Chapter 4
Brainstorming Without Butting Heads
Our meeting with Ambassador Matthew Thurman was held in the chancery’s Bubble on the top floor of the building. The Bubble was a secure meeting room where the most sensitive conversations could be held. It was also the perfect place for the department’s regional psychiatrist to meet with his or her patients. The embassy’s Marine security guards found it useful for late night trysts with their girlfriends or boyfriends. Foreign Service couples would occasionally reserve the room to openly vent their hostilities without their kids or neighbors overhearing. In its true essence, it was a multipurpose, high-tech room designed for ultimate, aural privacy. And it was a state-of-the-art security measure based on Yankee ingenuity and enterprise. The latest, lowest-bidder technology was evident in its elegant design and construction.
The Bubble was constructed in a manner to defeat clandestine listening devices of all manner and stripe from parabolic microphones, bugs, hard-wired pin-hole microphones and drop transmitters to the finest crystal goblets being held against its outer walls. It had no windows and was sparsely furnished to facilitate inspection for the presence of covertly planted audio devices. Officers’ iPods and cell phones were routinely confiscated during meetings and the room was regularly swept to clear away the many empty Starbucks’ cups and Dunkin’ Donut wrappers.
For national security reasons, only security-cleared Americans and their sanitized food products could enter the room. The cavities of the walls, ceiling, and floor were filled with Silly Putty in order to dramatically lower the Bubble’s acoustical signature. That feature also helped with the irate and angry embassy staffers who tended to bounce off its walls. Moreover, the floor outside was strewn with Styrofoam packing peanuts to alert of approaching persons; thus serving as a low cost, but effective security alarm in a crunch.
Its interior surfaces were lined with multiple sheets of overlapping bubble wrap; hence its name. The ambassador always had to admonish attendees not to pop the bubbles. The regional shrink was the worst offender since he or she usually was the first to snap. The act was considered not only neurotic, but self-defeating as well. The room’s conference table could comfortably seat up to eight people if they were all severely anorexic, intimate friends. In summary, it was the perfect place for off-line, off-color, and scandalous gossip among the embassy’s elite.
This was our venue for discussing the kidnapping, and developing a plan of action to recover the ambassador’s daughter. Maybe I’d finally be able to hear myself thinking, I thought. That could be a scary experience.
I was introduced to ambassador Thurman; the CIA’s chief-of-station, Amy Wiley; the ambassador’s executive assistant, Todd Jensen; and the USIS public affairs officer, Ronald Smithers. Bob Gelati and Kali McAlister were also present. I mouthed my sincere regrets and condolences and quickly got past that bit of protocol. I outlined my portfolio as the liaison officer and coordinator of the investigation. I emphasized that our goal was to facilitate the safe return of the ambassador’s daughter and the embassy chauffeur. It was an obvious, self-serving statement, but still needed to be said up-front.
No one questioned my role or marching orders from Washington. That was a refreshing change from other receptions I’d received from post management over the years. In those instances, I was often treated like a leper seeking shelter from the plague.
The ambassador instructed Bob to summarize the incident and give a status report on the investigation. Bob began at the beginning which was a good place to start. However, we’re all good at starting from square-one in DS. But we typically had trouble finding and filling in the blanks or following the numbers later on.
“Avery, you already have the broad outline of the kidnapping. Let me recap what we know so far to bring you up to speed. Alicia Thurman was being driven to the International School of Delhi this past Wednesday by Singh Joginder Singh, an embassy driver in good standing, at least until now. The school is about four miles from the ambassador’s residence. Keep in mind that traffic is always crazy here. It’s congested, slow, bumper-to-bumper, and cheek-by-jowl for the most part. In other words, it’s the normal, chaotic Delhi commute during rush-hour. At a tight intersection, about a mile from the school, was where they took her down. The front passenger door was pried open and Alicia and Singh were physically removed at gunpoint."
As Bob took a breather, I asked a question. “Have the bad guys made any contact with the embassy?”
Bob looked directly at the ambassador. The ambassador nodded his head and Bob now had permission to tell me something more.
“Yes, we received a small package last night at the chancery. There was a note inside addressed to the ambassador and the U.S. government,” he revealed. “The note said that United States troops must immediately leave Afghanistan, or else.”
