Breaking Cover Read online

  In spite of my enthusiasm to follow God’s leading, I experienced a moment of self-doubt. Can we even make it on the outside?

  There was no question that leaving the agency required an enormous leap of faith. On top of everything else, on a more practical level it would also mean letting go of a government job that paid well, took care of our housing costs, and was stable, regardless of political leadership or shifts in the economy.

  Thankfully, I’d had sufficient life experience to know that God’s plans are always better than mine. His ways may confound me, but they have always been in my best interest and have always taken me where I need to go. I had never questioned God’s leading before, and I had no intention of starting now. His urging was clear. It was time for me to leave the agency.

  Ironically, just as Joseph began his career with the CIA several months before I did, he also left before I did to see if he could make a go of it. Ten years prior, we had entered into this wild adventure together. Now we were about to embark on another one. And once again, we had no idea what lay ahead.

  About a year after I’d heard God’s call to tell my story, as I signed the paperwork required to leave the CIA, I swallowed hard. The security officer reminded me that I was legally obligated to continue protecting my cover and all of the secret information I had read, processed, and been involved with over the course of my career.

  He also reminded me that if I chose to return to the CIA, I’d have to redo the polygraph and background investigation since it had been years since my last reinvestigation. The very thought of going through all of that again made my head hurt.

  Acknowledging the rules and regulations he had laid out, I verbally agreed and noted I had no further questions regarding my security clearances or reactivation requirements. In my mind, I was clear on what was to happen. There was no coming back. This was it. Once I walked away, I would not return.

  On my last day, with a heavy heart, I hugged my colleagues good-bye and wished them well. I hated leaving them—they were the iron that sharpens iron, and I felt less of a person without them. Then I grabbed my purse and a small box of personal items and exited the vault, which is what we called our secured work area. As I took the elevator to the main floor and walked toward the turnstiles, I remembered the feeling of awe and wonder I’d had when I first entered this grand hall. I’d had no idea what was in store for me back then. For that matter, I had no idea what was in store for me now.

  My final act of separation from this great entity occurred as I exited the turnstiles and turned around to hand my badge to the security officer. It had rested comfortably around my neck for a decade, and I felt naked without it. Quite unceremoniously, I surrendered the identity card that bore the image of my smiling face (yet was curiously lacking in name or agency affiliation). Then the sliding glass doors opened, and I walked out of the CIA forever. The agency that I had risked my life for, that I had defended, and whose identity had become inextricably linked with my own, was now behind me.

  Without question, I was a very different person from the woman who had walked through the same doors almost exactly ten years before. It was hard to believe how much I had seen and experienced during that decade. This was the place where I had discovered myself. This was where I’d uncovered my gifts, where I’d figured out what I was really good at. It was the place where I had experienced the depth and breadth of God’s grace and provisions through some of the darkest and most difficult moments of my life.

  As I walked toward my car, I was flooded with a slew of mixed emotions: sadness at closing this great chapter, relief at having made it this far, and guarded anticipation for my future.

  And yet I was confident in my decision. I had heard from God. I knew it was time to go. With a heavy but hopeful heart, I threw up my arms and jumped off the cliff. It was at once terrifying and exhilarating.

  Only God knew where I would land.

  After ten years of having our entire lives mapped out for us, Joseph and I now faced the daunting task of figuring out our next move—on our own. Sadly, we could count on one hand the number of professional (non-CIA) contacts we had kept up with throughout the years. As it happens, one of the few people with whom we were able to maintain a relationship was a former boss of Joseph’s. A highly respected human rights attorney, she quickly connected us with another attorney, who then connected us with a former US government contractor named David. He was looking for “security experts” to do freelance consulting work.

  Having worked in the counterterrorism world himself, David understood how hard it is for people to come out after having served so long undercover. And because he had an intimate understanding of the intelligence sector, he didn’t require cleared résumés or detailed summaries of our personal accomplishments. He understood where we were coming from and believed in us from the start. Once again, God was looking out for us.

  David provided the perfect platform for us to pivot out from the shadows and into the civilian world. He threw numerous projects our way and referred potential clients to us, and before long, we were doing freelance work for a variety of organizations.

  As security consultants, we put our intelligence officer skills to use conducting due diligence investigations, giving personal security training, leading corporate fraud investigations, assisting with logistics needs in dangerous parts of the world, providing infrastructure security evaluations, and offering terrorism assessments. We also helped law firms investigate complex cases in the Arab world, compiled risk assessments for multinational corporations looking to expand their operations in potentially hostile areas, and designed plans to rescue employees trapped in hostage situations.

  Every project was different. Some were interesting and gave us a deep sense of satisfaction, while others were demanding and difficult—largely due to clients levying unrealistic or impossible objectives on us. Because of our background, a few clients labored under the gross misconception that Joseph and I had a secret bevy of superpowers that we could use on their behalf. Still other clients—no matter how many times we told them that we were no longer employed by the US government—falsely assumed that we had “special connections” we could use to help them out. They thought we were capable of executing all kinds of voodoo to advance their cause. Imagine their disappointment when they came to discover that Joseph and I were not, in fact, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, superspies, but instead just Joseph and Michele Assad, hardworking everyday Joes.

