Breaking Cover Page 16

  Much like with the terrorist debriefings I’d done in Iraq, I knew I had to immediately establish my bona fides (i.e., street cred) or the training session would be a resounding failure. These officers wouldn’t give me long before tuning out, so I had to immediately address their assumptions that I was out of my league. I began by introducing myself in Arabic.

  “Hi. I’m Michele. I’m very honored to be speaking to such an esteemed group of officers today. Like you, I do counterterrorism work. I have had the opportunity to work in Baghdad, █████, and ██████ and have traveled to numerous Arab countries. I received a master’s degree in Arab studies from Georgetown University and have been traveling to the region for almost twenty years.”

  Because few foreign officers had ever addressed them in Arabic, their formerly angry faces instantly washed over with shock. Bet they didn’t see that coming.

  Giving a quick rundown of where I had traveled and served also played to my advantage. Credentials are extremely important in that part of the world, regardless of gender. Second and more significantly, I knew that the majority of the group had not served in those locations, nor—like most—did they want to. While they were proficient in counterterrorism operations in their own country, most avoided service in Iraq and █████ because of the inherent danger and instability. To be able to say that I had worked in these danger zones helped me establish myself as an expert in the region, and possibly, just possibly, someone worth listening to.

  A few muffled rumblings echoed across the room, followed by silence.

  I had their attention.

  Having spent many years following their counterterrorism fight, I had a good grasp of their strengths and weaknesses. I knew the areas where they were extremely proficient as well as their limitations, which helped me develop an approach to dealing with an otherwise hostile crowd and focus my training on the areas where even they knew they needed help.

  What made perhaps the biggest difference was that I was able to use real-life stories to illustrate my points, further establishing my expertise. Of course, I had to change certain details to protect key sources and methods, but the effect was the same. And it was immediate. They sat in rapt attention, raising their hands to answer my questions and engaging in a robust discussion. All of my experience in the school of hard knocks was finally paying dividends.

  It’s funny. For years, I was envious of the CIA officers who were deployed to cushy countries while a small group of us were repeatedly given hazardous duty. I spent a lot of time whining and complaining about this perceived injustice. Why does everyone else get to wander in the fields of green while we traipse from one desert to another? There were even moments when I wanted to give up. But whenever Joseph and I prayed about leaving the CIA, God kept telling us, Not yet. Naturally, we obeyed. But believe me, it wasn’t easy.

  It took me a while, but eventually I realized that while the “lucky officers” were off enjoying classic architecture, world-class dining, and beautiful apartments, I was gaining invaluable experience and learning more about counterintelligence and counterterrorism than they ever would or could. By the time I had reached my midthirties, I had already achieved a far greater level of expertise than any of the officers who had cozied up to senior leaders for those plum assignments.

  What’s more, the challenges I had faced working in █████, Iraq, and Saratoga had transformed me from a naive young recruit with an inferiority complex to a mature, highly experienced officer capable of succeeding in the most hostile and exacting environments. The assignments I had once perceived as a never-ending string of punishments were actually amazing career builders.

  Somewhere along the line, while I was busy doing the grunt work, staying late into the night, serving on weekends and holidays, and going where others refused to go, I had become an expert in my field. I could speak authoritatively on a wide range of topics and experiences the likes of which most in the agency had never even encountered.

  Simply put, the struggle to hone my craft and the struggle to triumph over myriad obstacles created the conditions for something beautiful to emerge—a woman fully equipped and completely reliant on God. When the pain was too great or the challenge too overwhelming, I had nothing but faith to get me through. Whenever I could not see over the horizon, I trusted that he could and that he would provide me with whatever tools or insight I needed to succeed. By the grace of God, I discovered that struggle could become a skill builder, pain could become a motivator, and confusion could serve as a clarifier.

  Once Joseph and I spent a holiday weekend in Provence, France, where we learned how some of the most exceptional wines are created. The grapevines are planted in skillfully terraced rows, but surprisingly, the fields where they are planted are not luscious and green. In the summer, the sun beats down hard on the vines, and the weather is hot and uncomfortable—hardly the place one would imagine finding world-renowned vineyards. Frankly, it’s a wonder that anything so delicious could emerge from the cracked soil and parched earth beneath them. But apparently the harsh conditions are the secret to their success.

  In fact, Provence vintners actually ascribe the beauty and complexity of their wines to the difficult circumstances in which the grapes are grown. The harder the vine works to push down into the dry earth to reach water, the better the fruit. Because the vines work so hard to burrow through the soil, they become hardier and more robust. The process of struggle imbues the grapes with a well-rounded, multidimensional character. The challenges those roots encounter establish, shape, and cajole the fruit into a masterful product.

  Likewise, the harsher the environments I served in and the more trying the circumstances, the stronger I became. What I had perceived as a hardship was actually a tremendous gift. And as I would soon come to discover, to whom much is given, much is required.

  [6] “Large Bombings Claim Ever More Lives,” Iraq Body Count, October 4, 2007; Bill Roggio, “Iraq by the Numbers: Graphing the Decrease in Violence,” FDD’s Long War Journal, December 12, 2008.