He then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a plastic bag filled with what appeared to be ice chips. He gently pushed the ice around the bag to reveal a piece of skin. It was a fingertip with the nail still intact. Bob announced the fingertip belonged to Singh. His fingerprints were on file with the embassy; taken years ago as part of the routine employment process. It was an easy, confirmed match. I asked Bob if he had checked the note for fingerprints. He looked a little bit offended by my question.
“Sure, we dusted it for prints and there were a lot. However, each one was the right, middle fingertip belonging to Singh; the one here,” he said, holding up the bag.
I sat back in my chair and pondered the possible meanings and significances of this most disgusting gift. Somebody was giving the middle finger to Uncle Sam. That was the obvious answer. The symbolism was just too strong to be otherwise. It was a rude but most Americanized gesture. But I kept that bit of intelligence to myself for safekeeping. I believed my application of Occam’s logic was razor sharp in this instance.
However, Bob had his own interpretation. “This is a not-so-subtle message that we’re dealing with very serious players who are ruthless and will go to great lengths to get what they want. What they want is for America to pack its bags and get out of Afghanistan, soonest. If we don’t acquiesce to their demand, there may be other body parts coming our way. The next piece may be female. Sorry, Mr. Ambassador, but that’s the clear implication in my opinion.”
Amy Wiley spoke for the first time. “We can rule out the Tamil Tigers and the Sikh Separatists on several levels. This was also too sophisticated an operation for a common criminal gang, no matter how talented and organized. That, and the fact no money has been demanded so far. With the political nature of the demand, I suspect al-Qaida and/or the Taliban are behind the kidnapping. If that’s so, we’re in for a tough time.”
I still felt that they were holding back information from me. Why, I didn’t know, but my antennae were twitching. That was always a good indicator that someone, just like Jersey Briggs, wasn’t telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help them God or Lord Shiva. I frankly didn’t care which one. I then firmly braced the ambassador with the question.
“What aren’t you telling me, Mr. Ambassador? I’ve been doing these sorts of things for a lot of years and I have a sixth-sense that you’re all holding out on me and I don’t appreciate that. It’s also not a safe way to operate. If I’m to be part of the embassy team and do my job, I need to know what else there might be. I have a bona fide need-to-know at this point to use that timeworn, bureaucratic expression.”
The ambassador glanced around the room to read the expressions on everyone’s faces. Then he spoke. I knew he was a good poker player because I couldn’t see much disclosure.
“Avery, I love my daughter. My wife is half-out of her mind with worry and has been on a nonstop diet of Xanax since this happened and I’m not in much better shape. I’m emotionally torn between my duties and obligations as a diplomat and as a father.”
I felt sorry for the guy. He wasn’t a department Black Dragon; a smug, self-promoting careerist. That fact alone put him high in my book. I wasn’t sure that I could keep it together so well under similar circumstances.
“Avery, you’re right. There is more,” he continued. “The other shoe is now being dropped in this room and it’s a heavy one. I trust you will maintain its confidentiality. In fact, I know you will once you hear it. It’s something that has been a closely held secret. The Indian government’s not aware of it and only a handful of people in Washington and at post are privy.”
I looked about the room and noticed that the others squirmed a bit in their chairs while the ambassador spoke. They were nervous and showing it. I straightened up in my own and stared directly at him.
“There was a security guard who was killed during the attack. He was killed execution style by one shot to his chest. But the shot wasn’t fatal according to the coroner and it only incapacitated him. He was also garroted to death with what appears to be a piece of razor wire. That gruesome act almost cut his neck in half and he didn’t have a chance. It seemed to be an almost ritualistic coup de grace. It was certainly unnecessary overkill; no pun intended. He died before he could fully get his gun out of his holster to return fire. Fortunately, the news media isn’t aware of that bit of information——”
“And that’s the way we want to keep it for now,” interrupted the public affairs officer.
“That’s right Ronald, but please stay quiet for a moment and let me finish,” the ambassador admonished.
“The guard was a security escort assigned to protect my daughter’s friend.” He started looking around the room again, but continued telling the story.
“He was one of two agents with the Afghan Presidential Protection Force assigned to a very important person. But I’m not referring to my daughter who’s very special to me and my wife. I’m referring to Zeenat Karzai, the eldest daughter of Hamid Karzai, the President of the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan.”
