Classified Woman (4 page)

I
spent a lot of time on my permanent and ongoing counterintelligence projects under Dennis Saccher during my short tenure with the FBI. Despite some overlapping with terrorism-related intelligence involving Central Asian narcotics and money laundering, my first two months were spent mostly on counterterrorism investigations dealing with 9/11.

Reams of documents and audio files sent to the FBI Washington Field Office by field agents nationwide had been intercepted prior to 9/11—evidence that was never processed or translated until the attack. Now, after the fact, these files were being checked and reviewed for any possible connection. Some dated back to the late 1990s.

Certainly not every lead had been worth following up; but things were different now: old evidence carried new weight. Having originally overlooked pertinent and alarming intelligence may or may not be understandable, yet the bureau’s response to such evidence
after
9/11 was and remains reprehensible and inexcusable. The lengths to which the top tier went to ensure the covering up of these cases to prevent exposure and any investigation at all is almost incredible.

Many such cases were subsequently withheld from both the Independent Commission on 9/11 and its predecessor, the Joint Inquiry into 9/11 by the House and Senate Intelligence Committees. Other cases brought to the attention of these bodies, by whistleblowers or anonymous employees, were omitted from their final reports or outright buried. The public hadn’t a clue.

One afternoon toward the end of October 2001, slightly over a month after I began working for the bureau, Mike Feghali stopped by my desk to hand me a box containing tapes and a thin file of paper documents. He said an agent from one of the Nevada field offices had sent them. The operation dated back to July and August 2001, and the contents initially had been translated by a language specialist in summary format.

In light of the events of September eleven, on a hunch the agent decided to send it to us for review: he believed something had been overlooked or not translated correctly, and if true, he wanted to be informed immediately and have everything translated verbatim. The agent also included in the package information obtained post-9/11, up to October 1, 2001.

“I’m sure everything was OK the first time around,” Feghali commented. “Just go over these and see if anything significant was missed.” With that he dropped the file and the accompanying tapes on my desk and walked away.

After a short lunch break, I switched gears. I put aside what I had been working on and started the new assignment. I decided to give a quick listen to the tapes and skim the package before typing, to see if anything grabbed me. Later, I would go back and start over again, if necessary, the tedious, slow translation.

For the first few minutes I was having a hard time staying focused; boredom had set in. The target was in jail, talking to someone in a remote and underdeveloped border region of Pakistan and Iran (I knew from the accent and dialect where they were from). They chatted about some real estate and bridge projects; all the requirements they had to meet and the schedule they had to maintain. The very short, less than three-sentence-long original translation basically said that the subject discussed inconsequential matters and talked about some real estate development. I thought it more or less sufficient and accurate. Feghali’s observation seemed to be right—so far.

A few minutes passed before something made me sit up at once, with the force of an electric jolt. I thought I had heard something that didn’t fit, something that was out of place. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I felt spooked.

I rewound the tape and this time listened carefully. Oh my God—there it was! The target was going to send the blueprints and building composites for the project: those buildings had to be skyscrapers, a hundred floors or higher, to fit the specifications. I looked at the date: late July, 2001. The region to which these blueprints, building composites and bridge specifications were to be sent was as primitive as could be; they barely had mud huts. How could they be discussing the construction of skyscrapers in a nomadic village with huts? They specifically mentioned
skyscrapers
. Also, the blueprints and building composites were to be sent via human courier, not by mail, FedEx, or fax. Why would someone go to that much trouble to send simple blueprints, building and bridge plans and composites? Why was a “trusted source” to travel around the world to deliver it?

I believed the agent’s hunch was right on target. September eleven attacks and skyscrapers; blueprints and building composites of skyscrapers hand delivered to Iran; the date preceding the attacks by approximately two months.

Now I was awake and alert. I decided to go over a little bit more before notifying Feghali and the agent who’d sent the assignment. I fast-forwarded the tape to the first recorded date after September 11, 2001, to 11 a.m. September 12, 2001. I pushed the Start button and went over it. Bingo! First, the target and recipient congratulated themselves for this precious
Eid
. (
Eid
is a religious holiday in the Muslim world.) I knew all the dates for
Eid
that year: there were no religious holidays in September. These congratulations were given one day after the 9/11 attacks. Were they celebrating a successful operation? I jotted that down too.

Within the same communication, on September 12, the target warned that “using men would be dangerous, not wise, after this. The next round had to be women, young women between the ages of eighteen and twenty-four.” There also was a brief discussion of “channels to obtain visas in return for money,” most of them in the United Arab Emirates. Their network included people with connections and contacts in U.S. embassies there.

I stopped everything. First, I went to Amin’s station. He wasn’t there, so I grabbed his Farsi dictionary and returned to my desk. Having little-to-no familiarity with construction lingo, I needed to track down the names of several minerals: metals and other building materials, to find their precise corollaries in English. I had to double-check the translations. Then I locked up the tape and the original file, grabbed my notepad with the important points jotted down in my indecipherable script, and headed—no, ran—to Feghali’s office.

His door was half closed; I lightly tapped. He was on the phone, but he asked me to come in. I sat in the side chair and waited for him to wrap up his conversation in Arabic. My heart was pounding, and I loved that agent without ever meeting him or even knowing his name. The man had a good nose; he had smelled this one big time, and he was right. Catching this could help us uncover much more on the attacks and those behind them. Feghali’s voice brought me back to the present.

“How is it going?”