  As we established a track record of success, our client base increased. It wasn’t easy and it didn’t come quickly, but it was nice to actually have a “normal” life again. We had been so used to living within the confines of a CIA existence that we had forgotten what it felt like to be on our own. And contrary to my fear that I would desperately miss the excitement of the CIA, I was happy to finally relax. Ten years of living and working in war zones had taken their toll. We needed to decompress from working long hours, weekends, and holidays. We needed to breathe.

  Granted, it wasn’t a deep breath. Not long after leaving the CIA, Joseph and I were hired by a consulting firm in Abu Dhabi that served the security interests of large multinational corporations, small businesses, and individual clients in Asia, Europe, Africa, and . . . the Middle East. That’s right—the Assads were headed back to the Middle East.

  We spent the next four years living and working in Abu Dhabi in the United Arab Emirates (UAE). Located on the eastern side of the Arabian Peninsula on a little piece of land that juts out into the Persian Gulf, the tip of the UAE is less than a hundred miles from Iran. The tiny country shares a border with Saudi Arabia and Oman, and because of its location, the UAE serves as a crossroads to the world’s great capitals in Africa, Asia, and Europe. A natural transit point for continent-jumping businesspeople, it was the perfect place for us to set up shop.

  Rising majestically like a mirage in the sands, its skylines glistening in the sunlight against the backdrop of a desert landscape and the dazzling turquoise waters of the
Persian Gulf, the UAE was by far the most comfortable, in terms of living standards and culture, of all the places I’ve lived in the Middle East.

  While Dubai grabs the most attention from the media, Abu Dhabi is, in fact, the capital of the UAE. It heads up a federation of seven emirates or city-states that also include Dubai, Sharjah, Ajman, Fujairah, Umm al-Quwain, and Ras al-Khaimah. Each emirate is led by a different shaykh and has its own unique character. While the UAE is modern in terms of its infrastructure, the UAE’s business, commerce, and political cultures are governed by a complicated web of tribal allegiances and family relationships. It is very difficult for foreigners to understand these relationships and the decision-making processes that govern the UAE’s affairs.

  The UAE is a young country, having been established by the late president Shaykh Zayed bin Sultan al-Nahyan in 1971. Shaykh Zayed encouraged the small, underdeveloped emirates to establish a federation. The tribal leaders of each emirate agreed to move forward together, realizing they were stronger as a unified nation than they would be on their own. Shaykh Zayed had a strong vision for the UAE’s future, investing extensively in education and infrastructure.

  Though the UAE is about the size of Scotland or the state of Maine, its proven oil reserves are the eighth largest in the world, and its proven natural gas reserves are the seventh largest.[7]

  The UAE is a feast for the senses: highways abuzz with fast cars, the world’s most innovative architecture, world-class restaurants, and hotels with cutting-edge design. For many, the UAE is the height of luxury.

  Of course, Joseph and I enjoyed having a front seat to the ritziness and the glamour. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling of emptiness that seemed to envelop me while living there. I missed my family and friends. I missed my country and my culture.

  Business was doing well, but it felt like something was off. During our time in the Emirates, I wasn’t entirely sure where Joseph and I were headed. While praying about it and asking God why he had us in the UAE, I felt him impress this on me: You asked me for a break, and I’ve given you one. You asked me for time to catch your breath—and here it is. I’ve brought you to the desert—literally and figuratively—to prepare you for your future. Use this downtime to connect with me. I will fill up the places where you feel empty. Don’t worry about your future; just focus on me.

  From that moment on, I went out of my way to concentrate on God, and to reach out to him in the middle of that desert. Even though I missed home, I was full of gratitude for his love and provision. I was thankful for the time he’d given us to heal and to be restored after ten years of living at the speed of light. I’d been so used to fighting: fighting the clock, fighting the burden of an overwhelming amount of work, fighting the bureaucracy, fighting exhaustion, fighting my own fears, and fighting to stay alive.

  We had finally emerged from a career that broke many officers and split families due to the immense stress of working in the intelligence sector. We’d been set free from ten years of immersion in the war on terror. We’d come out into the light and were beginning to live again. I might not have been home in the United States, but I could finally relax.

  As Joseph and I continued to build our clientele, we explored how our unique skill sets could be used in a variety of contexts that we had not previously considered.

  Naturally, my presence in meetings continued to surprise male interlocutors who often assumed I was the note taker or secretary before finding out I was one of the firm’s consultants. I even participated in meetings held in offices with no restrooms for women because the company’s entire workforce was male. And because it was the Middle East, after I’d been served coffee and tea all morning, I ended up having to use the men’s restroom while the male CEO stood out in the hall to make sure nobody else walked in. That wasn’t embarrassing . . . at all.

