Authors: Sibel Edmonds
Classified Woman (10 page)
I commiserated, allowing that the HQ guys wouldn’t let this slip.
“They are not the ultimate decision makers,” he assured me. “The pressure to shut this down is coming from others—the hardest from the State Department and Pentagon. I guess I don’t have to tell you why, you know what’s going on.” We had arrived at the elevators.
“Prepare the memo,” he told me, “and give Stephanie some of the work. I’ll push from this end. By the end of next week we’ll be ready to bring Dickerson up here and grill her…. We’ll have a meeting on this next week.”
I returned to the unit deeply frustrated. I was in the middle of a fiasco, a “can of worms,” something the bureau didn’t even want to acknowledge. My own administrative supervisor was a possible co-conspirator, and I was being asked to prepare a comprehensive memo to be used as evidence.
How had I ended up in this mess?
That weekend was spent at my home computer completing Bryan’s memo. I’d asked whether she wanted me to include the 9/11-related cases (she didn’t). I was to limit the memo to Dickerson, Feghali, and the blocked intelligence.
More than a month had passed since the Dickersons’ visit, and my head was still swirling with too many unanswered questions—almost all of them with frightening implications. Nightmare scenarios had begun to proliferate; there was no end to the awful possibilities.
We now knew, based on Saccher’s initial inquiries, that Melek Can Dickerson had indeed worked for some of our operation’s primary targets, and that she and her husband associated with them regularly. We also knew that she had deliberately mistranslated and blocked intelligence gathered from these targets for almost two months. We had direct evidence, too, that Dickerson had omitted all information pertaining to her previous employments and her association with foreign entities from her job application with the FBI. Moreover, Bryan and Saccher both suspected Dickerson of having “hooked” Feghali into acting as a co-conspirator, further undermining ongoing FBI investigations and operations.
What remained unanswered, though, was how she had escaped detection during the background investigation for her TS clearance. Not known too was how Major Douglas Dickerson fit into this picture, specifically, how he was able to go undetected by his employers, the Pentagon, considering his level of clearance and his position under Douglas Feith at the Office of Special Plans and the Defense Intelligence Agency. What Saccher meant to determine was how much damage had been inflicted by this penetration, and if the identities of our informants had been compromised. The same sorts of inquiries were being made about the other agencies where Major Dickerson worked. So was Kevin Taskesen right? Were our families and associates in Turkey now in great danger? It would appear more than likely that yes, indeed they were.
All of this left me sickened, and with nothing but mounting questions. Why, for instance, weren’t the criminal and terrorism-related aspects of our counterintelligence operation against these specific targets being transferred to the criminal and counterterrorism divisions, as they should be? What was the State Department and Pentagon’s role in this, and how could the bureau be so pressured? Why were the (elected or appointed) U.S. persons involved in these criminal networks and operations being so fiercely protected by “people in high places”? I well knew of the involvement and association of certain military-industrial complex moguls, companies and lobbying firms with our target. I knew how much was at stake, particularly for high-level public figures implicated in these investigations. What I didn’t appreciate or fully understand was how these same entities could pressure the Pentagon and the U.S. State Department to so directly interfere with the FBI in their behalf.
In time, some of these questions would be answered; some would never be answered concretely; and others would be prevented from being publicly answered—or even addressed—by means of automatic classifications, incessant gag orders, and repeated invocation of executive privileges.
To the unknowing and unaware, the Dickersons’ association with powerful organizations such as the American Turkish Council (ATC) and the Assembly of Turkish American Associations (ATAA) may carry little or no significance or cause for alarm. Outwardly, these organizations appear legit; and why not? Their main players happen to be the crème de la crème of the military-industrial center and DC lobbying groups and think tanks. On their boards of directors sit well-known, highly decorated U.S. generals, and their advisors consist of major movers and shakers of beltway politics.
Turkey, one of the closest allies of the United States, is attractive for many reasons: as an artery connecting Europe to Asia, it crosses borders with Iran, Iraq and Syria to the east and south, with the Balkan states to the west and Central Asian nations to the north and northeast. Turkey also is an important member of NATO, a candidate for EU membership, and the only Middle Eastern close ally and partner of Israel—and one of the top U.S. customers for military technology and weapons.
