Breaking Cover Read online

  Approximately two-thirds of the way into the second leg, as I was traversing a severe dip in the terrain and crossing a narrow valley that cut between two steep hills, I suddenly stepped into a stream that I could not see beneath a thin layer of ice and snow. I quickly pulled my foot out of the freezing water, but despite my military-style combat boots, my foot was soaked. Even worse than the cold water stinging my frozen toes, I could not figure out how to get past the creek. With all that snow, it was hard to determine an appropriate crossing point. So . . . I moved farther upstream to a place where the creek was not as wide and crossed it, carefully maneuvering on slippery stones and decaying tree trunks lying in the muck.

  I had safely crossed the stream, but I had also made a mistake. By wandering off course to find a crossing point, I had lost my bearings. Every time I tried to set a course, I found myself facing a different direction. Which way is north? I wondered. Is the compass broken? Am I misreading it? My pulse picked up, and I started to get nervous. But I fought back the fear of helplessness, knowing that I had to be calm in order to get myself back on track. It’s no big deal, I reassured myself. You just need to focus. In the midst of the mental chaos, I almost forgot that my foot was quickly freezing into a block of ice.

  After carefully considering the land features around me in relation to the detailed physical map we had been given, I tried once again to establish the direction I should be heading in. Pushing the frustration out of my head, I tried to be decisive and set off toward a series of steep, undulating hills. After twenty minutes of plodding through difficult terrain, I clambered up the last hill hoping to see the red barrel marking the next waypoint. But there was nothing—just empty forest. I wandered around the area for another twenty minutes desperately looking for that barrel, but I could not find it.

  I prayed and prayed. Then I panicked. I couldn’t imagine backtracking all the way to the stream. It had taken so much energy to get to where I was now standing. Even if I return to the babbling brook, how will I change course? I had been so confused. I don’t know what I was doing wrong, but I could not get a good read from that compass. I wished I had someone to consult, but it was just me, myself, and I in the vast, swampy forest. The snow made it eerily quiet, which further isolated and deflated me. I had no idea what to do.

  That was the moment when I considered the very last resort—throwing my hands up in the air in defeat and blowing the whistle. We’d been told to use the whistle if we were lost or hurt. It might take a while for the instructors to hear it through the thick forest, but someone would eventually find me.

  Failing the land navigation exercise did not mean I would fail the entire program. The paramilitary courses were supplemental and had no bearing on our graduation from the clandestine training program. Still, not making it through land navigation training would be embarrassing, and giving up after only one barrel would make me look like a fool.

  I reluctantly put the whistle up to my mouth and sat motionless for a few seconds, trying to get the courage to blow it. Turns out, I couldn’t bear to go down in defeat so early in the exercise. Even though I was thoroughly lost, I didn’t want to embarrass myself by showing the instructors I couldn’t make it to the second waypoint.

  Out of sheer desperation, I set a course in a random direction and started walking, all the while thinking of that television show I Shouldn’t Be Alive. All these silly people kept wandering farther and farther off-course. The more they walked, the more lost they became. Next thing you know, they were hanging on to the edge of a cliff freezing to death. (Okay, so maybe I wasn’t that desperate, but I was lost—and thoroughly confused.)

  With images of death running through my mind, I was stunned when, ten steps later, I pushed through the forest wall and tripped onto asphalt. Just like that. I felt like I had just emerged from the crowded darkness of the wardrobe into beautiful, magical Narnia. All that drama, and I had been only steps from a well-trodden road.

  Seconds earlier, I had almost given up. But now I knew exactly where I was. I finally had a sense of direction. It took only about ten more minutes to reenter the forest and find the second barrel. Thanks to my training, I had successfully fought off the panic trying to push its way into my mind and kept moving. In the end, that’s what saved me and enabled me to complete the exercise—the simple strategy of putting one foot in front of the other.

  Now that I’d mastered the fine art of walking, my training was finally complete.

  I was ready to take on the world.

  In December 2002, after a year’s worth of blood, sweat, and tears, I successfully passed the CIA’s clandestine training program. By February 2003, I also completed the optional paramilitary training program. That was it. I was done. I was officially a member of the Directorate of Operations, ready to get to work as a CIA intelligence officer.

  Joseph, having started his training before me, had just completed his first six-month assignment, while I finished up the last half of my training. While most of my colleagues were scheduled to spend a year or two at headquarters preparing for their overseas tours, I was slated to go to the field right away. As it happens, there was an immediate need for two agents in █████. Fortunately for the CIA, Joseph and I were both familiar with the Middle East, we both spoke Arabic, we were both cleared for duty, and, unlike most of the other agents, we were willing to go just about anywhere.

  We were scheduled to deploy in April. As a result, the month of March was a mad rush to prepare for the big move. We set to work immediately, sifting through all of our belongings. Whatever hadn’t been sold or given away was packed up by a moving service a week before we were scheduled to fly out of Washington Dulles International Airport.

  The packers emptied the house of all its contents over the course of two days. It happened so quickly I barely had time to process the magnitude of this international move. By 4 p.m. on the second day, the packing was almost complete, and Joseph and I stood in the front yard of our townhouse in Alexandria, Virginia, watching as the last few items were stuffed inside the moving trucks. We signed the paperwork, and then—quite unceremoniously—the two trucks slowly pulled away from the curb.

