During my time at the Mission we’d been through Lee the lone RSO, then take-no-shit Rosie and her team, and now Justin and his guys. As soon as one group learned the ropes they were gone and all seemed forgotten. I was convinced these short rotations contributed massively to the painfully slow pace of change. What the Embassy needed was some real permanence, but it wasn’t about to get it: the new team was scheduled to be yet another month rotation.
I was fully expecting matters to be the same again—that we’d have to relearn all the lessons from scratch—but I was going to be pleasantly surprised. The lead RSO was a guy called Jeff Palmers. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, he had a completely shaved head, and in appearance and attitude he reminded me of a cool, laid-back surfer dude. He wasn’t ex-military, but he’d worked as an RSO in Yemen and just about every other hellhole you could imagine, and Jeff really knew his shit.
He also had a very dry and wicked sense of humor. “So, I hear you’re a big fan of the QRF?” Those were practically his opening words to me. “I hear you’ve taught them everything they know?”
I smiled. “Yeah, I’m their greatest fan. The Seventeenth February Mutant Ninja Turtles Militia—coming to a shopping mall near you soon.”
“Seriously, though, I’ve been made aware you do not trust them?” Jeff probed.
“That’s right. It’s best you make up your own mind and use your own judgment. But like I’ve been saying to all the RSOs before you—we need shot of the militia boys, and in their place we need a proper bunch of kick-ass Marines. A dozen would be about right.”
Jeff nodded. “One thing’s for sure, we need more security guys around here. Nothing else will do it.”
From the get-go I liked the cut of this guy’s jib.
Jeff introduced me to his team—David Ubben and Scott Wickland. Dave was a six-feet-four monster of a guy, with broad shoulders and a swimmer’s physique. He spoke in a relaxed and slow southern drawl and I could tell right away that he was a quiet type. He struck me as being the intelligent guy who thought carefully before he spoke—unlike me, who tends to speak before thinking.
With his crew-cut dark hair and contemplative manner I figured Dave was maybe an ex–Army officer, but it turned out that he was, like me, a sergeant. Not only that, he’d served for nine years and completed multiple tours of Iraq and Afghanistan, and he absolutely knew his stuff. From the get-go I liked Dave, but it was clear that he didn’t seem to know what to make of me. It was fair enough, really: I was the Brit with the bad attitude that they’d all been warned about.
Scotty was a whole lot different from Dave. He was six feet tall and of a lithe build, with brown spiky hair. He was an ex–Army sergeant of six years’ service, with several tours behind him, but he was far more voluble and chatty. As with Dave, I figured Scotty was the kind of guy who’d be absolutely unshakable when the bullets started to fly. In fact, with Jeff, Scotty, and Dave I figured we’d landed ourselves the A-Team here at the Benghazi Mission.
The QRF were still refusing to do any form of work “due to Ramadan,” and I warned Jeff there was some three weeks of this to go. Jeff was visibly shocked at their attitude, and as for Silvio, the top diplomat at the Benghazi Mission, he was spitting blood. In fact, Silvio only had a couple more weeks to work here, and I could tell he was counting down the days until he could get himself gone.
Jeff, Dave, and Scotty had been on the ground just a matter of days when there was yet another security incident in Benghazi. A seven-man delegation from the Red Crescent (the Islamic counterpart of the Red Cross) was kidnapped, right outside the place where they were staying—the Tibesti Hotel. The Red Crescent guys were all Iranians, and their convoy was hit as it returned to the hotel. They were forced into the bad guys’ vehicles and driven away, and nothing was heard of them. To all intents and purposes they had disappeared.
Massoud was driving me to work and I made a passing comment. “You heard about the Iranian Red Crescent guys? Poor fuckers.”
He nodded to a compound that we happened to be passing—an old Libyan Army camp. “Morgan, they are in there.”
“They’re in there? What, so they’re all okay?”
“Yes. They are getting fed; they have their own beds even. They are fine.”
“How the hell do you know?”
“I was in there yesterday on my own business. I saw them—all seven of them.”
“So who’s holding ’em and why?”
Massoud shrugged. “Same old same-old. It is a Shia–Sunni thing. There are some who think those Iranian Shias are not welcome here. But they are all perfectly okay.”
I was in the canteen having lunch later that day when Jeff, Dave, and Scotty came in. Jeff made some passing comment about the kidnapping, and how frustrating it was that no one could get any leads on who was holding the Red Crescent guys.
I popped my head up. “The seven Iranians? They’re in the old Libyan Army camp on the Tripoli Road. That’s where they’re being held.”