Interestingly too, the same qualities that make Turkey an important ally and strategic partner for the nation states also make it crucial and extremely attractive to global criminal networks. Their activities include the transfer of illegal arms and nuclear technology to rogue states; transporting heroin from Afghanistan through the Central Asian states into Turkey and then through the Balkan states into Western Europe and the United States; and laundering the proceeds of these illegal operations through Turkey’s banks and those on neighboring Cyprus and in Dubai. Unfortunately, as well, these same qualities also make Turkey a great operational partner for the unspoken, unsavory actions carried out in Central Asia–Caucasus by the CIA, whose directors and operatives serve the interests of a handful of beneficiaries at the expense of our nation’s security and international standing.
Nuclear black market–related activities depend as well on Turkey for manufacturing nuclear components, and on its strategic location as a transit point to move goods and technology to such nations as Iran, Pakistan and others. Turkey’s close relationship and partner status with the United States also enables it to obtain—that is, steal—our technology and information. What may not be so well known is that Turkish networks have operatives in several U.S. nuclear labs in addition to others with access on their payroll.
When it comes to criminal and shady global networks, most of us tend to envision either the Mafia, with its own rules and culture of omertà, knife-wielding, semiautomatic-toting Colombian or Mexican drug cartels, or ordinary street-level gangsters with guns. Contrary to these stereotypes, Turkish criminal networks consist mainly of respectable-looking businessmen (some of whom are among the top international CEOs), high-ranking military officers, diplomats, politicians and scholars. Their U.S. counterparts are equally respected and recognized: high-level bureaucrats within the State Department and Pentagon, elected officials, or combination of the two, who now have set up their own companies, NGOs and lobbying groups. When asked, people here in the States generally don’t name Turkey as threatening our national security in the fight against terrorism, nuclear proliferation, or international drug trafficking.
Curiously, despite highly publicized reports and acknowledgments of Turkey’s role in narcotics, the nuclear black market, terrorism and money laundering, Turkey continues to receive billions in aid and assistance annually from the United States. With its highly placed co-conspirators and connections within the Pentagon, the State Department and NATO, Turkey need never fear sanctions or meaningful scrutiny. The criminal Turkish networks continue their global activities right under the nose of their protector, the United States—and neither the 9/11 catastrophe nor their direct and indirect ties to this attack diminish their participation in the shady worlds of narcotics, money laundering and illegal arms transfers.
The “respectable” Turkish companies have bases in Azerbaijan, Uzbekistan and other former Soviet states. Many of these front companies and nonprofit organizations, disguised as construction and tourism entities and Islamic charter schools and mosques, receive millions in grants from the U.S. government to establish and operate criminal networks throughout the region. Among their networking partners are the mujahedeen and the Albanian Mafia. Clearly, having in their pocket high-level congressional representatives on the appropriate committees goes a long way to guarantee the flow of these grants. While the U.S. government painted Islamic charity organizations as the main financial source for Al Qaeda, they were hard at work covering up the terrorists’ true financial source: narcotics and illegal arms sales. Why?
Western Europe, followed by the United States, is the principal target of this massive trafficking operation. Yet most of these governments, including that of the United States, prefer to maintain a disturbing and perplexing silence on Turkey’s role and dealings in processing and distributing illegal drugs. Why is that the case?
For years on end, information and evidence collected by the counterintelligence operations of certain U.S. intelligence and law enforcement agencies have been prevented not only from being transferred to criminal and narcotics divisions but also from being shared with the Drug Enforcement Agency and others with prosecutorial power. Those with direct knowledge are prevented from making this information available—and therefore public—under various gag orders and invocation of the State Secrets Privilege. Why?
Might part of the answer be that the existence and survival of many U.S. allies—particularly Turkey, nearly every Central Asian nation, and now Afghanistan—chiefly depend on cultivating, processing, transporting and distributing these illegal substances throughout Western Europe and the United States? And might this illegal production and trafficking allow for the procurement of U.S. weapons and technology, our military-industrial complex’s bread and butter? Could it be fear of exposure—of our own financial institutions, corrupt officials and lobbying firms—that leads our government’s ongoing, ruthless effort to cover up these activities and prevent them from ever being stopped? Or could unceasing gag orders and the relentless invoking of state secrets have more to do with our own unspoken, unofficial black operations and undisclosed agendas set up by unseen, traceless individuals within our shadow government?
