Body of Lies by David Ignatius Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Ignatius
Iraqi took it greedily, as if it were a first down payment on the million dollars.
"I want to live in Los Angeles," he said. "I want a house on the beach. Just like on Baywatch ."
"Sure," said Ferris. "No problem." He shook hands with the Iraqi, who slipped out the door and trundled across the dusty yard to his black BMW, thinking about girls in bikinis. He waved goodbye in their direction and drove off. That was the last time Ferris ever saw him.
B ASSAM PICKED up word through one of his subagents that Nizar had been killed the following morning. Nizar had been taking his breakfast in a cafe off the main road in Samara, a place where people knew him. That was stupid--the opposite of what Ferris had told him to do. When he left the cafe, two cars had followed him. The only good news was that he hadn't been captured. He had his own gun and managed to fire enough shots at his pursuers that they had to kill him, which meant they hadn't been able to question him.
Ferris waited until late in the evening to call Hoffman. He hid out in a villa behind the police station. It wasn't just that he was angry, it was that he knew what Hoffman would say and he didn't want to hear it. When it was nearly midnight Iraq time, he picked up the satellite phone and dialed Langley. The watch officer put him through to Hoffman.
"He's dead," said Ferris. "The kid I recruited. They nailed him this morning."
"Already? Shit. That didn't take long. Did they interrogate him before they killed him?"
"Not from what we heard. But we weren't there when he took the bullet. I have it secondhand, from one of my guys."
"Fuck." Hoffman groaned. "What did you get out of him, before they got him?"
"Good stuff. He talked for a couple of hours before I let him go. How he was recruited in Amman. The address of the safe house. Who's in his network here. I have it all on tape. He couldn't stop talking, he was so excited. The poor fucker."
Even Hoffman could tell that Ferris felt guilty. "Sorry, Roger, but shit happens. I could apologize, but what's the point? He was going to get killed no matter what he did. Because he talked to you, maybe it will save some lives."
"Maybe," said Ferris. "Like you said, shit happens."
"The point is, now you've got to get out. We have to assume you're blown, whether this guy talked or not. I want you back to Balad. Then we'll see about getting you reassigned. You're too valuable to waste."
"I'm not leaving. There's a war on. I have other agents here. I'm not abandoning them just because we fucked up. That's our problem around here, if you hadn't noticed."
"Don't be sentimental, Roger. It's not safe. I am not losing my best young officer because he feels so guilty about a dead Iraqi that he decides to commit suicide. Sorry, no goddamn way."
"I'm not leaving," Ferris repeated.
Hoffman's voice went cold. He spoke slowly, with barely suppressed anger at the fact that Ferris was challenging him.
"I want you back in Balad tomorrow, Ferris. That is an order. If you don't obey it, you can find another job. Assuming they don't send you home in a bag. Is that understood?"
Ferris didn't know how to respond, so he broke the connection. When Hoffman called back, he didn't answer. That alone was enough to get him fired, but in that moment, Ferris didn't care. He tried to sleep, and when he couldn't, he read the dog-eared Charles Dickens novel he had brought along for moments like this.
B ASSAM COLLECTED Ferris the next morning outside his little villa. Ferris was wearing his robe and kaffiyeh--at a quick glance, he was just another scruffy Iraqi man in his early thirties. Bassam had his hair gelled, as usual, but it was obvious he hadn't slept much, either. He looked hollow-eyed and nervous--no color left in his cheeks. Stoicism in the face of danger was a code of honor for Iraqi men, so he did his best to sound buoyant.
"Hey, boss-man," he said when Ferris got in the car. "Everything's cool."
Ferris answered in Arabic. "No
"I want to live in Los Angeles," he said. "I want a house on the beach. Just like on Baywatch ."
"Sure," said Ferris. "No problem." He shook hands with the Iraqi, who slipped out the door and trundled across the dusty yard to his black BMW, thinking about girls in bikinis. He waved goodbye in their direction and drove off. That was the last time Ferris ever saw him.
B ASSAM PICKED up word through one of his subagents that Nizar had been killed the following morning. Nizar had been taking his breakfast in a cafe off the main road in Samara, a place where people knew him. That was stupid--the opposite of what Ferris had told him to do. When he left the cafe, two cars had followed him. The only good news was that he hadn't been captured. He had his own gun and managed to fire enough shots at his pursuers that they had to kill him, which meant they hadn't been able to question him.
Ferris waited until late in the evening to call Hoffman. He hid out in a villa behind the police station. It wasn't just that he was angry, it was that he knew what Hoffman would say and he didn't want to hear it. When it was nearly midnight Iraq time, he picked up the satellite phone and dialed Langley. The watch officer put him through to Hoffman.
"He's dead," said Ferris. "The kid I recruited. They nailed him this morning."
"Already? Shit. That didn't take long. Did they interrogate him before they killed him?"
"Not from what we heard. But we weren't there when he took the bullet. I have it secondhand, from one of my guys."
"Fuck." Hoffman groaned. "What did you get out of him, before they got him?"
"Good stuff. He talked for a couple of hours before I let him go. How he was recruited in Amman. The address of the safe house. Who's in his network here. I have it all on tape. He couldn't stop talking, he was so excited. The poor fucker."
Even Hoffman could tell that Ferris felt guilty. "Sorry, Roger, but shit happens. I could apologize, but what's the point? He was going to get killed no matter what he did. Because he talked to you, maybe it will save some lives."
"Maybe," said Ferris. "Like you said, shit happens."
"The point is, now you've got to get out. We have to assume you're blown, whether this guy talked or not. I want you back to Balad. Then we'll see about getting you reassigned. You're too valuable to waste."
"I'm not leaving. There's a war on. I have other agents here. I'm not abandoning them just because we fucked up. That's our problem around here, if you hadn't noticed."
"Don't be sentimental, Roger. It's not safe. I am not losing my best young officer because he feels so guilty about a dead Iraqi that he decides to commit suicide. Sorry, no goddamn way."
"I'm not leaving," Ferris repeated.
Hoffman's voice went cold. He spoke slowly, with barely suppressed anger at the fact that Ferris was challenging him.
"I want you back in Balad tomorrow, Ferris. That is an order. If you don't obey it, you can find another job. Assuming they don't send you home in a bag. Is that understood?"
Ferris didn't know how to respond, so he broke the connection. When Hoffman called back, he didn't answer. That alone was enough to get him fired, but in that moment, Ferris didn't care. He tried to sleep, and when he couldn't, he read the dog-eared Charles Dickens novel he had brought along for moments like this.
B ASSAM COLLECTED Ferris the next morning outside his little villa. Ferris was wearing his robe and kaffiyeh--at a quick glance, he was just another scruffy Iraqi man in his early thirties. Bassam had his hair gelled, as usual, but it was obvious he hadn't slept much, either. He looked hollow-eyed and nervous--no color left in his cheeks. Stoicism in the face of danger was a code of honor for Iraqi men, so he did his best to sound buoyant.
"Hey, boss-man," he said when Ferris got in the car. "Everything's cool."
Ferris answered in Arabic. "No