The three of them stopped eating and just stared at me. “You fucking serious? You know where they are?”
“Yeah, I just told you where they are.”
Jeff went outside to make a radio call. It was obviously to the Annex. Moments later he was back.
“You absolutely sure about this?” he asked.
“Yeah, Massoud told me this morning. He was in there yesterday and had eyes on them.”
“It’s reliable,” Jeff confirmed into his radio, as he stepped outside again.
He was back a few minutes later. He sat down laughing. “Fucking unbelievable. Everyone’s been looking for those guys—and the goddamned Brit here knew where they were all along. What the fuck?”
Scotty piped up with a wiseass remark in an awful imitation English gentleman’s accent. “I say, old chap, the name’s Bond. James Bond . . . Jolly good show, y’all.”
“You know your problem, Scotty—you’ve been watching too many Hugh Grant movies,” I shot back. “Anyway, what point are you trying to make exactly? Like I told you, I’m Welsh. James Bond is English. It’s about as different as Americans and Canadians . . . But then again, what would you know about it? English: we invented the language—you just buggered it up. I mean ‘y’all.’ Y’all. What kind of word is that?”
Scotty and Jeff were laughing fit to burst. Dave was shaking his head and smiling. He didn’t join in that kind of back-and-forth much, but in his own laid-back way he loved it.
We quieted down a bit as Dave and Scotty said a short grace over their meals. Once they were done praying, I threw a question at Scotty.
“What did he say? God. Did he say anything about me?”
Scotty was trying not to laugh. “You’re an asshole, man.”
As for Dave, he was staring at me like he couldn’t believe what I’d said. I’d dug my grave already, so I figured I might as well dig it real deep.
“Did he say Morgan says hello?”
Jeff spluttered into his food. He’d been trying to keep the laughter in but he’d lost it completely. Jeff didn’t pray before his meals, so I guessed he like me was a searcher. In truth, I loved seeing those guys saying their grace, for it gave me a strange sense of peace in the chaos and crap that was Benghazi. I had no faith in my life, but I often wished I had. I just couldn’t ever seem to get my head around it.
The following morning Jeff told me that a force was readying itself to go rescue the Iranian Red Crescent guys. I guessed the boys from the Annex were poised to go in. Great news. I told Massoud that evening during the drive to my beachside villa that there was going to be a rescue mission.
He glanced at me, a faint smile playing across his lips. “It is too late, my friend. They left yesterday.”
“What?”
“The Iranians. They left Benghazi and flew to Tripoli en route to Tehran.”
The first thing I did when I got to the villa was call Jeff. “Mate, cancel the cavalry. Whoever is going in to get the Iranians—stand ’em down. They left yesterday on a flight to Tehran.”
There was a moment’s silence. “Buddy, tell me you are shitting me.”
“No. No messing—they’re on their way home.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yep. Massoud’s cousin works at the airport. He saw all seven of ’em fly out of here.”
“You are one hundred percent?”
“Yeah. He just told me. Massoud doesn’t lie. They are definitely gone.”
“Okay.”
I went in the next morning and as soon as Jeff saw me a smile split his face from ear to ear.
“What is it?” I demanded. “What?”
“You know, you were right. About the Iranians. They had left. And those who were going in to get them—they got stood down.”
“So what’s so funny?”
“The word that came back to me was: Where the hell does that goddamned Brit get his int? Who the hell is he talking to? He knows stuff before we do!”
Jeff left the rest unsaid, but I knew what he was driving at. I wasn’t the Annex, but sometimes I knew more than the Annex—thanks to Massoud and the wider network. Someone somewhere had to be thinking: Does that Brit know more than he’s letting on? Is he playing both sides? Or is he just doing whatever he has to do to keep himself safe out there?
From all their perspectives—of the RSOs and those at the Annex—I was feral. I was living on the streets and mixing in with the locals. I was billeted in the heart of Ramadan party town, now I was in my beachside chalet, and I was often out walking the streets doing my various chores. And after five months working the Embassy contract I’d grown the kind of beard that would make any jihadist proud. Some of them had to be thinking, just who the hell is that guy?
Jeff was constantly asking me for guidance on how to make a road move, whenever they had to drive Silvio or some of the other Embassy staff anywhere. He’d ask which areas in particular to avoid and I’d advise. I told him to remove the red diplomatic plates from their vehicles, for they were recognizable a mile away, and it was because of the red plates that the British Embassy’s convoy had been identified and hit. But once again the word came back from Jeff that they couldn’t, because it was against the rules.