As I prepared the comprehensive memo for Bryan, I sensed how I was now being positioned: as the bearer of bad news; the messenger. I knew this shouldn’t have been requested of me. The extent of my involvement should have been to give them all the e-mails and written memos I’d sent to Feghali, along with the five completed verbatim translations of Dickerson’s evidence. Everything else should have been left to Saccher, his unit, and the security division to handle. Yet here I was, typing away and doing as ordered by my supervisor.
The Dickersons had chosen and approached me; I didn’t choose to become their target. As to my signature and initials being forged, not to have reported this to my superiors and notified the recipients could have resulted in serious damage for which I, as the shown signatory, would be liable. With regard to Dickerson’s insistence that we divide the targets of our investigations in open defiance of the FBI’s own rules—after what had since come to light about the Dickersons and especially after their attempt to recruit me—I could not turn a blind eye and let it go unreported. Having done so, I was then asked to re-review and retranslate Dickerson’s previously processed and blocked intelligence. Thus by default I became the first person to process and discover the evidence establishing Dickerson’s intentional tampering with and blocking of intelligence.
Somehow I had ended up in the middle of a major espionage scandal within the FBI’s Washington field office. Ironic, too, that the agency in charge of investigating all other government agencies’ related espionage cases had itself been so easily penetrated. If the FBI could not adequately investigate and protect its own divisions and operations, how could it be capable of protecting and investigating those of others?
I knew that this was one big reason why Saccher’s boss was so reluctant to delve any further. FBI management and HQ were not going to take this fiasco lightly, and most likely the messenger—the bearer of ill tidings in the form of evidence and accusations—would take the brunt, in full measure. Moreover, pursuing any case against the Dickersons would inadvertently shine a light on major cover-ups initiated by the State Department and, as a result, expose not only serious criminal activities committed by high-placed U.S. officials but also the subsequent blocking of their investigations.
As the significance and implications of my position and the report I was preparing started to sink in, I felt increasingly uneasy; my intuition was trying to forewarn me. Yet what I could I do? I couldn’t turn back the clock, nor could I move forward and pretend that nothing happened. There were no other options. I was already at the point of no return. By default, I was a messenger, like it or not.
T
he following week, on a bitter cold Thursday, I grabbed a yellow envelope that contained a small disc and two printed copies of the three-page memo and headed out. At work, I stopped by Bryan’s office to hand it over. She was on the phone; she nodded, took the package and waved. What a relief. They now had the facts, including incidents of intentional blocking of highly important intelligence and Dickerson’s role.
I turned on my computer and got to work. I had a lot to do: in addition to several counterterrorism investigations there was my ongoing Turkish counterintelligence project from Chicago and, of course, my ongoing Turkish Counterintelligence translation tasks involving DC. I put on my headset and began.
My desk phone rang about two hours later. It was Bryan, asking me to come to her office right away.
I turned off my computer, placed my folders inside the drawer and headed to her office. She pointed to a chair. Scattered across her desk was my three-page memo. Next to it was the pile I had turned over to her the previous week, containing selected translations of the top-secret intelligence blocked by Dickerson.
Bryan cleared her throat. “I read the memo. Thorough job, very disturbing; it’s worse than I expected. Great job. Thank you.”
I got straight to the point. “So, are you taking it to Frields today—right away? Have you sent the copies of the five translated documents to Saccher and his boss? They’ve been waiting.”
She cleared her throat again. “Sibel, you have never worked for the federal government before this job, is that right?”
I was at loss. “No, why?”
“Because things work differently in government. While private companies are concerned with efficiency, security and productivity, the government couldn’t care less. Of course, the jobs here come with other pluses: less work, more benefits, retirement …” She paused to ensure that I was following this unique revelation. “You need to know a little about some policies that are followed religiously in the FBI. Policy one: one for all, all for one. Policy two: problems and embarrassments are always swept under the rug—
always
. They don’t want to know about serious and embarrassing problems, no matter how scandalous. They don’t want people reporting these types of issues and cases; especially on the record, in writing.”
“And who is this ‘they’?”
“You know … the management, the headquarters, the director …”
I smiled and asked, “Are you included in this ‘they’ group?”
