Classified Woman by Sibel Edmonds Read Free Book Online Page B

how.
    On his first real workday, Kevin stopped by and asked me the English translation for three common words. Thirty minutes later, he came to me with a list of seven or eight words, again, all very simple. Then he was back again. That did it. I asked him to take a coffee break with me.
    “You don’t speak much English, do you?”
    He shook his head no.
    I asked him what he would do when they found out, to which he replied, “They already know.”
    “Who is they ?”
    “Feghali, HQ.”
    He then began telling the story very matter-of-factly. He was working as a cook in a restaurant in Istanbul when he met his American wife, Cynthia, an English instructor. The couple married and moved to California, where Kevin got a job as a busboy and kitchen helper in a nearby restaurant in Malibu.
    Cynthia later applied for a job as an administrator in FBI Headquarters. She got a position in the FBI’s language department division and the family moved to DC. Kevin found another kitchen helper job in downtown DC and started work there for very little money. Here I interrupted him. “So that’s how you got this job without speaking any English? Your wife—”
    He asked that I let him continue. “Feghali became supervisor only seven or eight months ago. He talked my wife at HQ into fudging a few linguist candidates’ applications and testing results as a favor. These people are all his family members and close friends. Look, half of the Arabic department is his tribe: two brothers, sister-in-law, his wife, his niece and several close friends. How do you think they got there? Many couldn’t have if it weren’t for Cynthia! Some had background check problems; others had proficiency shortcomings …”
    As soon as we got back, I marched into Feghali’s office. He listened and smiled. “Sibel—sweet, beautiful, tiny, skinny Sibel—Taskesen won’t do any harm … Between you and me, we’ll baby-sit and take care of him. I know it means more work for you, but people should help each other.”
    Then he turned the conversation around to me. “You’re taking this huge load at school, and work here only twenty-five hours a week. I want you to come over here on weekends—Saturdays and Sundays—bring all your schoolbooks, punch in your time card and turn on your computer, then, sit and study your school work. You’ll take care of your study assignments, and make over five hundred dollars per weekend, eh?”
    I stared at him hard and cold. “That would be defrauding the bureau and the taxpayers. Are you asking me to commit fraud?”
    He chuckled and went on to explain that “everybody does it here.” He then launched into an exhausting personal history that involved what he called “perks” for him and his extended family, not to mention FBI coworkers and fellow employees: plane tickets, car rentals, hotel expenses, frequent trips, you name it, all on the taxpayers’ dime. “That’s an advantage of working for the government, among many others,” he assured me, looking pleased.
    I felt close to puking, I was that repulsed. I asked him point-blank, “Are you trying to bribe me?”
    “That’s an ugly word; we never use ugly words here. I am trying to help you, make your life easier, and increase your loyalty to the bureau. We are one big family here. I’d be more than happy to pay for you and your husband’s next travel to Turkey. We have an office in Turkey, in Ankara; did you know that? Also, don’t forget to check in on Saturdays and Sundays.”
    I turned around and walked out. There was no point in discussing Kevin Taskesen’s case with this man or anyone else in this unit. Maybe Saccher would realize this and do something about it. Or maybe Feghali would have Kevin sit in a corner and do nothing for two years—just have him get paid, which would be better than having him actively destroy investigations or clues to possible future attacks.
    This was wishful thinking. Kevin indeed was given important projects and