We were maybe ten days into Jeff and his team’s time here when Dave and I were having a quiet chat. Gradually Dave was opening up to me, and he chose today to pop the million-dollar question.
“Say, the only time I see you animated is when we’re talking the QRF. So what exactly is the root of the problem? What happened?”
“Nothing specific. But I’m convinced they will not protect you when the shit goes down. They don’t even have the skills: their weapons-handling skills and tactical knowledge are zero. Mate, they are gonna really let you down one day,” I added. “That’s my biggest fear of all.”
I could see Dave’s mind whirring as he processed what I’d just said. The more I got to know him, the more I realized that when Dave spoke, people listened. He didn’t say much, but what he did say was well thought through and pertinent. He was a still-waters-run-deep kind of guy with very much his own mind.
“Okay, buddy, then this is what we’ll do,” Dave announced, quietly. “After lunch, me and Scotty will go up and test them on basic weapons handling and drills.”
“Fine—that’s if you can get them out of bed.” I wasn’t joking. From all that I’d seen of the QRF during Ramadan they seemed to be sleeping 24/7.
Dave leveled his gaze at me. “No, we’ll get ’em out of bed all right.”
I didn’t doubt that he would. “Make sure you wear your body armor when you go over to test ’em.”
Dave grinned.
“No, mate, don’t laugh. I am serious. If they’ve going to be handling live rounds anywhere near you when you go up there, put your body armor on.”
A while later I saw Dave and Scotty heading over to the QRF Villa, and sure enough they were both wearing their body armor. I guessed my warnings had hit home.
Jeff sidled up to me to have a word. He nodded in Dave and Scotty’s direction. “So what d’you reckon?”
“I don’t reckon anything. I know what will happen.”
“What happens if they both come back saying they’re like ninjas?”
I snorted, derisively. “Yeah, mate, whatever.”
A couple of hours later Dave and Scotty were back, and their faces said it all. In fact Scotty was so angry he couldn’t talk.
“That bad, huh?” Jeff asked.
“Morgan is one hundred percent right,” Dave replied, evenly. “They are totally fuckin’ inept and should not be allowed to carry a weapon, whether in the compound or the vehicles. They can’t even strip down an AK properly.”
Jeff was ashen with shock. He had his head in his hands. “Oh Jesus . . . Is it that bad?”
Dave nodded. “Yeah. It’s fuckin’ scary. In fact, it’s unbelievable they’ve been around the clients this long and have not been found out. It’s a miracle no one’s been injured or worse.”
Scotty still hadn’t said a word, but it was clear from his face that he was boiling. Dave nodded in his direction. “Mutasim got upset ’cause his drills were so shit. He shoved Scotty really aggressively in the chest. He said Scotty had no experience and couldn’t tell him what to do.”
“That’s Mutasim,” I remarked. “He’s always right and hates being questioned on anything. The guy’s a worm.”
“He said he’d been trained by U.S. Special Operations forces,” Dave continued, “so who were we to teach him anything.”
Scotty had served as an RSO at the U.S. Embassy in Burma. He was fluent in Mandarin, and it took a real towering intellect to grasp that language. I’d worked several security contracts with the Chinese, and I’d never managed to learn more than a few words. But aside from Scotty’s intellect, I could tell that he was hard as nails. To take that kind of crap off a fool like Mutasim must have rankled.
Jeff glanced at me. “Morgan, I owe you an apology. I’m only sorry we didn’t take what you said at face value and sooner.”
I shrugged. “No worries. No harm done. I’m just happy you’ve proved it for yourselves and before any Americans got hurt. But it needs to be rectified. Let’s get the QRF out and the Marines in. Then we’re laughing.”
Jeff ran his hand over his scalp. “It’s August, so the vacation season . . . I dunno how quickly I can get anything done. But you’re right—we need rid of those clowns and pronto. I’ll start drafting the email to go to Washington.”
Considering what he was tasked with here, Jeff was one of the coolest customers I’d ever met. He was also terrific at his job. But he knew now what an absolutely shit situation we were in. Apart from those in the Annex, we were basically the last good guys in Benghazi. And now the brutal truth had hit home: this mouthy, grumpy Welsh idiot is right—the QRF are worse than useless. Until now the QRF had at least offered some kind of reassurance: they were a visible presence carrying weapons. But now Jeff knew the truth about them: they did not know how to fire their guns.