She returned the smile. “All I want is to run this department and make sure things go smoothly—you know … without any scandals. I’ve been here for a long time; started as a language specialist and worked my way up…. I see my younger self in you. You know, I really admire what you’re trying to do. You did the right thing: you reported what you should have reported; a serious scandal, this is.”
“And … what’s next?”
Bryan sat up straight, this time without a trace of a smile. “What you reported, what Saccher discovered, this whole thing, especially this memo, are all explosive stuff. I can assure you they don’t want to hear about this; they don’t want to see anything in writing like this.” She pointed to the three-page memo before her. “This will not only affect Dickerson, this will affect everyone: the contract officer at HQ, who may not have done what she should have with Dickerson’s application files; the agent who conducted the background check on Dickerson, who may not have done what he had to do to catch this before she penetrated the FBI; the security officers on the eighth floor, who should have seen this coming upon reviewing her file; Feghali …”
She took a deep breath. “Especially today, after the horrible Hanssen scandal … Needless to say, the involvement of high-profile U.S. persons with the targets of counterintelligence investigations would bring all sorts of political implications—a disaster. This has ‘scandal’ written all over it.”
She finalized this part of her lecture by coming to the point. “Look, you did what you were supposed to do. You reported this to your direct supervisor, to me, and to the agent in charge. You did all you could. No one can ever come and blame you for not doing the right thing. Now, leave this at this point. There is nothing else left for you to follow up on, or pursue.”
I could feel every muscle in my body tensing up. I felt sick to my stomach, disgusted to the point of throwing up. I told myself to be calm. “Are you going to send this memo and the package of translated incidents to Frields today?” I repeated. “Saccher and his boss are planning to send this to the counterespionage division. They have Dickerson’s application, and the confirmation on her associates and previous employers who happen to be our primary targets. They need the translated incidents before they can move ahead with the next steps.”
Bryan responded sternly with a new, sharp edge in her voice. “If you insist, I will; I will send this to Frields. Sibel, I’m trying to warn you here. My advice to you: do not pursue this; do not report this any further than this office. You’ll regret notifying higher-ups on this. They will not like it, you’ll see. I’m warning you for your own good.”
I stood up, leaned over her desk and said, “Stephanie, I really appreciate your considerate warning. The damage has been done: one of the targets is leaving the country after being tipped off by Dickerson; our state secrets and sensitive intelligence is being sold to the highest bidders; my family’s life in Turkey has been directly threatened. There is no going back on this. Now, please take this to the next step. Saccher and his boss are waiting for the translated material in order to schedule Dickerson for a surprise interrogation. SAC Thomas Frields is in charge of this department and needs to be informed. I would appreciate it if you would set up an appointment for me to meet with Frields to brief him; please do this as soon as you can.”
Bryan pursed her lips and almost in a snarl, said, “Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you. You’re about to learn a very hard lesson, Sibel. I will inform Frields today; in fact, this afternoon. I guess this conversation is over. I did my best to warn you, Sibel; you don’t know this agency, but you’re going to learn very quickly.”
I stormed out of her office and almost ran to my desk. I sat and tried to calm myself. Then I picked up the phone and dialed Saccher. I got his voice mail—again. I had been trying to reach him for the past week and had left several messages in his voice mail already. I left another, summarizing our status: memo, translation, Bryan, and that the case would be reported to Frields today. I hung up and tried to do some work, finding it almost impossible to concentrate.
After a long lunch, it was almost three by the time I got back to my desk. Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang. I picked up, hoping it was Saccher, but no such luck. It was Bryan. I was to report directly to her office. Now what?
On the way over I had to pass by Feghali’s office. His door was wide open. I stopped. There were Feghali, Dickerson, and Feghali’s daughter—a special agent in the white-collar crime division and an attorney—seated around the table. On top of it was the yellow manila envelope next to the stack of translated intelligence intentionally blocked by Dickerson. What the hell was going on? Saccher and his boss were supposed to set up a surprise interrogation of Dickerson in order to send the case to the counterespionage division. So now the suspect, Dickerson—the person under investigation—is given access to the entire case, the memo and translations?
Feghali saw me and nudged Dickerson. She turned and gave me a lopsided smile. I made tracks to Bryan’s office and pointed toward the meeting down the hall. “What the hell is that, Stephanie? What are they doing with my memo and the translated evidence?”
