RASHID AL YOURIS ARRIVED at eight o’clock and greeted Mike Johansson with a vigorous handshake. The waiter escorted them to a private alcove off the main serving area of Calwood’s International Cuisine. Their table, set with fine china and crystal, stood enclosed by walls on three sides leaving one access point for service personnel. A small chandelier sparkled overhead. The scent of garlic flavored the air.
They ordered without reference to the menu, and small talk followed. Mike asked Rashid about his wife Hessa, and her adjustment to the kids growing up and leaving the family nest. Had she recovered from her cancer treatment? Did Rashid enjoy teaching at the University?
Rashid countered with inquiries about Mike’s daughter and the grandchildren, careful to avoid any mention of his wife who’d recently passed away.
When the food arrived the conversation turned to food and wine. After dinner, during coffee service, the Big Swede’s expression turned serious. “What do you think of our Commander in Chief?”
Rashid glanced up from his coffee. “Still in training.”
“What about the jihadist Caliph Abd al-Ghayb hiding out on the Pakistan border, in Iran or maybe Manhattan?”
“He’s an ass, but dangerous.”
Mike laughed. “Remind me not to ask you to write any lengthy obituaries.”
“There are a few obituaries I would like to write, but that wouldn’t solve America’s predicament. My students ask why we are in such a mess in the Middle East. Is it our leadership? Is it religious fundamentalism or is it an unavoidable clash of culture? I tell them it is all of that, and much more.”
“That must confuse the hell out of them.”
“Yes, they are confused. So are the political and religious leaders around the globe. Everyone has lost sight of the underlying cause of the conflict.
Mike arched an eyebrow. “And that is?”
“Greed and a lust for power.”
“Not unique in history. Today nuclear technology and oil money prompts cultural conflict and war. Not long ago economic and political ideology underwrote the Cold War, and before that, in the thirties and forties, it was racial superiority and extreme nationalism.”
“Yes, yes.” Rashid said, with a touch of excitement. “History is full of madness and always will be, but that is no reason to accept it much less to tolerate it.”
“You’re right. We must not excuse it. We must, however, deal with the madness. Good or bad policy is in the hands of politicians. That’s the domain of leaders the world over. Whether they are right or wrong, and it’s a little of both, there will always be consequences. Dealing with these consequences is what it’s all about.”
Rashid assumed a skeptical expression. He knew Mike to be pragmatic, but never this earnest. The Big Swede was leading up to something. He suspected the trout almandine had been the bait, and that an attempt to set the hook would soon follow.
“As you know, Rashid, conflict with Islamic radicals has been brewing a longtime, but no one considered it a major problem until 9-11. That day we woke to a dangerous enemy.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, Mike. What’s your point?”
“The threat of terrorists’ activity, inside and outside of the United States, is real. The intelligence community has a monumental job to do. Unlike years ago, the current FBI's domestic counter terrorism program is the primary mission of the agency, and it’s big.”
“Again I ask, what’s your point?”
“My point is, I need you back.”
Rashid clamped his teeth together and glared at Mike. He needs me back? He must be insane. Going back after even a few years would be like starting over. And there is my work at McClellan University.
“Before you say no, hear me out. You and I have been through a dozen governmental reorganizations. It goes on all the time, but it’s usually only a change in name or a shuffling of personnel, not a change of function or a new mission. Well, it’s different this time.” Mike faced Rashid. “The changes are genuine and significant. To say it’s a new ball game is an understatement. It’s a new sport.”
Rashid had never seen Mike this energized before.
“Everyone knows about the creation of Homeland Security, and the National Intelligence Director’s appointment years ago. Not reported is the staggering burden these changes have put on the intelligence community.” Mike stopped and faced Rashid. “Imagine the challenge of coordinating seventeen highly classified and independent organizations.”
Rashid’s reaction was immediate. “Why should I believe it’s any different now than in the past? All the changes are on paper. Nothing will change. Never has, never will.”
