Ghost (23 page)

twenty-eight

TWO-MINUTE FREE FALL

December 21, 1988
Behind the New Big Blue Door

I reach the office before sunrise on this Wednesday morning, coffee in hand and a few PowerBars in my pocket that’ll serve as both lunch and dinner. Though elsewhere in the country most of my fellow Americans are preparing for Christmas, here behind the big blue door, there will be no vacation. We’re chasing down dozens of threats that have come in from all sorts of strange nooks and crannies within the Dark World. Things are tense, and the expectation is that sooner or later, we’ll get hit again. Ten days ago, the constant tension and pressure had worn me out. Now, thanks to my Sunday flight with Fred, I feel rejuvenated.

I need to be fresh. There’s too much going on in the Dark World right now for me to be off my A-game.

Autumn Leaves was the first sign. At the end of October, the West German police launched this operation with the intent of taking out the PFLP–GC terrorists operating around Frankfurt. They raided a safe house used by the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine–General Command and took down a cell that may have been planning to blow up an airliner. The police recovered an improvised explosive device built into a Toshiba boom box. About a pound of Semtex, a Czech-made plastic explosive, was hidden inside the stereo. The police also found a Pan Am flight schedule.

Could this have been Iran’s effort to exact revenge for last July? Possibly. Rumors circulating since the summer indicate that the Iranians may have given the PFLP–GC’s leadership ten million dollars in cash to go after American targets.

On July 3, 1988, the USS
Vincennes,
a
Ticonderoga
-class Aegis missile cruiser, shot down an Iranian airliner, killing 290 people. Exactly what led to the incident is still murky, but the American warship was inside Iranian territorial waters in the Persian Gulf at the time. Needless to say, relations with Iran have been even more inflamed than ever. Their leadership publicly vowed to avenge the deaths of these innocent civilians, which included sixty-six children.

As quiet as the Dark World grapevine was over PAK-1, Iran Air 655 has caused a flood of conspiracy theories, threats, innuendo, and rumor to flow through FOGHORN. We’ve been inundated with work, sorting through the credible threats and the crackpots. As a result, we’ve issued travel warnings and have urged American air carriers to beef up their security.

Earlier this month, an anonymous caller phoned the American embassy in Helsinki. He warned that Abu Nidal planned to blow up a Pan Am airliner flying out of Frankfurt within the next two weeks. Given what the Germans uncovered with Autumn Leaves, we took immediate steps. The State Department notified its embassies all over Europe and warned the Federal Aviation Administration. The FAA passed the warning along to all U.S. airlines in hopes that the companies would increase their security. Each carrier has its own private security arrangements, which has been a source of friction between the government and the industry ever since hijackings became relatively common in the seventies and eighties. The cost and delays of additional security are the two biggest stumbling blocks to building a more robust system to protect our planes. Consequently, even though some of the airlines are charging an extra security surcharge to their passengers, the fact is there are plenty of gaps that can be exploited.

Just ask the survivors of TWA Flight 847.

The CT office has grown so large now that we’ve moved out of the Truman Building. The old rat hole in the basement is gone. Now we’ve got an oversized, ultramodern cell in the middle of a building across the street on Virginia Avenue. We designed it with security in mind every step of the way. No drop ceilings. No windows. All around the office we have built-in white noise generators. They provide a constant hissing sound that defeats listening devices and directional microphones. Gone are the burn bags. In their place, shredders are scattered all over the office.

I enter our new home and find the perpetual morning chaos in full blossom. We’re running multiple security details today, and we’ve got agents scurrying around between cubicles carrying Uzis and Remington shotguns as they prepare for their day. Others have Sig Sauer automatic pistols strapped to their hips. We have our own secure lines now, and I notice one of our newer agents is on one, looking terribly unhappy. Around him, the traffic flows. Agents move back and forth between their cubes and FOGHORN, which has moved to a new facility right down the hall from us. Radios squawk. Phones ring. The shredders grind. The white noise hiss is almost lost in the cacophony of the CT office at work.

“Morning, Fred!” calls Bob O’Bannon in his languid southern drawl. Bob, formerly a southern Virginia cop, is one of our new agents. He’s already proven himself as an outstanding investigator.

“Morning, Bob. What’s the word?”

