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  That training came in handy more than once, including on a trip Joseph and I made to Egypt over a holiday weekend. Joseph was traveling elsewhere at the time, so I went ahead of him, landing in Cairo a day before he was scheduled to arrive. The next afternoon, three family members and I drove to the airport to pick him up.

  Egypt’s airport infrastructure is notoriously unhelpful. At that time, there were no flight status monitors. Neither was there a central terminal or information desk from which to obtain data on departing or arriving flights. Family and friends just sat and waited for their loved ones to emerge from the customs area.

  We had been there about half an hour before I realized that Joseph’s flight had landed. I knew that an acquaintance of ours was on the same flight, and I saw him exit the sliding glass doors of the international arrivals hall. I assumed Joseph would either be right behind him or exit momentarily.

  Instead, another hour went by.

  And another thirty minutes.

  At the two-hour mark, I started to panic. It appeared that all of the passengers from Joseph’s flight had moved through customs because travelers from other destinations were now exiting the arrivals hall. I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he had boarded the aircraft and that the aircraft had made it to Cairo.

  We waited another tense hour as I paced the floor. As the minutes ticked by, I started considering the worst-case scenario: What if authorities thought Joseph still did human rights work and were intent on making him “disappear”? They have been known to do this to people involved with humanitarian organizations. Joseph had worked for the democracy and human rights think tank more than five years prior, but government officials might not be aware that he no longer worked there. Years ago we’d found out that Joseph’s human rights work had landed him on Egypt’s black list—alongside Islamic terrorists and violent criminals. We had broken our own rule by letting Joseph travel into Egypt by himself, something we avoided since we didn’t trust the authorities. The Mubarak regime had a record of detaining and torturing those on its black list, and this wasn’t a chance I wanted to take—that Joseph could end up receiving the same treatment as terrorists because of his Christian background and human rights work.

  Three hours had passed since I saw our acquaintance emerge from customs. It shouldn’t take this long for Joseph to come out. I was wondering what—if anything—I should do.

  As my stress climbed to a ridiculous level, I knew I couldn’t sit there any longer. It was time to get off the “X.” I had to act. It was possible Joseph was being held somewhere inside the airport, and if so, I needed to get to him quickly. My best bet would be to make it clear that I knew he had arrived and was in the airport.

  I decided to confront the security officer manning the exit door. His job was to ensure nobody illegally entered the secure part of the airport. I grabbed my passport, put it in my right hand, and walked up to him. Speaking only English (because in that culture, English speakers are respected), I informed him, “I am an American official. My husband is also an American official. He is inside that hall. Your people are holding him. I am going to give you ten minutes. I better see my husband in ten minutes, or I will walk in that hall and find him myself.”

  He was shocked. He said, “Ma’am, you can’t do that. You can’t go in there.”

  “I know, but if you don’t produce him for me in ten minutes, I will walk in there—legal or not. Do you understand?”

  He just stood there, so I continued, “You’d better hurry up; the clock is ticking. You have ten minutes.”

  He got on his walkie-talkie and spoke to someone. He looked uncomfortable. He started pacing in a tight little circle in front of the arrivals hall exit doors. I stood a few feet away, tapping my foot and checking my watch every few minutes, desperately hoping that the officer would see me and know that I was serious.

  Five minutes went by, and I approached the officer again. “You have five minutes. If he doesn’t walk out this door in five minutes, then I’m going inside. This is your warning.”

  He protested, “Ma’am, you can’t do that! This is the secure part of the airport. You can’t go in there. You’ll get arrested!”

  “I know, and I’m prepared for that. Just so you are aware: You’ll need to call the US embassy and tell them that you just arrested one of their citizens. Do you have that number? Because you’re going to need it.”

  What am I doing? I could hardly believe myself. The boldness I felt, the determination that I had to act, was bursting at the seams. I’d do anything to be sure that Joseph was all right, even if it meant causing an international incident.

  I turned around and walked back to my family, whose mouths were agape. They’d never seen me act like this, so they were in shock. I said, “Okay, guys. I’m about to walk into the arrivals hall. If I don’t come back out again, call the US embassy and tell them I’ve been detained and that Joseph is in there too.”

  Not knowing what else to say, they whispered, “Okay.”

  My hands were shaking. I took a deep breath, checked my watch (it had been thirteen minutes), and walked toward the officer, carefully holding my American passport in the air. I quietly prayed, “Please, God, help me!”

  The officer watched me approach. I could see the fear in his face, wondering what I’d do. I announced in very clear English, “I am an American citizen. My husband is an American citizen. You are holding my husband inside. I am going to find him.”

  With this, I approached the glass doors, which slid right open, allowing me to proceed into the customs area. The officer ran after me, yelling, “Stop! Stop!”

  I started walking very fast. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but I wanted to look like I knew. So I walked with purpose while scanning the horizon, trying to plot my next move. About three different officers saw me breaking the security barrier and started converging on the crazy American lady. I started yelling, “Where is my husband? Where is my husband?”