  As I watched the moving trucks make their way down the street, it suddenly hit me: This is it! There is no turning back now. We were completely committed. Those trucks were hauling away the remnants of our old civilian lives. We now stood on the precipice of a lifestyle and career that we could barely conceive—a new country, new culture, new jobs, new boss, new colleagues, new house . . . one of the few constants in our lives would be each other.

  My eyes welled up with tears, a rare emotional moment when I acknowledged the enormity of this sudden change. I swallowed hard and asked Joseph, “Is that it?” Joseph put his arm around me as the tears rolled down my cheeks.

  “I know.” He tried in vain to comfort me. “I know. It’s hard, but we’re going to be okay. We’ll be fine.”

  I had to let go—let go of my earthly possessions, my family, my friends. I was releasing everything I knew for everything I did not. I had to trust God. I had to move forward, as intimidating and scary as it was. I had to keep it together.

  That night we checked into a local hotel, where we’d remain until we got the final go-ahead to board our flight out of Washington Dulles. That was the beginning of our nomadic existence, which would continue for the next fourteen years.

  Of course, there was more to our transition than a simple change of address. Going undercover is a strange and complicated process that essentially involves . . . well, frankly, disappearing.

  We were allowed to tell immediate family members our true affiliation, but only if we felt certain that they could bear the burden of knowing and protecting this secret information. In other words, if your mom was a talker who would be so terribly proud that she’d want to shout from the rooftops that you were working as a covert counterterrorism specialist overseas in ██████, then you probably shouldn’t tell her. Or if Dad was a wo
rrier and knowing this information would mean he’d spend the next two decades glued to the television, certain that you were going to show up on the evening news (and not in a good way), then maybe you shouldn’t tell him.

  As for me, most of my immediate family knew. They were very proud, but they were also concerned for our safety, as our expertise in the Middle East meant we were likely to be sent from one war zone to another. They did their best to hide their concerns from us, but I know it wasn’t easy for them. Naturally, they became avid consumers of news coming from the region, and they prayed . . . often. And, of course, they sent us care packages and stepped in to bear the burden of taking care of our mail and helping to manage our personal affairs while we were away. My sister, Julie, had a real estate power of attorney, which enabled her to buy and manage a rental property (on our behalf) while we were abroad. My dad had a general power of attorney for all other matters. And before we left the United States for our first tour, we presented both of them with a notebook containing important personal data: bank account numbers, safe deposit box keys, and a copy of our wills (which I’m sure comforted them immensely). And in case of emergency, the CIA had their contact information and knew whom to inform if anything happened to us.

  Hours before we left our hotel in Tysons Corner, Virginia, we called several members of our family to let them know we were about to depart. I told my dad, Art, and stepmom, Crystal, “I love you both so much. Thanks for being there with us every step of the way. We really appreciate it.”

  My dad’s voice sounded a bit tentative. I could tell he wanted to be positive and was doing his best to hide his concerns. “Of course we’re sad you’re leaving, but you know we’ll be praying for you every day,” he said. “We know you probably won’t be able to get in touch right away, but let us know, as soon as you can, that you made it.” As usual, he was supportive. If my parents had any doubts, they didn’t say anything. Whatever concerns they had, they must have laid them at the feet of God.

  Julie had offered to send treats from home, including anything we had forgotten or couldn’t find at our new posting. “I can’t wait to hear what you think of █████. I know it’s scary, but you’ll do great. You’ll rise to the challenge as you always do. Write us when you can. We will be anxiously awaiting your updates.”

  “Thanks, honey. I’ll call or write as soon as I’m able. I don’t know how well the telephone system or Internet works on that end, but we’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Please be careful, Shell.”

  “Of course I will. I love you, Sissie.”

  Hanging up was difficult. I didn’t want the conversations to end. I swallowed hard and tried not to cry. I had no idea when I’d see my family again or how often we’d get to talk. Minutes later, Joseph and I loaded our bags into the taxi and headed to the airport.

  After a very long flight, I looked out the plane’s window as we descended toward boulders, rocky outcrops, and huge craters. The dusty brown landscape below us seemed devoid of life, and it felt as if we were infringing on a private space, like astronauts flying in to set up shop on the dark side of the moon. The tiny dots of civilization nestled in the majestically folded mountains were the only evidence that we were still tethered to planet Earth.

  As the plane made its final approach to the small international airport, the feeling creeping up on me was not what I expected. Instead of the normal excitement I felt when traveling to new places, I felt a deep and foreboding sense of isolation. Joseph and I stared out the windows of the airplane at our new surroundings, then looked at each other with pensive and slightly worried expressions.

  Feeling a mounting sense of anxiety, I questioned the wisdom of agreeing to serve in this place for our first tour. Putting words to the jumbled thoughts in our cloudy minds, I asked rhetorically, “What have we done?”

  Neither one of us could answer. All we could do was survey the ground and wonder what we had embarked upon.