For two days Jeff practically disappeared. He was in his office crafting an urgent email to Washington, alerting State to all that he now knew. He worked on it ceaselessly, sharing drafts with Silvio and getting advice and input. Jeff knew the score. He knew that this was his gig, and if the bad guys came for us we were all going to end up either dead or in orange jumpsuits. He was carrying some heavy responsibility on his shoulders.
Jeff was deep in the email-drafting process when he came to have words with me. “Tell me, again, buddy, what can we do to sort this place out?” There was none of the normal joking now. “What are your recommendations?”
“Well, every RSO before you has asked for more manpower and we’ve been denied. So presumably that’s not going to change. If you can’t get more men, your only alternative is more firepower. So, imagine you site a .50-caliber on top of Villa C, mounted on a tripod. From there you can hit the front gate, but also swivel it around to hit the rear. A .50-cal will make even your most die-hard jihadi stop and think twice about trying to get in. A round from one of those can kill you even if it doesn’t hit, simply by the pressure wave thrown off.” I paused. “Get one of those on the roof of Villa C. At least it’ll buy you enough time to get the principal into one of the armored SUVs and out of here.”
“It’s a great idea, but I’m not convinced we’ll get one. They’ll say it’ll look too aggressive.”
“Trust me, mate, it’s nowhere near as aggressive as a bunch of Shariah Brigade gun trucks storming into the compound. Anyhow, you can lay it down covered by a tarpaulin. No one will ever know it’s there. You pull it up and unleash it only when required. And it needs an RSO—Dave or Scotty—on it, not the QRF.”
Jeff shook his head, worriedly. “They’ll never go for it. It’ll look too aggressive. A heavy machine gun on a tripod . . . we’ll just never get it through. How do we stop a large body of men getting in the gate without it?”
I shrugged. “Like I said, you need more men or a .50-cal. Without one or the other you’re buggered.”
Jeff rubbed his hands worriedly across his face. It was well out of character to see him this apprehensive. “There’s nothing else we can do?” he queried. “No alternatives?”
“No. It’s either more men with guns or more firepower.” I paused. “You heard anything specific? Any specific threat?”
“No. Why?”
“You seem different. Nervous.” I wondered whether it was just the realization of how utterly shitty the QRF were that had got to Jeff. “You know, mate, I’ll fight with you. I’ll be here, shoulder to shoulder with you guys. You know that, don’t you.”
“I know,” Jeff confirmed. “But still, the four of us . . . Tell me honestly: a full frontal attack—what’ll happen?”
“Honestly, you will get fucked. Or rather we will. The guard force are unarmed. The QRF are useless. There’s three of you and one of me. Say you’ve got two of you securing the clients, and two of us putting down the rounds with a couple of M4s. It doesn’t add up, does it? If you’re gonna get hit it’ll be the main entrance. That’s where I’d come in. A guy with an RPG on his shoulder hits that, they’re in.”
“So, there’s nothing else we can do?”
“Guard dogs. They’d give you an early, early warning, buy you some extra time. Plus Arabs hate dogs. Would it put them off? Would it stop them? It might do. But not like a dozen Marines and a .50-cal.”
“I’ll draft an email to my bosses in Washington,” Jeff told me. “I’ll tell them what we need, and I’ll warn them that if the compound comes under a sustained, organized attack it will be overrun.” Jeff shrugged. “That’s the best I can do . . .”
Dave, Scotty, and I started to drill the guard force now, to double-check they were totally up to speed. They were all the backup we’d got. The RSOs started standing a 24/7 sentry rotation, so one of them was always awake and on watch. But the long hours and the constant stress were taking their toll. The guys looked as if they were getting precious little sleep, and they were wired.
It was partly because of that that I figured we needed a DVD Night. I purchased a load of nonalcoholic beers—all I could get—at the beachside complex shop, and put it in Massoud’s car. I added a bunch of war movies on DVD and headed over to the Embassy. The guys had said they didn’t like the idea of me being out in the city on my own at night, and that I was always welcome at the Mission—so tonight was time for some poolside beers and a clutch of movies.
I’d also scored a bunch of sticky, honey-filled Ramadan cakes. They were tonight’s big temptation, and I was keen to see which of the Americans would crack. Dave was big into fitness and I didn’t figure it would be him. With my early morning beach runs and my weights regime I was in peak physical condition. There wasn’t an inch of fat on me. But I also have an incurable sweet tooth, so I knew for sure I’d munch the cakes. Jeff had a ripped surfer’s physique, and he’d even talked about trying to ride some of the waves out on Benghazi’s coastline. It was Scotty who was the wild card.