  By July 2010, our fourth tour had come to a close, and Joseph and I were back stateside. It had been a particularly difficult summer. Joseph’s father had died, and several other family members were facing significant health problems.

  Without question, one of the hardest parts of this job was being taken away from friends and family for months, sometimes years, at a time. Because of the nature of our work, it was so easy to get caught up in the tyranny of the urgent and forget that life was still going on back home without us. Births, graduations, illnesses, deaths—life just had the stubborn nerve to go on while we were half a world away. No amount of training could have prepared us for that.

  I was accustomed to dealing with crises every day, but none of them as painful as losing someone I had loved so dearly, or watching others I cared about suffer so much. The death of Joseph’s father combined with ten years of serving in one war zone after another had taken a heavy toll on both my husband and me. It had gradually and almost imperceptibly affected our relationship and eroded our ability to care for our families. We no longer had a vision for our future, which left us feeling empty and lost.

  As I sat on the couch of our apartment in Virginia on the verge of emotional exhaustion, all I could do was sob. Sometimes I needed a good cry to let all of my emotions out, and this was such a moment—a time when I felt pushed right to the edge and questioned everything. Why does life have to be so hard? The training, the traveling, the culture clashes, the lackluster leadership, the mounds of paperwork, the dangerous living conditions, sources letting us down and lying to our faces, constantly having to prove and defend myself, the separation from friends and family, the marital strain. God, what has this all been for?

  As I started to calm down, I felt God’s Spirit wash over me in a way that words cannot capture. I had cried out to him, and he was there. I felt his presence in a powerful and all-consuming way just when I needed it the most.

  When
the tears finally subsided, I sat in silence, not really knowing what to do or how to feel. I asked God, What do I do now? In the silence, I heard him say, It’s time to share your story.

  I paused for a while, trying to make sense of the idea. And you know what? I couldn’t quite grasp this request.

  But, God, why me? I asked. How would my story help others? I’m not well known or well connected. And finally, I’m not smart enough to do this.

  With loving tenderness that still brings me to tears, he said, I choose you because you have been open to me. You have allowed me to shape you. I don’t need knowledgeable and well-connected people; I need the empty vessels. I need those who will allow me to direct their steps, to mold them for my purposes.

  Well, what could I say? This wasn’t the first time God asked me to do something that was completely intimidating or far outside the scope of my abilities.

  Okay, Lord, I conceded. I’ll do whatever you ask.

  I was completely bewildered. And yet somehow, I felt as if God were preparing me for a new assignment, though I wasn’t sure what it was.

  I hadn’t heard an audible or humanlike voice. The messages from God came to me from deep inside, yet they were separate and distinct from my own musings. They were clear. They were direct. They were personal. And they cut through me like a knife. If God wanted me to share my story, then that’s what I would do.

  As I thought more about what I felt I was being called to do, it occurred to me that God was encouraging me to do much more than just share my story—he was actually leading me away from the CIA. For me to share my story using my actual name, I would have to resign from the agency and request permission to drop my cover. I had no idea whether they’d ever grant such a request due to the sensitivity of our work. It seemed like a scary proposition.

  Meanwhile, Joseph was weary of asking the CIA’s permission to visit family members who lived outside the United States. Security officers had given him the runaround for attending his father’s funeral, even though he had acquired all requisite permissions to do so. In addition, as the only son in a family of Egyptian origin, he had the responsibility of arranging for the care of his mother.

  The security officers told him that they could not support his requests to visit his mother, claiming, “It’s too dangerous for Americans to travel to many parts of the Middle East right now.” At that point, we made a very easy decision: Family was much more important than work. Joseph decided to seek a position elsewhere that would enable him to focus on family obligations. It was becoming quite obvious to both of us that it was time to move on.

  Now, contrary to the popular myth that one can never actually leave the CIA, the truth is, agents can walk out the door anytime they like. There are no restrictions regarding either the years of service required or the timing of their departure. What is terribly difficult is figuring out what to do after leaving. The longer agents are in—unless they are of retirement age—the harder it is to leave.

  Why? Well, imagine trying to find a job when you are in your late thirties and are unable to say what you’ve accomplished in the last ten years of your life. The language the CIA approves for inclusion in a résumé (based on your cover job) says nothing intriguing and would do little (if anything) to help anyone secure a new job. Furthermore, because agents have been sealed off from the world working undercover, it’s not as though they have an active Rolodex of contacts to call on for help, or a professional network to lean on to generate job leads. Without a well-connected family or strong preexisting personal networks, it can be difficult to know where to begin. After all, the agency has a policy that they will neither confirm nor deny a person’s employment, making it difficult for former agents to prove their experience and expertise—even once they’ve received permission to drop their cover.

  I suddenly understood how challenging it must be for prisoners starting anew after spending a significant amount of their lives behind bars. Freedom and integration are hard for people who have lived in a closely monitored and micromanaged bubble. How would Joseph and I deal with the black cloud of our former lives when no one else could understand what we’d been through? How could we compete with others thoroughly ensconced in the real world? How would we start over?