  Just as during my time in the CIA, a handful of people in the security industry underestimated me because I was a woman. And once again, I was able to use that to my advantage. My favorite example of this was during a dinner with friends in March 2014.

  A Polish businessman named Aleksy invited us to dinner in Dubai, requesting a special favor of us. In addition to a few other friends, Aleksy had asked a business contact named Sunny to join us. Sunny was the representative of a private investment firm based out of Bahrain. He boasted of obtaining a 2.5 percent monthly return for his clients over the course of seventeen years, and now he had pitched Aleksy about a timely investment opportunity. Apparently, a rare block of investments had opened up, and the firm was willing to take $300 million for a special fund focused on emerging markets in Asia. Aleksy was tempted to place a little money in the fund but wasn’t quite sure whether the claims of such steady returns were possible, so he wanted our assessment of Sunny and the company he represented.

  The whole group was in on our little secret. I knew it was going to be fun when Sunny pranced into the room with an ego the size of a float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. He acted like he was a regular at the restaurant, winking at the hostess, who flashed him an annoyed expression that said, Ew. Creep. You’re not a regular. I don’t know you. He was loud and obnoxious, greeting everyone like he was their favorite uncle.

  When I saw that much ego, that quickly, I knew he was going to be a talker. If you put me in front of a talker, I can elicit all kinds of goodies—and thank goodness, because my substantive expertise is not in international investments or emerging markets. Just as with Mansur and Ahmad back in Iraq, I would have to rely on basic common sense and my ability to read nonverbal cues to figure out whether Sunny and his investment opportunity were legit.

  After initial introductions, we all sat down in the swanky bar atop Dubai’s Grosvenor House Hotel. Aleksy introduced Sunny to the group, which included a Polish couple, two Czech citizens, one Indian, and two Americans (me and Joseph). Sunny wasn’t given any details about our backgrounds or experience. He just knew we were casual acquaintances of his potential client, originally from the United States.

  Sunny got off to a good start. He pulled out his cell phone and flashed a picture of a gorgeous motorcycle gleaming with chrome that he said he’d just bought at Bike Week in Daytona Beach, Florida. He told everybody how he’d dropped a hundred grand on this Harley, clearly working hard to impress his audience with his spending power and “cool factor.” He obviously had no idea that of all the places in the world, Joseph and I were from central Florida and had a home in the Daytona Beach area. He really could not have imagined that he’d picked a topic about which these two random Americans had a great deal of knowledge. In order to keep Sunny talking, we played along, oohing and aahing at the images of the bike (none of which actually included him).

  Then we asked, “What kind of Harley is that?”

  Sunny looked a little surprised before he replied, “It’s something like a Fat Boy.” And there it was: the first verbal indication that Mr. Sunny was probably lying about the bike. He used a key qualifier that indicated he wasn’t sure of his answer: “something like.” He spent that much money on a bike but couldn’t specify the model? Anybody who buys expensive bikes or cool cars immediately tells you the make and model because that’s what everyone wants to know. It’s important when you’re assessing someone to listen very carefully to his or her words. A lot of clues to someone’s veracity can be buried in one response.

  Then we asked, “Where did you buy this incredible Harley?”

  He responded, “At the Harley dealership.”

  We said, “There are so many Harley dealerships in the area; which one was it?”

  If you live in central Florida and you care about motorcycles, then you will know where all the Harley dealerships are (which we do). And if someone had just paid $100,000 for a motorcycle, might that person remember the specific dealership where he’d made this major purchase? Our query was followed by a pregnant pause. Sunny didn’t expect that question.

  Sunny looked surprised. He asked, “Why, do you know
the area?”

  “Yes,” we conceded, “we’ve been there a few times.”

  He stumbled a bit before answering the question, saying, “Ah, you know, the main one . . . on the main strip.”

  He then backtracked a little, saying he’d bought the Harley but left it behind at the dealership, and he couldn’t remember the exact location. He tugged at his collar, looking as if it had suddenly gotten very tight around his neck—classic nonverbal behavior called the “hangman’s noose” that suggests extreme discomfort with the line of questioning.

  Over the next hour or so, I elicited an incredible amount of damning information from Sunny. Every time he opened his mouth, he dug himself into a deeper hole. He was not able to talk about his wildly successful private equity firm for more than a minute without running into a wall and being unable to answer extremely basic questions. And my questions were not sophisticated by any measure. I know next to nothing about private equity firms, the structure of investments, or expected rates of return. But I did find it a stretch that a money manager with no Internet profile or online presence had allegedly obtained a return for all of his clients at the rate of 2.5 percent per month—for seventeen years, despite several downturns in the economy.

  When asked what kind of fund he was raising monies for, Sunny responded, “Emerging markets.”

  I asked, “Emerging markets where?”