“Looks like a bad episode of
Hill Street Blues
around here.”

I start to laugh. Behind me, somebody quips, “More like
Barney Miller.
”

As we’ve grown, we’ve been fortunate enough to cherry-pick the rest of the DSS for the best and the brightest. We’ve assembled a group of first-class agents who’ve done extraordinary work. They’ve built a tremendous reputation for our group, and now we’re turning agents away who want to join us. We rival the Detail as the tour everyone wants.

I reach my cubicle and get to work. I go through the morning cable traffic, then read the Rewards for Justice mail. We get tips via our RFJ address all the time now. Behind me, I can hear one of our agents talking to an informant who seems eager to drop a dime on his buddies. For money, of course.

The phone rings. The Agency wants an update on a case we’re involved in, and this absorbs several minutes. As I’m talking, the agent who had been on our secure phone comes over to my cubicle. I hold up a finger and mouth, “Just a minute.” He waits until I finish the call and cradle the phone.

“Hi, Stick, what do you need?” Scott “Stick” Stewart is another young agent with tremendous promise. This morning, though, he’s looking morose.

“Well, I have an agent in Istanbul on the secure line. He’s been chewing me out.”

“What for?”

“He sent us some forensic evidence three months ago. He says the Turkish police need answers today.”

“Where’d you send it?”

“The FBI lab. You know how they are.”

“Did you explain that to him?”

Stick lets out an exasperated sigh. “Yes. But it just made him scream louder.”

“When did you get it over to the FBI?”

“Soon as we got it here. He says the ambassador’s on his back now, too. Anyway, he wants to talk to my boss now.”

I give this a bit of thought. “Okay, give me a minute and I’ll be there.”

Stick heads back to the secure phone. I take care of a few quick things, then follow him over. I pick up the receiver and say, “Who’s this?”

A very irritated voice spits back, “Who the hell are you?”

I ignore this and ask, “What’s the problem?”

The voice launches into a diatribe. He’s been waiting for months for his evidence results. He needs it now—not tomorrow—and we’re all at fault for getting the ambassador on his case.

“Okay,” I reply calmly. “I know you think this is your world, but we’ve got twenty-five major things going on in the office here right now.”

That did it. Before I can continue, the agent in Istanbul explodes. A steady stream of shouted epithets and cuss words flows across the trans-aAtlantic line we’re sharing. I hold the receiver away from my ear. As I do, I notice the whole office has come to a halt. Agents are prairie-dogging over the tops of their cubicles to catch a glimpse.

I interrupt him. “Hold on a minute. Hold on.”

Miraculously, he goes quiet.

“Okay, you’re in luck. I see one of my agents now. He’s donning a lab coat. Another one is firing up a Bunsen burner.”

Amazingly, the hothead buys it. “They are? Great. I’ll wait.”

I lay it on thick, “Another one just put on a set of goggles.”

“Terrific!”

I reach for a thick book sitting on a shelf nearby.

“Oh my God! Oh no!”

“What? What?”

“No! NO!”

I drop the book on the floor, holding the receiver close. In the quieted office, it sounds like a gunshot. Or a bomb.

We all bust out laughing. The agent on the other end is not amused.

“Look,” I tell him once I’ve regained my composure, “I was making a joke here. I understand this is important to you, okay? Your evidence is over at the FBI lab. I’ll send somebody over to light a fire under them and get your results expedited.”

“Well, okay.” At least he’s not yelling anymore.

“The thing is, I do not appreciate you calling up and cussing out one of my guys, screaming like you’re out of your mind. Don’t ever berate one of my agents again, clear?”

I hear a grumbled apology.

“Good.” I hang up. Turning to Stick, I tell him, “Why don’t you run over to the FBI lab and tell them to expedite.”

“Okay, Fred,” Stick says with a big grin. He grabs his keys and heads out of the office. I return to my desk and get back to work.

Early afternoon rolls around, and I start eating a PowerBar at my desk. I’ve been working on my card-file index of terrorist acts, updating it with all the latest news from around the world. My phone rings.

“Burton.”

“Sir,” says one of the agents in FOGHORN, “we’ve just received news that an American airliner has gone down over Scotland.”

Oh, God. Not at Christmas.