As I doled out the beers and cakes I kept going on about fitness and diet and nutrition, and warning how bad all of that sugar was going to be for us.
Scotty just grabbed the nearest Ramadan cake and started munching. “Yeah, yeah, I agree—diet, it’s crucial, blah, blah, blah . . . But these cakes—man, they taste good . . .”
“You look like you’re gonna scoff the bloody lot,” I told him. “Better get munching, guys, or they’ll all be in fat Scotty’s gut . . .”
“Indeed, old chap, but you see—I’m Hank Marvin,” Scotty retorted, trying to put on a posh English accent.
“You are what?”
“Hank marvin. It’s Cockney rhyming slang for ‘starving.’ You know: apples and pears—stairs; Scooby Doo—clue; Hank Marvin—starving.”
I just stared at him. “Where do you guys find all this crap?”
Scotty laughed. “Google. I googled ‘Cockney rhyming slang.’ Hell, man, this is the way you guys speak, so why don’t you know this stuff?”
“Do you have any idea where Cockneys are from? They’re from the East End of London. That’s about as far from the Welsh mountains as Texas is to New York. And like I told you before—I’m Welsh, not English.”
“Yeah, okay, but you gotta know some of this stuff,” Scotty insisted. “Come on, tell us some.”
It was happy times all around.
As the evening wore on, Dave got to reminiscing about his family back home. He showed me the photos of him with his wife and baby, and he sure looked like one very happy and contented dad. I reciprocated, showing the guys the snaps of Laura and Lewis, plus me posing as proud pappy. We live up the end of a long dirt track on top of a Welsh mountain—so absolutely in the middle of nowhere. The guys loved the wild look of the place, and I told them—not for the first time—that they were more than welcome to come pay a visit.
Scotty likewise had a young family. It was clear that he and Dave missed their lady partners and their kids just as much as I missed mine. Time away on overseas missions was time away from our families, and especially with young kids you could never get those days back again. Kids grow up so quickly, and as part-absent dads we missed out on so much of the early days and the magic.
I really liked and respected these guys, and the very idea of the risks they were being forced to take here, including getting wasted by a load of Benghazi militiamen, made my blood boil. They clearly felt something similar with regards to me. Dave, Scotty, and Jeff were in their early thirties and I was pushing ten years their senior, so I was something of the old hand. In spite of my grouchy, mouthy, rude ways, I guess there was a part of them that looked up to me a little.
When it came time for me to leave—I couldn’t keep Massoud waiting the entire night—Jeff voiced the thought that I guessed was on each of their minds.
“Morgan—you know we’ve got your back, right? Just ’cause you’re down there on your own, don’t think we haven’t.”
“After all those cakes and beers—man, you gotta know that we’re there for you,” added Scotty.
“No, guys, I’m all right,” I told them. “It’s not your job to come and help me, plus you’ll get into a shit storm if you do. You look after what you got to look after, which is here.”
Jeff fixed me with this look. “No. Understand: You live out there in Benghazi on your own with no support. So, understand—if anything happens to you we will be en route to help immediately.”
“Jeff’s right,” Dave added. “If the shit goes down at your villa you only have to call and we’ll be there. We got your back, buddy.”
I didn’t doubt for one moment that they had. These kind of guys would fight through hell and back for one of their own, and that was how I reckoned they saw me now—as one of their own. I found their words and their brotherhood both uplifting and hugely humbling.
Scotty brought over the last of the beers. “Here you go, man, break a leg. And say, listen, if you ever manage to get to the States, you know you gotta come visit.”
“Sure thing, buddy, come visit,” Dave added. “You’re always welcome in the Ubben family household. I’ll even take you to my church,” he joked. “That’d be awesome.”
In a strange way Dave’s invite was the one that really touched me. I was forever kidding Dave about his beliefs, and he’d never once let it get to him or taken it badly, though he’d have had every right to do so. One lunch I’d listened to him reciting his prayers over his meal—just the sound of it giving me this odd sense of peace—and when he’d finished I’d fired one of my regular digs at him.
“Say, Dave, tell me—just how did Noah manage to cram all those animals into that one ark? It must have been some kind of massive boat.”
Dave had stared at me for a long second, shaking his head in disbelief. Then he’d cracked up laughing. “Come on, man, they dug it up. They dug it up for Chrissakes.”