  At that moment, I caught a glimpse of Joseph at the other end of the hangar-like customs area, briskly walking toward me. Thank you, Jesus! A man came running over and shoved a passport into Joseph’s hand. A few steps later, Joseph and I met and stole a quick hug. He said, “What are you doing in here?”

  “I was trying to find you!”

  As it turns out, Joseph had not been formally detained, only told to sit on a bench and wait. He was never given a reason why he was being held and unable to proceed through passport control and customs. He was simply told, “One minute,” which irritatingly turned into more than three hours.

  Concerned, he told one of the officers, “If you don’t release me soon, I will walk out of the arrivals hall without my passport. I will notify the US embassy that you were harassing an American official, and I don’t think you want that to happen.” He had no idea that I was making similar threats, informing officers I was about to break through security to find my spouse.

  Strangely enough, this special attention came to an end once they learned that Joseph was no longer involved in human rights work. Though they were a little late to the game, they finally figured out that Joseph was working for the US government. He never received that kind of treatment again.

  Given my boldness in these two situations, it might surprise you to learn that my natural inclination is to remain on the “X.” I like routine, and I highly value stability. At my core, I am very much a homebody. I am not a fly-by-night kind of person. When change is presented to me, I tend to face it with much trepidation. I get nervous about what to expect and whether I will succeed in the new endeavor, and I often get wrapped up in the “what-ifs.” I have to concentrate on moving myself forward because the process of opening up to new possibilities is unnerving. Venturing outside my comfort zone goes against the grain of who I am and stokes my deepest insecurities.

  Was it hard to be a CIA officer with all of the challenges and change that entailed? Yes. Scary? Of course. But if I was going to fulfill my life mission, I ha
d to conquer my instinctual tendency to freeze in place. Fear would get me nowhere. Faith, however, would take me to places I never imagined.

  One of the biggest challenges of counterterrorism work is that you are constantly relocating. Just when you’ve finally adapted to your new surroundings, the agency moves you to another country and you have to start all over again—new city, new culture, new supervisors, new colleagues. Sometimes they take into account your preferences for where you’d like to serve, but most often field requirements trump personal desires.

  Case in point: I had no intention of serving in Iraq. I thought I had done my duty by serving in █████, the other place no one wanted to go. Several colleagues tried to reassure me by saying, “Don’t worry, you’ve already done your time; there is no way they would put you on the short list for Iraq.” But by the fall of 2005, the situation in Iraq was deteriorating, and one by one people were getting yanked from their other tours and being sent to one of the most unpopular wars in modern history.

  Anxiety continued to build as Iraq went down in flames, fanned by our unrealistic democratic experiment, the intervention of outside forces (i.e., Iran), and sectarian fault lines that widened by the day. Statistics certainly didn’t help US government recruitment efforts: In 2005, there were nearly eleven thousand roadside bombs in Iraq.[5] Deaths on every side of the equation—military and civilian—were spiraling out of control, suggesting that 2006 would be the worst year yet.

  That’s why I had been relieved in early 2005 to find out our next post would not be Iraq, but a place that many senior officers fought hard to get. Several jokingly said that they’d be willing to give up their firstborn if it meant they could get posted to this particular location. Joseph and I just got lucky. So after taking five weeks of leave back in the United States, we deployed to our new home country, excited to see what this tour had in store.

  The first couple of months were uncomfortable since our apartment wasn’t ready and we had to live in temporary quarters, but once we finally got placed in a beautiful new building on the outskirts of town, we were happy as clams. It was a modern, airy apartment with a beautiful balcony overlooking a verdant green valley. A month later, we received our household goods and were finally able to get settled.

  ██████ was wonderful—so much so that I was in culture shock. For the first time in almost two years, I could actually walk the streets without worrying about getting kidnapped. I could wear normal clothes and nobody would look at me funny. In fact, nobody stared at me at all! The food was healthful and delicious, which was in severe contrast to the food at the last post, which made us sick for almost two straight years. It was no longer necessary to soak my fruits and vegetables in bleach to make them safe to eat, and I could dine freely in restaurants and not have to worry about running home with a bout of diarrhea.

  Then about a month later, I got a weird text from Stacey, a close friend of mine who was serving at headquarters.

  Hey M! I heard you’re going to Iraq!

  I quickly wrote back.

  No, honey, we’re out here in ██████. Just started. Been here about five months. I just unpacked all my stuff.

  There was a bit of a pause. Then she responded.

  Well, I’m pretty sure you’re being redirected to Iraq. I was in a long discussion about it this morning with HR folks who were trying to hunt down some Arabists who could help out with The Surge.

  My heart dropped through the floor. I could not believe what I was reading. I reread the texts again to be sure I hadn’t misunderstood my girlfriend. I asked her one more time,

  Are you sure it was me they were talking about, not someone else? Maybe someone with a similar name?

  Once more she said,

  No, it was you and Joseph. 100%. They were trying to figure out where you were and they knew we were close friends . . . so they included me in the discussion.

  My head started spinning. I wondered how in the world they could let me and Joseph deploy to a new country, just to pick us right back up and throw us into a war zone. It was crazy. It made no sense. Furthermore, the war was raging in Iraq. I honestly could not think of a worse place to be.