  In addition to those challenges, we needed to figure out what we were qualified to do. How would we market ourselves outside the intelligence bubble? It was like having to figure out all over again what we wanted to do when we grew up.

  In retrospect, ours was an adventurous but sheltered life. We kept our relationships to a minimum because the more international friends we had, the harder it would be to get through the polygraph and security reinvestigations that took place every few years. The more friends we had overseas, the more concerned investigators would be that these relationships could be a counterintelligence flag.

  In addition, CIA officers are not permitted to have contact with journalists, or with members of Congress or their staff. And even though it wasn’t a regulation, Joseph and I also tried to avoid contact with NGO workers, human rights advocates, and clergy, largely because we didn’t want our US government affiliation to bring unwanted scrutiny to their activities or taint them if our cover was ever blown. We didn’t want to give the enemy any reason to believe that these people were CIA officers or agents as well.

  Staying away from people in these professions was not natural for us because in our pre-CIA lives, we were deeply involved in those sectors. Both Joseph and I had worked with humanitarian organizations, human rights groups, and faith-based communities. We were also members of a church and had friends and acquaintances all over Capitol Hill, where we lived when we were in graduate school.

  When our careers at the agency commenced, we had to leave it all behind. To almost all of our friends and professional contacts, it appeared that we’d fallen off the face of the earth. Only a few family members and close friends knew where we were and what we were doing. For everyone else, it was a bit of a mystery.

  While we were quietly going off the grid, the world was moving in the opposite direction, toward greater exposure and connectivity. While we were withdrawing from society and were being trained to fly under the radar, normal citizens were being coaxed by business and culture to put it all out there: The more people knew about you, the more connections you made on LinkedIn or Twitter, the more Facebook friends you had, the better.

  We swam against the current, doing everything possible to fade into the background. In order to reduce our digital footprint, we eschewed social media and limited our web-based activities. We resisted setting up accounts on MySpace, Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram so we didn’t give out too much information about our lives. Just like other CIA officers, we would occasionally google ourselves to be sure nothing came up.

  In addition to limiting our online presence, we kept social interactions to a minimum and were mindful of the content of our phone conversations and e-mail exchanges. We had to assume that all of our communications were being tracked and analyzed by those we were working against. Therefore, we couldn’t take the chance that one of our friends might unwittingly say something that “outed” us or called into question our true affiliation. Even things as seemingly innocuous as photographs could jeopardize our status if the wrong people got access to them and used the electronic time and date stamps to analyze our movements or track our activities. We had to limit our circle of trust to those who could handle the secret.

  This cloak-and-dagger existence continued for ten years. The chasm between the arc of our lives and a normal human existence was further widened by the requirements of having to move every year or two. We were in a continuous state of transition, never able to put down roots. We’d come home once or twice a year, but only long enough to catch our breath before heading back out to the field. Our enormous collection of suitcases got a great deal of wear and tear as we spent an inordinate amount of time on planes and trains and in automobiles.

  As we began to think throug
h the ramifications of actually leaving the agency, I couldn’t help but wonder, Will it even be possible for Joseph and me to have a “normal” life? And if we do, what will that feel like?

  After a decade of uncertainty and chaos, I desperately wanted to experience some constancy again, but I also wondered whether too much stability would smother rather than free us. Much like the character Brooks in The Shawshank Redemption, Joseph and I had become “institutionalized” after ten years with the agency. In the CIA, we were both well-respected experts in our field. We were well traveled, spoke multiple languages, performed well under stress, and had phenomenal people and problem-solving skills. But to the rest of the world . . .

  Then there was the question of whether anything on the outside could satisfy us the way that a national security job at the CIA did. The recidivism rate of officers trying to get out and then returning to the CIA deterred a lot of people from taking the risk. Over the years, Joseph and I had seen several colleagues walk out the door only to return a year or two later because nothing on the outside interested them as much as their work in the Directorate of Operations, no matter what challenges came with it.

  Even when they had to deal with poor management, a lack of effective leadership, or cutthroat colleagues, many officers found that their identity was inextricably linked to being an intelligence officer and working for the CIA. The idea of not having access to top-secret information, not being the first to know about hot topics, and not having insider knowledge of counterterrorism and foreign affairs issues was too much to bear. Let’s face it: The experience of working with a group that helped shape the most interesting headlines in the world was hard to replicate elsewhere.

  Joseph and I had both become addicted to serving in positions where we could see the immediate impact of our work and the fruit of our labor. We had also become adrenaline junkies. After we’d spent so much of our careers in hot zones, it would be hard to let go of jobs that put us front and center in the war on terror. Where else would we receive immediate feedback from consumers regarding the quality of our work or the efficacy of our intelligence? Could any other job be as stimulating? Could any other career take us to the edge as the CIA had? Would it be possible to find anything, outside the confines of intelligence, in which we could have such meaning and purpose? How could anything compete with the head-spinning experiences of being undercover officers in the CIA?