The Jihadi Bar

Oh, you who believe! Wine, games of chance . . . are nothing but an abomination of Satan’s work. Stay away from them; perhaps then you will be happy.

—Koran, Sura 5.92

An XXXX ratty box with a picture of Usama Bin Ladin on it served as a till behind the bar. I had just put my dollar in for my Diet Coke and was about to sit down, when an officer behind me with a Boston accent said, “What house did you live in?”

“House?” I had no idea what he was talking about. He pointed to my Harvard sweatshirt.

“Yeah, what house at Harvard?” “House” is Harvard’s term for dorm. Now I understood.

“Eliot.”

“Did you know Mike Kirrane?”

I moved my head back in surprise. Mike Kirrane and I had played hockey together at Harvard. I hadn’t thought of his name in twenty-five years. The fellow who had approached me was one of the security officers who would escort me wherever I went. Like everyone in the bar, he was dressed in desert tan combat clothes. There was a pile of equipment against one wall of the bar. We started to talk, leaning on the bar. He and Kirrane both grew up in Milton, Massachusetts. The security officer had gone to Milton High School, the public school in town; Kirrane to Milton Academy, a prestigious prep school there. Growing up, I had played hockey against them both, as my hometown was only a few miles away.

The security officer called over to a sofa. “Hey, Tom! This guy is from Brookline!” A young guy in his early twenties looked up from his beer and came to the bar. Another Bostonian. He introduced himself: “Tom Weston.” The name seemed vaguely familiar. I searched my memory, and we engaged in the normal do-you-know chat. He was incongruously young and deferential, surrounded as we were by tired but boisterous and case-hardened men. He said that his mother had gone to my high school, and we worked out to my growing surprise that she had graduated in my class.

“Really?” I said, my eyebrows arching. “What was her name then?”

“Wendy Weston.”

“Weston? Wendy Weston?”

“Yeah, that’s her.”

I was amazed. I was also really tired, a little giddy, and more facetious than I intended.

“Gosh,” I said. “Now I remember her. She was good-looking. . . . I think I went out with her. . . . She was really good!” Everyone laughed and I hurried to say, “No, no. I didn’t go out with her. I didn’t mean that. But I remember her. She was cute.”

The security officer from Milton said, laughing, “You might have gone to Harvard, but you aren’t very smart. We’re all armed, you aren’t, and you’re talking about one of our guys’ mothers.” More laughter. “Yeah,” he continued. “She was cute. I’ve seen the pictures of his mother at his house.”

Then I remembered a little better.

“Wait a minute. I do remember. I didn’t go out with her. But my best friend did. Patrick von Huene. My best friend did go out with her. He took her to the prom, I think. I dunno. But he did go out with her.”

I marveled at the circumstance: my past from thirty years earlier, a Harvard hockey teammate, and a girl with whom I had gone to high school and who dated my best friend—found at the end of an astounding trek taken clandestinely, with almost no one in the world aware of where I was, in a bar with weathered security officers. I sat down with the officers and spent the night telling and hearing war stories, a dozen tired men with scraggly beards, drawn features, and fatigue lines slanting down from our eyes.

At Point Zero, you worked nonstop, you slept when you could, or you went to the Jihadi Bar for a drink. There was nothing else to do, everyone was tired, and there was nowhere else to go. The bar was a dump, with run-down everything, but welcoming in the way of a college frat house. One could drink alcohol there, XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXX, talk, or just sit. There was a sound system, and a lot of country music, played too loud and sounding tinny. There was no television or radio, just a few plush chairs and sofas, a couple coffee tables, a dilapidated pool table, and the bar, lit by the ubiquitous weak and bare overhead bulbs. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXX. It looked better and had a warmer atmosphere at night, when the dimness and hour—and one’s fatigue—made it feel comfortable. In the day, one noticed the stale cigarette smells, frayed furniture, stains, and the ramshackle, untended feel to the place. There was no staff. The logistics guys stocked the refrigerator behind the bar, and people paid into the metal box till on the honor system.

The security officers commented on their work and told tall tales, like all men in groups or teams. One told a story about the building, which had the recent arrivals among us staring at him, wide-eyed. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX. We all wondered what the cellar had been used for, and of course imagined the worst. I passed by it twenty times a day. But I never had time to go look during my time at Point Zero and felt the irony was a little too acidic, in any event, given my own work. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXX. I had little to say during this part of the conversation.

Many predecessors had left their testimonials on the walls, in a variety of hands and pens.

“Quick! I need a helo to go swimming + sightseeing in XXXXXX.”

“It’s God’s responsibility to forgive these assholes. It’s our responsibility to arrange the meeting.—XXXXX ’02”

“Ideas can be argued with . . . Convictions are best shot. T. E. Lawrence—Tony M.”

“Send money, guns, and lawyers, cuz the shit has hit the fan.”

“Okay, who did I piss off to end up here? XXXXXXX”

There were several testimonials on the walls from soldiers XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX. But there was pride and anger whispered, and sometimes expressed about Operation Anaconda, along with curses for General Tommy Franks, behind the closed doors of the DO offices involved directly in the joint XXXXXXXX and intelligence work Gary Berntsen wrote about in his book, Jawbreaker. I had heard them at Headquarters as I was being read into my CAPTUS case, and as I went about my other business with colleagues. DO officers felt the greatest respect and camaraderie for the XXXXXXXXXX colleagues from other parts of the government with whom they worked.

The anger was at Franks and Donald Rumsfeld, whose meddling, in the view of the senior DO officers who spoke to me about Afghan operations when the United States destroyed the Taliban regime in 2001–2002, had denied the Agency and the forces in the field adequate support to make Operation Anaconda a success, thereby allowing Bin Ladin to escape, turning what could have been the decisive engagement of the war into a near miss. Some asserted that the issue was higher military’s, specifically Rumsfeld’s, unwillingness to play a supporting role to Agency field recommendations concerning lethal or combat operations. As a result, several operations in which we had terrorist targets literally in our sites were stopped at the last moment, allowing the unsuspecting terrorists to continue their daily rounds, the occasion gone. Opportunities like those come rarely in intelligence work, and our frustration and even contempt was commensurate to the bureaucratic pettiness that put one institution’s “control” ahead of effective clandestine operations in time of war. Others expressed anger at Franks’s command, characterizing him as an artillery officer who lacked the creativity necessary for senior command of what was fundamentally unconventional or irregular warfare. “Franks was a terrible leader,” one senior officer said to me before I started the CAPTUS operation, suddenly sharp in tone. “One of the worst I ever dealt with. Do not look to him for lessons in leadership.”1

Behind and beside the bar was a collection of old military equipment, flotsam picked up randomly. A number of varied helmets sat on the shelves where one usually sees bottles of scotch and vodka. In a bizarre juxtaposition, I idly handled one in particular while I talked with the security officer about his mother—my high school friend’s prom date; it XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXX.

The last of us went to our bunks about 2 a.m. I noted one more aphorism on the walls as I left the bar:

“The only easy day was yesterday.”

Outside the bar, guards pulling night duty stood and shifted from side to side to stay warm. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX. All listened and stared out into the thick fog, the silence, and the dark. Beyond the compound walls, at night, no good things made noises or moved.

1 I note that I have no personal knowledge of Franks’s qualities.