I came straight to the point and told him about the discovery. Without so much as a pause to catch my breath, I concluded, “So we need to call this agent right away, let him know right now. Call him on the secure phone and read him my notes. Here,” I handed him my notes. “Now I’ll go back and start the verbatim translation. It will take me at least a couple of days. Maybe we should have Amin or Sarshar do it; they are stronger in Farsi language … meanwhile, the agent will know that he’s on the right track.”

Feghali paused. “So the original translation didn’t have this information?”

I shook my head. “No, but I can see why. Without nine eleven I wouldn’t have found it significant either. This may be one of those hindsight cases … I guess …”

“Very well. Go and start translating the whole thing. I will call the agent myself and will have him call your extension.”

I left his office and returned to my desk. I spent the rest of the day on that project. I was almost halfway done. The agent didn’t call.

I devoted my time exclusively to the translation. One more day and it would be finished; I needed only two or three hours more. The agent still hadn’t called. Feghali was not in his office so I couldn’t ask him about it.

On the third day, I arrived to find the file was gone—missing. I checked the second drawer for the tapes and they were gone too. I turned on my computer and clicked on my Blueprint translation document: still there. I checked my voice mail: no messages from the agent.

I walked over to Feghali’s office. Without entering, from the door I asked, “What’s up with the agent? He hasn’t called me. Did you call him? Did you reassign the files to Sarshar or Amin? The tapes and files are missing, so I assumed you reassigned the case to them.”

Feghali beckoned me in. “Close the door and have a seat.”

I shut the door. “Why hasn’t the agent called me? It’s been almost a week!”

“I sent the agent the tapes and the original documents. It went out two days ago.”

I was baffled. “But we haven’t translated it yet. Did you tell him about the discovery? What was his reaction? Who is going to take care of the translation? Does he still have the suspect in custody?”

He sat silently for what felt like too long. “We sent him everything with a note stating that everything was checked, reviewed thoroughly, and no discrepancy was found.”

Was he joking? He didn’t appear to be. What in the world was going on? I couldn’t find words to express my shock; neither could I sort through the questions I so badly wanted to fire at him.

I was only able to mumble, “I don’t understand. This is one of the most damning pre-attack evidences I’ve come across here … But why?”

“How would you like it if the shoe was on the other foot? How would you have liked some translator coming after you, checking what you produced, and questioning its accuracy? What if you missed something explosive, something that may have—only
may
have—prevented thousands of deaths, and someone reported on you? You wouldn’t have appreciated that kind of a backstabbing, Sibel, right?”

I thought I was daydreaming, imagining what he had just told me. “Mike, I don’t even know the name of the original translator, I don’t even know if he or she was from this office or another field location; it is all irrelevant. I told you he or she couldn’t be blamed for this. Considering the fact that before nine eleven this might not have raised any eyebrows, why would it be blamed on the original translator?”

“It is not that simple. That translator would be made a target: they’d blame him for it whether right or wrong. As I have told you before—several times, in fact—we are like one big family here, we watch out for our own. We believe in one for all, all for one, as far as all our translator brothers and sisters are concerned. We don’t rat each other out to get some credit or receive recognition.”

I exploded. “
Screw
recognition or getting credit! Is that what you think this is all about? I even told you to assign it to more savvy Farsi translators! This is about the nine eleven terrorist attacks, Mike. This suspect may hold a big key to what occurred, how it was planned, and the ones behind its planning. There was discussion on future ‘operators,’ this time women, being sent; illegally obtained visas … this agent had already suspected that much. There is a reason he sent those for retranslation and review. You are obligated to report to him what we have found—now! You better call him or give me his number and let me call him now. This is not about some stupid office politics and bureaucracy, damn it!”

Feghali stared at me coldly. “The case is closed, forever. We, the FBI Washington Field Office, thoroughly examined the document and found no discrepancy, period. I’ll have the computer department remove your notes from your computer today. I should not have assigned that task to you. You haven’t been here long enough to know how we operate in here.” He took a deep breath and continued. “Now, go back to your regular assignments. As far as you know, everything has been taken care of.”

I stood up, shaking with rage. “You are an administrative supervisor. You have no authority over the actual projects and their contents. This has to be dealt with by the agents and agents in charge, not you. If I have to report to the agent in charge in here, I will.”

“I have the approval of everyone in charge here,” he hissed. “Whatever we do here is sanctioned by the agent in charge of our unit. This conversation is over and I suggest you go and cool off; then, after coming to your senses, do what you are supposed to be doing: Do as you are told by me.”

I stormed out. Once in the hall, I stopped to figure out what I would do next. Who should I see? I knew of only one special agent in charge, Bobby Wiggins, formally assigned to the Language department, who kept a small office here; yet he was almost always absent. Due to retire soon, he only showed up once a week, in silly clown-like golf attire to check messages and retrieve any memos. During my entire tenure, I only saw him inside the unit and among the translators once, at his own good-bye party. When I thought about what the agents in the field go through daily—putting their lives on the line—this manager’s indifference made me cringe.

I thought of going to Dennis Saccher; but then I changed my mind. First, he was in charge of his unit only and had no authority over my department or the counterterrorism case involved. Second, doing so would be seen as going beyond the department’s turf and result in disciplinary action against me.

Frustrated, angry, and feeling thwarted by not having the agent’s contact information, I marched over to the Farsi translators’ cluster, the unit’s Iranian territory. Sarshar, Amin, and a few others looked up. “Any of you know about this project?” I named the file, field office and division involved. “Did anyone here originally translate this particular document?” The translators exchanged looks and shook their heads no.