“Okay. I’ll be right there.”

I slam the phone down and hurry over to FOGHORN. When I open the door, I find two agents at the console. Both are on the phone. Other phones are ringing in the background. Two TVs are on, one of which is set to CNN.

The U.S. Embassy in London sends us a flash cable. The plane was a 747, the largest American airliner. It belonged to Pan Am.

Autumn Leaves. The PFLP. There was another cell the Germans must have missed.

Over the next hour, details flow in. We can safely rule out a midair collision. The air traffic controllers report that there wasn’t another aircraft in the area. Pan Am Flight 103 simply vanished off the radar screen at thirty-one thousand feet, thirty minutes after takeoff from Heathrow Airport, outside of London.

Then Beirut checks in with a stunner. The U.S. ambassador to Lebanon, three agents, and a Defense Intelligence Agency officer were scheduled to fly Pan Am Flight 103 from London to JFK in New York. They were coming home for Christmas to spend the break with their families.

“Okay, we need to get the passenger manifest right away,” I tell the crew manning FOGHORN’s
Star Trek
console. They start making calls to the FAA, which is already on this one. Pan Am’s working on getting the information ASAP.

The minutes tick by. Each embassy has a travel section that makes transportation arrangements for the diplomats at its station. The travel section in Beirut has gone through its records and reports that Ambassador Andrew McCarthy, Major Chuck McKee of the DIA, Matt Gannon, and Ron Lariviere had been booked on Pan Am 103. Matt Gannon is a senior State Department official. Ron Lariviere is one of our own.

Minutes later, our embassy in Cyprus sends a flash cable. Danny O’Connor had flown from Cyprus to Heathrow to catch 103. He’s one of our senior DSS officers in Cyprus. I know Danny. He’s the son of a Boston cop and a good man.

This is a nightmare.

I step over to one of the STU-III secure phones in the room and call the CIA to find out what they know. When I’m finished, it is clear some catastrophic event took place to knock Pan Am 103 out of the sky. A bomb is the most likely cause.

I go and report all the details to our CT chief. Together, we head up to Clark Dittmer’s office. When we arrive, we find him sitting stunned at his desk, watching the live CNN broadcast.

“Sir, Danny O’Connor, Matt Gannon, and Ron Lariviere were aboard. We think the ambassador to Lebanon was, too, though we haven’t confirmed that yet.”

Our boss looks stricken. He’s an honorable man who has steered a steady ship through shoals of chaos and violence for years. But today, this is the worst. Almost three hundred people are dead. And to further compound the tragedy, CNN reports that an entire exchange group from Syracuse University was aboard the flight.

There are no survivors. The plane broke up at thirty-one thousand feet. The pieces fell all around and on Lockerbie. Part of the wing and fuselage hit a housing complex. The fuel tanks exploded with such intensity that nothing in the blast zone remains. The flames consumed everything, including the residents trapped within their dwellings.

Mr. Dittmer’s face is long and sallow. His eyes reveal the pain we all feel right now. “Fred,” he says gently, “the families. They’re waiting. We’ll need to put a team together to go talk to them. They may be at the airport.”

“Yes, sir. We’ll take care of it right away.”

Mr. Dittmer adds, “Ron’s wife is pregnant.”

I can’t help but choke up.

“Let’s get this done first. Come back in a half hour and give me an update. Fred, after you take care of things, call the FBI and CIA. See what else they’ve got.”

We go downstairs to huddle with the rest of our crew. We send several agents out to find Danny and Ron’s families. It is a terrible task, but a sacred one. These families will not be alone tonight.

I return to FOGHORN and check in with the FBI and CIA. While I do, Beirut sends another flash cable. Ambassador McCarthy is unharmed. He missed his connecting flight from Cyprus and wasn’t able to get to Heathrow in time to catch 103.

But what if his schedule had been compromised? What if somebody in Beirut passed that information to Hezbollah? I make some calls on the STU-III and confirm that the ambassador was booked under a pseudonym—that’s standard procedure these days—but that still doesn’t ease my suspicions.

Thirty minutes later, we meet back in Mr. Dittmer’s office. I tell him the ambassador is safe, but that this could have been an assassination attempt. Had his travel plans been compromised, only the luck of the draw saved his life.