s boys could do the job for us, but he’d take a whole heap of grief for it if anyone found out we’d sponsored it. Nobody in the Muslim world wants to be known for killing their very own Mahatma Gandhi.’
It’s not a comparison I would have thought of. But it’s true that bin Laden is beginning to be seen as a kind of hero in the Islamic world, and his message of defiance against American domination is catching on.
Our shared respect for Massoud has broken the ice between us, though there’s not much to break because she’s so refreshingly outspoken. I’m enjoying the contrast between talking to her and the tight-lipped Seethrough, who only shares information when he has to. We talk as the car heads along Dolley Madison Boulevard towards Maclean. Grace works for a secret unit within the already secret Counterterrorist Center, dedicated for the past couple of years to tracking and, if possible, capturing bin Laden and bringing him to trial for his role in the bombing of the American embassies in Kenya and Tanzania. After having been hounded out of his native Saudi Arabia and then, under American pressure, from Sudan, he’s set up in Afghanistan. There he can move freely between his devotees’ training camps and preach his messianic message to all who’ll listen, though few of his fans are themselves Afghans.
‘What are the chances of getting him?’ I ask.
‘Take away some of the more hare-brained schemes and we’ve still got a good option set,’ she says. The technology to launch a cruise missile strike against bin Laden is all there. There are submarines in the Persian Gulf ready to unleash their weapons. But the White House can’t afford to repeat the spectacularly inconsequential strikes that took place in response to the African bombings in 1998, when a hundred million dollars’ worth of cruise missiles were fired into one of bin Laden’s training camps, where he was said to be holding a jihadist summit meeting. Twenty or thirty volunteer fighters, mostly Pakistanis, were killed as the missiles blasted the Afghan dust and rock. Bin Laden, it is said, had left the meeting a few hours earlier. But the failure gave him the best publicity for his cause that he could have dreamed of. Now the political climate isn’t right for another strike in any case. At the time, says Grace, the great American public was really only interested in one thing: the contents of Monica Lewinsky’s cheeks.
For legal and constitutional reasons, the CIA cannot sponsor or assist the assassination of an individual. They can, however, capture him. But bin Laden is both elusive and careful. His closest guards are not Afghans but Arabs, hard-core fighters from jihadist campaigns around the world. He is frequently on the move. At his compound in Tarnak near Kandahar, every inch of which has been scrutinised by Grace’s team, there are women and children, another reason to rule out further cruise missile strikes. Earlier hopes of enlisting Massoud’s men to kill bin Laden are dwindling, and the director of the CIA, the DCI, won’t approve American intervention on the ground. It’s been tried and failed. The White House and State Department, who between themselves are too dumb, says Grace, to tell a skunk from a house cat, are so tied up in legal knots they can’t formulate a coherent policy towards Afghanistan.
‘But there is a plan,’ she says. ‘We’re going to fire up the intelligence collection on bin Laden all around the country, and with the help of Massoud’s informers and agents the net will surely close. Doesn’t too much matter if it’s Massoud’s boys, SF, the Paks or the Uzbeks who bring him in,’ she says. ‘Doubt if it’ll be special forces who’ll get it done,’ she adds with a scoff. ‘You could put bin Laden in a room with a Seal and a Delta and they’d kill each other before they even noticed him.’ But it’s clear what she’s hoping. The successful capture of bin Laden will convince the White House to supply Massoud with greater levels of military supplies and put political pressure on the Taliban leadership. Only then might they give up on their designs to control the entire country.
‘It’s a tough row to hoe,’ says Grace, ‘but it’s the only hope there is to roll back the Taliban and all the hotheads fixing to spread jihad across the universe. Sure would make a world of difference if we had one good asset inside Obi-Wan’s camp.’
At the mention of this I look away, lest anything in my expression betray my thoughts. She can have no idea that my best friend has been assigned to this very task – nor that I have no idea whether he is alive or dead.
We turn left off Dolley Madison into a quiet road lined with trees. About a hundred yards along there’s a security post and a chevroned barrier. The windows come down and our IDs are entered into an electronic log by a guard, who peers inside the car and acknowledges Grace with a nod and a smile. The barrier lifts and the road curves to the left. There are trees on one side and an enormous car park on the other, beyond which the main complex of buildings rises like a giant cake with layers of cream and chocolate. Footpaths lit by miniature lamp posts snake between the buildings and lend a faint suggestion of amusement park. Grace sees me looking.
‘Somebody up there loves you, Tony.’ I’m not at all sure what she means.
‘On the seventh floor, I mean. That’s where the clearance comes from. These boys don’t let too many people see the toys they’re playing with.’
We loop around another vast parking lot and drive past smaller clusters of buildings until we come to a halt by a building surrounded by thick woods. As we get out of the car, Grace shifts her belt and adjusts what is probably a holster under her blazer. She’s tall and lean and walks like a man.
‘Come and meet the Manson family,’ she says, and we enter the building, press our IDs against a reader and enter a second door marked authorized personnel only.
About a dozen men and three women are in the briefing room, clustered around tables and overlooked by a giant blank screen. Grace shepherds me around with a series of first-name introductions. The majority are guarded in their manner, a few look puzzled to see a foreigner, and one or two fail to conceal their suspicion. I have the distinct feeling they are not accustomed to outsiders.
The exception is a portly middle-aged man wearing thick glasses, who I meet more or less by accident as I help myself, at Grace’s suggestion, to a cup of coffee. He’s ahead of me and nearly bumps into me as he turns around, and as if by reflex introduces himself. His face seems to be frozen in a perpetual grin. He mentions only his name and the acronym of the organisation to which he’s attached before launching into his job description. It pours out in a low drawl with infrequent pauses. He looks at me only occasionally, preferring to rest his eyes on a point somewhere near my left shoulder. His field is ‘fixed and dynamic target source analysis’, a subject on which I now feel obliged to appear knowledgeable.