He sat back in his chair waiting for me to digest what I’d just heard. I was now dead certain that the Secretary would order an Accountability Review Board since he really had no choice. Someone had been murdered and someone had to be held accountable. An inquisition would go forward and I’d end up having to testify to my role in the incident. Even after-the-fact actions were subject to close scrutiny these days.
Good God! No wonder I didn’t get the full story in Washington. This was bombshell information. Jersey was sworn to secrecy about the Karzai aspect of the incident. He knew I would ultimately get the straight skinny at post, but he couldn’t say a word. That’s why he was so uptight and scared. That’s why the Secretary of State and the seventh floor suits were acting like a bunch of rats caught in a maze at feeding time. Hamid Karzai was an American success story so far and the administration’s one bright light in an otherwise dark region. This was a BFD of major magnitude—to the power of ten and then some. Jesus, and I was right in the middle of things, thanks to my friend Jersey Briggs. Ok, I admit the money was a big motivator too.
Ambassador Thurman related that Zeenat Karzai had been discreetly and quietly living in the guesthouse on the compound of his residence for several months. President Karzai had approached our ambassador in Kabul and asked if the U.S. government could help with Zeenat’s schooling. She had one year left to graduate from high school before attending university in the UK or the States. Attending school and finding appropriate education in Kabul were difficult at the best of times. Her personal safety was always uppermost in her father’s mind. President Karzai had attended college in India some years before and thought the International School of Delhi would be a perfect fit for her.
The U.S. government was more than willing to help a close friend and ally and Zeenat was enrolled in the ISD under an assumed name. She was a good student and had become a close friend of the ambassador’s daughter. They were the same age and shared the same interests. Zeenat was very Western in her attitude, dress and demeanor, the ambassador mentioned. Like most teens, she enjoyed fashionable clothes and makeup, and flirting with the boys at school. She fit in well with her classmates and was well–regarded and popular.
No one had a clue as to her true identity since it supposedly was a very well-kept secret among the few people at post who knew. However, President Karzai insisted that she be accompanied by a trusted agent of the Afghan Presidential Protection Force anytime she left the compound or school. She had two minders who alternated in protecting her when she was out and about. One gave his life for her. The other was now unemployed and worrying about his future.
The ambassador said that the NIACT and IMMEDIATE precedence cables had been flying back and forth between the embassies in Kabul and Delhi and between the department in Washington and both posts. The White House had taken a keen interest in what was going on and it was putting pressure on the department to deliver, to make things right. In turn, the politicos and Black Dragons were squeezing DS for actions and answers. It was the trickledown, crisis management scenario at its very best. Moreover, it was business as usual in such situations.
Ronald Smithers piped-up next. He said that the news media had bought-off on the story as portrayed by the embassy. The ambassador’s daughter, along with her driver, had been kidnapped and a local security guard accompanying them had been killed during the incident. It was a tragic matter that needed to be quickly resolved so the captives could be returned to their families unharmed.
There was no mention of Zeenat Karzai. She had quietly withdrawn from the ISD for health reasons, but would reenroll when she was feeling better or so the cover story went. President Karzai had demanded a complete black-out of Zeenat’s involvement. No acknowledgment or reference to her could be made. President Karzai was already governing Afghanistan from a position of weakness and tried his best to oversee a fractious, dysfunctional nation that chaffed at the notion of being subordinated to a strong central government. The incident would weaken his position even further if it became public knowledge.
Amy Wiley spoke next. “You can see why I mentioned earlier that the Sikhs and Tamils were no longer considered logical suspects. Al-Qaida is still a strong bet and, if so, my hunch is they outsourced the job to another group. Operationally, al-Qaida’s simply not that strong in India to carry something like this off. I don’t believe they have the resources and infrastructure to do it. However, that doesn’t automatically count them out. I suspect they may have subcontracted the wet-work to some other organization with the means and methods to make it happen."
“We have translations of the communication intercepts surrounding the event if you wish to review them. These are mostly from the unencrypted radio calls among the Indian cops and security officials following the kidnapping. There was a lot of confusion and stepping on each other’s tongues during the critical time-frame. But you might be able to tease something out of them that we may have missed.”
I thanked her and said I would take her up on her offer later that day. My head was spinning with the new information I’d just been told. I needed to pee and have a cigarette or two to clear my body and mind.
Sometimes those who served and protected had to move quickly to answer Mother Nature’s call and the Devil’s addiction.