  Extensive jet lag and exhaustion from thirty-three hours of travel and transit were doing us no favors. It made the first glimpses of our new home feel quite jarring. The country was nearly in its natural state . . . a wild, unbridled beauty. The lack of development contrasted starkly with all that we were familiar with: the sprawling metropolis of Cairo, the bustling Marrakech souk, or the nouveau riche skylines of the Gulf Arab states. We’d been all over the Middle East, but despite our familiarity with the region, we were unprepared to live so far off the grid. The reclusive nature of our new environment—simple, small villages separated by deep gullies and miles of dirt roads, with limited infrastructure—engendered doubt about my ability to adjust to this new place. Despite extensive travel in the area, I simply had no frame of reference for what I was about to experience.

  I couldn’t blame anyone but myself. When Joseph and his buddies had been discussing potential first tours and saying how cool this country must be, I’d responded, “Well, why don’t we go there?”

  He looked at me like I was crazy and asked, “You’d be willing to serve in █████?”

  “Why not?” I said.

  There were two slots available in the CIA station for people with our skill sets, so it sounded like a good idea. For headquarters it was a coup since few officers were willing to go to █████. Plus, they got two Arabists for the price of one.

  The other distinct advantage to serving here was that the deployment was to occur a month or two after my graduation from training. This was something every officer desired, but was rarely able to arrange. But staff in █████ were desperate to fill the two slots and asked headquarters to send us out as quickly as possible. That’s why when we arrived at the tiny airport with one barely functioning luggage carousel, we were shocked that no one was waiting to receive us, as is customary in the clandestine service. Joseph used his new cell phone to get in touch with our point of contact. This person, in turn, made some calls and found out that we had somehow been forgotten. Someone at the office eventually secured a driver to retrieve us from the airport.

  We had learned weeks before that our residence was not yet ready for occupancy, so the driver took us to the one hotel in the capital city that had sufficient security to house Americans and other Westerners. This temporary arrangement was not ideal or even close to it. Living out of a hotel for a month or two—even in the United States—would be hard. But doing so in this part of the world? Very challenging. Adding to the difficulty of moving six suitcases and four carry-ons into one small room was the fact that the hotel turned out to be a relic of another era. It was dark, decrepit, and in a state of disrepair.

  After we crammed ourselves into the dusty room, our contact told us not to go anywhere. Al-Qa’ida had just threatened to attack US and other foreign interests in the capital, so the embassy had warned American citizens to avoid going into the city or moving around too much. As I recall, we arrived on a Thursday morning, and at that time, weekends in that country were Thursdays and Fridays. We were instructed to keep a low profile and stay in the hotel all weekend. After giving us this unfortunate news, our contact provided us with the emergency telephone number for the marine guard force at the US embassy, and then left.

  Talk about feeling trapped and deflated. There was no television and spotty (if any) Internet, and the food was barely edible. I consider myself fairly adaptable, but this new situation strained my usually optimistic self.

  Given the lack of options and the need to fight a serious dose of jet lag, we decided to do the very thing we had been warned against: explore the old city. We were bored beyond tears and wanted to get a sense of the place that would serve as our home for the next two years. It was, after all, one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world, a cultural and architectural icon that we had read about and were dying to see firsthand. So I put on my most conservative clothes, and we took a taxi from the hotel to the entrance of the old city.

  Stepping out of the car was like stepping out of a time mach
ine. It wasn’t long before everyone within eyeshot was unapologetically staring at me, like I was Marty McFly in Back to the Future emerging from a DeLorean in 1955. Having been the target of much staring in the Middle East, I was used to being the center of attention. But for some reason, I felt more out of place than ever. I dropped my eyes to the ground, trying to avoid eye contact with the men, as they would literally turn their heads to watch the alien woman walk by.

  As we navigated through winding dirt streets and moved deeper into the souk, or marketplace, I started to notice spray-painted graffiti (in Arabic) that read, “Death to America. Death to Israel. May God curse the Jews.” The message had been applied to doors, walls, and storefronts.

  Realizing the level of hostility that the people in this area might harbor toward Americans, Joseph whispered to me, “No English.” I complied. He then spoke to me in heavily accented Lebanese Arabic, most of which I didn’t understand. But I pretended like I was completely engaged in the conversation. In order to hide my American-accented Arabic, I limited my responses to na’am (“yes”) and occasional head nods, pretending I was a native speaker of the language.

  The obvious point of this exercise was to hide the fact that we were the potential targets of those signs. Joseph could get away with this easily. The locals would never take him for an American with his dark hair and olive-colored skin. They would assume he was from a neighboring (and friendly) country. For me, the ruse was more difficult due to my very Western appearance, but the goal was to pass for a light-skinned Lebanese national.

  We continued “chatting” quietly in Arabic, cutting short our dalliance in the historic district, leaving behind mosques, hammams (bathhouses), and homes dating back to the eleventh century. We made our way out of the souk’s maze to a paved road where we could hail a taxi.

  We returned to the dank and musty hotel with its numerous layers of security. Most Western government officials and businesspeople used this property, so there was a dedicated security staff to check the undersides and trunks of vehicles for explosives, which included the use of a swab to check for TNT, TATP, and other chemicals used by bomb makers.