“Rashid, you’re not listening. It has changed. The wall of silence between agencies has crumbled. Sure some organizations are slow to come around, but most act as a unified community working together to track down the bad guys.”
Rashid shifted in his chair and fidgeted with his tweed sport coat. “All right, I’ll take your word for it. What’s that have to do with me?”
Mike resumed his seat. “The Director of National Intelligence, who controls all our budgets and sets the program goals, has created a new clearinghouse called the Terrorism Threat and Investigation Center. This organization, T-TIC, will consist of representatives from each of the seventeen intelligence agencies. The center will streamline all the intelligence gathered in the war on terror. It will be the dot connector.”
“The what?”
“They will connect the widely dispersed dots of information needed for rapid response. The information collected by the clearinghouse will pass directly to the Secretary of Homeland Security and the National Security Council that advises the President.
Rashid nodded. “T-TIC is a direct link to the Commander in Chief?”
“That’s right. Each of the agencies must appoint an Agency Ambassador, and organize an in-house task force to feed T-TIC.”
“That is new, Mike.”
"Yes, it's the government’s answer to the ongoing changes in technology and the enemy’s growing sophistication in the digital world. As a newly appointed Assistant Deputy Director of the FBI, I am responsible for selecting the Ambassador to represent us, and creating the in-house task force I call the JTTF teams.”
“What’s a JTTF team?”
“To beef up the FBI’s response, I will form Joint Terrorism Task Forces–teams of highly trained specialists. These mobile forces will serve any of the fifty-six Field Offices around the country when a threat is identified. They will be a cross between a SWAT team and a Military Special Ops Unit.”
”Congratulations Mike, I’m impressed. That’s a big job advancement. Who will be the bureau’s Agency Ambassador, anyone I know?”
Mike leaned back, looked Rashid directly in the eyes, beamed broadly, and allowed a long pause to linger.
“You’re crazy, Mike. Out of your mind!”
“You have to be to survive in my job. Our old outfit, the Office of Domestic Counterterrorism, had a small handful of experienced people. The ODC no longer exists, and most of its people have retired or died off. The new people are just that–new and inexperienced. They will develop over time, but we can’t wait for that to happen.”
“What you’re asking is unfair to me and my family.”
“Perhaps, but necessary. You are a rare commodity, Rashid; you speak five languages, you understand the Muslim culture and history and you have thirty years of agency experience. Plus, I can’t think of anyone I trust more that you.”
“I’ve worked hard to get ahead at McClellan University,” Rashid explained. “If I leave I will lose my position and a chance at tenure, not to mention the income. I can’t turn my back on that. Hessa would never forgive me.”
“There’s something you should know.”
“What?”
“Last week I met with Chancellor Henderson and Dean Oliver of the College of Social Studies at McClellan University.”
“You what?”
“Hear me out. Without getting into classified information, I explained the situation. They agreed to maintain your faculty position. You will assume the duties of a tenured professor with full pay right on schedule. You can arrange your classes to consist of assigned outside readings and let your graduate students handle most of the day-to-day stuff. You will appear in class twice a semester. The rest of the time you will be granted research leave.”
“This takes spying to a new level or perhaps a new low.”
“Finally,” Mike continued.
“There’s more?”
“Yes. I phoned Hessa this morning. At first she was hesitant to have you come back to the Bureau. But when I explained the dangers we face and why we need a person of your skill and experience, she understood why I’m making you this offer. She agreed you should take it for the country and for the American Muslim community. If you decide to take the job, she’ll support you 100 percent. She confesses she likes the idea of going back to Georgetown and seeing her old friends again.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I am authorized to provide housing and incidental expenses for special assignment personnel critical to the mission. I can’t think of anyone that fits that description better than you. I’ve leased a colonial townhouse with a view. I think she’ll like it.”
“You old bastard!”
“Just say yes, Rashid. Just say yes.”