  Instead of completely freaking out, I decided to pray about it. I prayed, and I prayed. I begged God not to let them send us to Iraq. Then I let my family in on the horrible secret and asked them to pray. They got right down on their knees, petitioning God not to send their daughter, sister, niece, or cousin to Iraq.

  But no matter how hard we prayed or how fervent our protestations to headquarters, it was all for naught. We soon received the communication that nobody wanted to get, advising us to begin the paperwork for our return to Washington, DC, followed by immediate deployment to Iraq.

  I was devastated. There was a lump in my throat that would not go away. I could hardly think straight as I repacked my household effects and prepared to fly back to DC. To further add to the stress, I had to retake the weapons course before I could launch to Baghdad. The agency required qualification on the Glock semiautomatic pistol and M4 rifle every two years, so I was overdue for the training—especially if I was to be deployed to the war zone.

  To make matters worse and to add to my emotional distress, three days before I was scheduled to leave █████, I woke up in the middle of the night with hives on my arms and stomach. I wasn’t sure what I was having an allergic reaction to, but it didn’t worry me too much. Eventually the discomfort passed, allowing me to go back to sleep, and the next day, there was no sign of hives or any indication of what had made them occur.

  The next evening, I woke up again after sleeping for a couple of hours, and the hives were back. But this time, they were larger and had spread to other areas of my body. I was baffled, unsure what was causing this nightly flare-up. I took some allergy pills and tried my best to go back to sleep, which I eventually did. I woke up the next morning a bit worried about the hives, but they soon disappeared. Before long, I was attending to the hundred things I needed to accomplish on my last day in this beautiful country.

  After Joseph and I completed all of our administrative requirements, we returned to the apartment, where only our luggage was now waiting. We went to sleep (not so soundly), thinking about our return to the United States and impending tour in Baghdad. Hours later, I awoke to the awful sensation that my body was on fire. The hives, which kept disappearing during the day and returning each night, had come back with a vengeance. Worse, they were growing in circumference, morphing into giant patches of swollen, burning skin. Instead of having a hundred hives on my tummy, I now had three large hives wrapped around my midsection. It was the same with both arms and legs. A few enormous hives appeared to be swallowing up my entire body.

  Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I realized that I was having trouble breathing. Joseph called the doctor. He told Joseph I was going into anaphylactic shock and to get me to the hospital immediately. It seemed I was having a severe allergic reaction to the antibiotics I had been on for a rare bout of food poisoning, and it was critical that I get to the hospital before my airwaves constricted any further. I had never experienced anaphylactic shock before, and I was terribly scared, wondering whether we’d make it to the hospital in time.

  Over the next few hours in the hospital, I shook uncontrollably as epinephrine and a large dose of Benadryl coursed through my system. The doctor said that he could not in good conscience let me fly back to the United States later that day, but I was adamant. I was on a very tight schedule that included a day at headquarters to sign papers and then a week’s worth of weapons training before we boarded the flight that would take us to the war zone. There was no time to waste. I had to get on that flight or it would throw everything off.

  Thinking back now, I have no idea why I cared. Why did I push so hard, begging the doctor to let me travel the next day? Why didn’t I just accept that the situation was out of my hands, and have headquarters reschedule weapons training for the following
week? Why not take some time in the United States to relax, heal, and prepare for the assignment? But I pushed hard, and the doctor reluctantly let me board the plane and leave ██████ that afternoon.

  The first flight was uneventful. The second flight from Europe to DC was fine until I awoke from a nap to a stinging sensation on my stomach. I went into the bathroom, lifted my shirt, and looked in the mirror. I could not believe my eyes. Those darn hives were back, and they were spreading . . . again. Fear flooded my mind. Was I headed toward anaphylactic shock for a second time—midair?

  I returned to my seat and gave the awful news to Joseph. I decided not to do anything for about an hour, hoping the hives would just go away. When I couldn’t ignore the burning any longer, I thought it wise to tell the crew that I might be on the threshold of a medical emergency.

  The flight attendants were very responsive. They reacted quickly, learning all they could about my situation and then advising the captain. The captain arranged for priority landing at Washington Dulles Airport, and we were moved into first class so we could be the first off the plane. Thankfully, we touched down before I got worse.

  As the plane taxied down the runway, we could see the ambulance right there on the tarmac, next to our gate, ready to whisk me away to the hospital. I was extremely embarrassed to be the object of all this activity. The other passengers waited patiently while representatives from the Department of Homeland Security boarded the plane, stamping our passports and arranging our quick transition off the aircraft and into the ambulance.

  After spending the next few hours in Reston Hospital Center recovering thanks to the massive dose of Benadryl they administered via IV, I was discharged just before sunrise. We checked into our hotel, got a few hours of sleep, and then headed into headquarters. I was not keen on being there—it’s never fun schlepping around the building trying to complete all of your administrative requirements in one day, but papers had to be signed and we had to check in with numerous offices to prepare for the looming permanent change of station.