Around that poolside the four of us agreed on an informal protocol via which we would provide mutual support to one another. If the bad guys hit the Embassy, one of the first things they were to do was call me on my cell phone, so I could head on over. Likewise, I would get their help at the villa if I called for it. And unbeknownst to the four of us, one of us was just about to make such a call.
Massoud had a Libyan Army VHF radio bolted to the dash of his car, which was a crappy old Nissan sedan. The radio sat above the gear lever, and he used to keep it on so he could monitor the radio traffic. A day or so after our poolside party we were driving along and I heard some shouting and screaming over the radio. I asked him what was going on.
“A bomb has just gone off at the Tibesti,” he told me.
Apparently, a car bomb had exploded right outside the hotel, and the roadside scene was chaos right now. As I listened in I heard the sound of a second explosion blasting over the radio. A second car bomb had just gone off, again right outside the Tibesti. I felt sick at the sound of it, for I knew that Scotty and Dave were out on a job with Silvio somewhere near that very location.
I dialed Scotty’s cell phone. I wasn’t surprised when he didn’t answer. It would be against their protocol to take a private call from my number when out on a close protection job, but little did they know I was trying to phone through a warning. I tried Dave.
He answered. “Can’t speak. On a job . . .”
“I know, mate, but listen: two car bombs have just gone off at the Tibesti. Unless you’re in a secure location pull your mission and return to base.”
“Are you sure?” Dave queried.
“I am listening to a live feed on VHF as it’s happening.”
“Thanks.” Dave cut the line.
An hour or so later I got a call from Dave at my beachside villa. “Thanks for the heads-up, buddy. We had no idea. We weren’t far away and we were heading right through that route.”
I told him it was no problem. That’s what brother warriors were for.
I went and sat on my veranda. As I gazed out over the moonlit ocean I could hear the Ramadan partying going on either side of me. Jeff, Scotty, and Dave: they were an awesome bunch of guys. More was the pity I couldn’t invite them down to my place for a good old-fashioned barbecue and beers on the sand, plus maybe some beach volleyball. Lord knows they could do with the downtime.
The following day I was having lunch in the canteen when Silvio came to see me. “I wanted to say thanks for the warning yesterday. You gotta know it’s great having you out there in Benghazi keeping the info coming through, ’cause we’re pretty much going out on those streets blind.”
I shrugged. “It’s the least I can do for you guys. Anyhow, I need to know about this kind of stuff. They’re the kind of dangers I have to avoid as well.”
“I just want you to know from me that sharing that kind of stuff with us—it’s appreciated.”
“Like I said, no problem. A lot of people believe in guarding their intel. Keeping it close. I’m not one of them. Intelligence has to be disseminated if it’s to protect and inform the good guys. That way we can try to avoid the kind of thing that happened yesterday—those bombings—hurting our people.”
Silvio nodded. “Couldn’t agree with you more. Yesterday’s call—it was one hell of a timely warning, so thanks.”
I smiled. “You earned it. After all, I get to eat in your canteen—and especially when there’s fish on the menu!”
Silvio burst out laughing. “With the goddamn heads on ’n’ all!”
It was later that day when Jeff came up to me at the guardroom. I could tell immediately that something was wrong. The poor bastard looked as if someone had died. He proceeded to tell me the response he’d got to his urgent email to Washington. The reply he’d received was that we were to “keep working with what we’d got.” Come December the security situation would be reassessed, with a view to whether they’d continue with the Mission. Basically, in spite of all the warnings Jeff—and Silvio—had raised, we’d been told to carry on as usual.
Jeff shook his head, despairingly. “It’s no change, buddy. No fucking change at all.” He spat out those last words. He was furious. He was entombed within a dark cloud of anger and I could tell he was at his wits’ end.
He and Silvio had been battling daily to get what we needed in terms of security, yet they’d been given nothing. In fact, they’d been point-blank denied. Jeff had kept trying and trying, and yet he’d been denied, and that rejection and failure as he saw it had broken him. He was a true professional and a perfectionist. He knew that if anything happened it was due in part to his failure to prevent it. Like Rosie before him, he was beating himself up over it.
“Listen, mate, you tried your best,” I told him. “No one could be expected to do any more than you’ve done. Every RSO before you has tried and failed. They keep getting denied. So, it’s not as if it’s a new thing.”
Jeff seemed to take little comfort from what I’d said. He wasn’t the type to take the easy road. He knew the Embassy was horribly vulnerable, and he knew he’d failed to change that. He’d tried his very best and done all he could, but he’d been denied.
The Benghazi Embassy was a disaster waiting to happen, and Washington seemed happy for it to stay that way.