Read Online Body of Lies by David Ignatius - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Ignatius
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Gretchen worked the other way, from principle to practice. Maybe she had been less certain about things before, when they were younger, or maybe it was Ferris who had lost his bearings. The gap had worried Ferris a little before he went to Iraq, and it had grown wider. Gretchen didn't want to know things that would upset her. When Ferris tried to explain what had been so disturbing about Iraq, she would shake her head, as if Ferris weren't trying hard enough.
Whatever their differences, Gretchen knew how they might be bridged. Her appetite for sex was remarkable and, in a way, creative. It was something that set her apart from anyone's stereotype of a conservative lawyer. When she visited him in the hospital the first time, she opened her raincoat to reveal a bra, a garter belt, and milky white skin. She wanted to give him a blow job. Ferris resisted at first, feeling that he was betraying all the wounded Joes on the ward, but not for very long.
When Ferris told her that he was going to Amman, she got tears in her eyes--not just about missing him, but about the nobility of what he was doing. She talked about how they were both fighting in the same war, and how they were sacrificing their personal happiness for a greater cause. That's crazy, Ferris thought. Nobody stays married because it's the right thing for the country. Already he was beginning to wonder if it would last. He had become a hero to her, rather than a real person. At the airport the day he left, Ferris tried to explain that he wasn't sure he could stay faithful, being so far away for such a long time. But she cut him off. "Just don't ever tell me about it, and we'll be fine," she said. She kissed him and told him she loved him, and she meant it. Ferris said the words back, "I love you," but in his mind they sounded hollow.
6
AMMAN
F ERRIS PAID A CALL ON Hani Salaam at the General Intelligence Department the day after he returned from Berlin. A guard at the checkpoint stopped his armored SUV at the entrance to the complex and then waved him through. The word had evidently gotten around that he was a friend of the pasha. That was the thing about a country like Jordan, where life revolved around a royal court: Gossip flowed as freely as water; all the courtiers shared the same information, and everybody instantly seemed to know everything. The palace knew within a few days, for example, that Ferris had become acting chief of station a few weeks after his arrival, when Francis Alderson was expelled. That was supposed to be a big secret, but this was a company town, in more ways than one.
The GID's headquarters stood atop a steep bluff in Abdoun, not far from the U.S. Embassy. The building was hidden from the road, but when you turned a corner, it loomed suddenly like a stone castle. Inside the inner courtyard flew the ominous black flag of the Moukhabarat, bearing the Arabic script that translated: "Justice Has Come." On a clear night, the lights of Jerusalem were visible in the far distance. The GID was vast. Nobody knew how many people were on the payroll of the secret police, so they imagined the worst. Was the person sitting next to you in the restaurant an informant? What about the bawab who guarded your apartment building, or the person in the next office at work? Probably all of them, and a dozen more who circumscribed every point of your life, but nobody knew. Young Jordanians sometimes played a game in bars, trying to guess who was from the Moukhabarat, but they dared to do so only if Daddy was rich enough to fix things if someone overheard. This was Hani's power, that in the absence of real knowledge, people imagined his men were everywhere.
Ferris was carrying a locked briefcase containing a set of NSA intercepts, chronicling the conversations of some members of the king's family who had lately been demanding more money from the palace. The intercepts were Hoffman's idea. They were an offering to Hani, to be presented as soon as Ferris could
Whatever their differences, Gretchen knew how they might be bridged. Her appetite for sex was remarkable and, in a way, creative. It was something that set her apart from anyone's stereotype of a conservative lawyer. When she visited him in the hospital the first time, she opened her raincoat to reveal a bra, a garter belt, and milky white skin. She wanted to give him a blow job. Ferris resisted at first, feeling that he was betraying all the wounded Joes on the ward, but not for very long.
When Ferris told her that he was going to Amman, she got tears in her eyes--not just about missing him, but about the nobility of what he was doing. She talked about how they were both fighting in the same war, and how they were sacrificing their personal happiness for a greater cause. That's crazy, Ferris thought. Nobody stays married because it's the right thing for the country. Already he was beginning to wonder if it would last. He had become a hero to her, rather than a real person. At the airport the day he left, Ferris tried to explain that he wasn't sure he could stay faithful, being so far away for such a long time. But she cut him off. "Just don't ever tell me about it, and we'll be fine," she said. She kissed him and told him she loved him, and she meant it. Ferris said the words back, "I love you," but in his mind they sounded hollow.
6
AMMAN
F ERRIS PAID A CALL ON Hani Salaam at the General Intelligence Department the day after he returned from Berlin. A guard at the checkpoint stopped his armored SUV at the entrance to the complex and then waved him through. The word had evidently gotten around that he was a friend of the pasha. That was the thing about a country like Jordan, where life revolved around a royal court: Gossip flowed as freely as water; all the courtiers shared the same information, and everybody instantly seemed to know everything. The palace knew within a few days, for example, that Ferris had become acting chief of station a few weeks after his arrival, when Francis Alderson was expelled. That was supposed to be a big secret, but this was a company town, in more ways than one.
The GID's headquarters stood atop a steep bluff in Abdoun, not far from the U.S. Embassy. The building was hidden from the road, but when you turned a corner, it loomed suddenly like a stone castle. Inside the inner courtyard flew the ominous black flag of the Moukhabarat, bearing the Arabic script that translated: "Justice Has Come." On a clear night, the lights of Jerusalem were visible in the far distance. The GID was vast. Nobody knew how many people were on the payroll of the secret police, so they imagined the worst. Was the person sitting next to you in the restaurant an informant? What about the bawab who guarded your apartment building, or the person in the next office at work? Probably all of them, and a dozen more who circumscribed every point of your life, but nobody knew. Young Jordanians sometimes played a game in bars, trying to guess who was from the Moukhabarat, but they dared to do so only if Daddy was rich enough to fix things if someone overheard. This was Hani's power, that in the absence of real knowledge, people imagined his men were everywhere.
Ferris was carrying a locked briefcase containing a set of NSA intercepts, chronicling the conversations of some members of the king's family who had lately been demanding more money from the palace. The intercepts were Hoffman's idea. They were an offering to Hani, to be presented as soon as Ferris could
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