Bryan shrugged. “Oh, that. I took the stuff to Frields per your request. He said that since Feghali and Dickerson are involved and accused, to go ahead and give them the documents and have them review them. They have the right to review any allegations made against them, and respond. He will review the stuff, together with Dickerson’s response and also Feghali’s, all at one time. So … I gave them to Feghali and he’s reviewing them with Dickerson. His daughter is here because she’s an attorney. She will advise both Dickerson and her dad. I’m sure you understand their need for solid legal advice.”
This felt like “The Twilight Zone.” “Have you told Saccher? Have you notified him or his boss? This is their area. This is not how the counterespionage investigation is supposed to go. They specifically requested—both from you and me—that this be kept completely away from Dickerson. And what do you mean by his daughter being present as an attorney advising Dickerson and Feghali? This is not a court case, for God’s sake!”
Bryan waved her hand dismissively. “Anyway, I asked you to come here for a totally different matter. We have decided that by producing the memo, the one you gave me today, at home, on your home computer, you have violated the security rules of the FBI. The content of your memo involves top secret topics, names and issues. Your conduct needs to be investigated; it may be determined that it is a criminal act. I had to report you and your conduct involving a breach of security to the personnel security investigations office on the eighth floor. The agent investigating you is Melinda Tilton. She wants to interrogate you immediately, today.” She then jotted a few numbers on a yellow Post-It and handed it to me. “Call her immediately—right now. This is a very serious matter and cannot wait. As of this moment you are under investigation, Sibel.”
I leaned over her desk. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Is this real? You specifically instructed me to prepare the memo at home. You said doing it at work would tip off Feghali. You said all this in front of Kevin. You specifically told me what to cover in the memo. Now, suddenly, what I did per your specific instructions is being considered criminal conduct?
I
am the one under investigation? Get real. What kind of silly twisted game are you playing here, Stephanie? Are you running out of your whiskey?” I pointed to where she kept her bottles. I was furious, fuming, shaking with anger.
“Remember that
One for all, all for one
policy I told you about? You just learned how it works. I tried to warn you, but you didn’t want to listen. Now, face the consequences, and don’t you dare ever blame me. I warned you, damn it.”
Back at my desk, I tried Saccher one more time. Voice mail.
Fine
, I decided,
no point in procrastinating. Let the inferno begin
. I dialed Tilton’s extension. She picked up on the third ring. When I told her who I was, she asked me to come up to the eighth floor, to her office in the personnel security division, at four o’clock; she would meet me outside the elevators, near reception.
When I got there, the receptionist asked me to wait. A few minutes later, a woman in her early-to-mid thirties with honey blond hair and a few extra pounds came out. “I’m Melinda Tilton, please follow me.” We went into her small office, where she pointed to a chair. I sat, and the interrogation began.
She seemed neutral and calm, one of those people who rarely shows emotion; a blank face, expressionless.
First she wanted an account from my perspective, the chronology of events leading to this memo. I started from the beginning: the Dickersons’ visit to my home; her list dividing our targets; Saccher’s discovery of hundreds of communications that were blocked and mistranslated by her; and his discovery of Dickerson’s purged personnel file.
I spoke in detail of what happened after my meeting with Saccher and Kevin: Feghali “investigating” Dickerson; Bryan’s request for that memo and her explicit instructions to write it at home on my personal computer; and what had happened that very day—two follow-up conversations with Bryan that could only be described as surreal.
Agent Tilton did not interrupt; she listened carefully and jotted down notes periodically. After I finished, she put down her pen. “I really don’t understand,” she said. “Why would your division call us up to request an investigation of you? From what I hear and from reviewing the memo you prepared per Ms. Bryan’s specific request, I don’t see any malice involved and I don’t find this to be a case that needs to be investigated. Do you know why they insisted on an investigation of you?”
I first shook my head but then replied, “I can see the administrators, Bryan and Feghali, engaging in this bizarre cover-up attempt due to either incompetence or who knows what else they may be trying to protect. But you said
they
. Are there others outside the Language unit who pressed on this?”
Agent Tilton paused and then answered, “SAC Frields, for one. Also, they notified some people at headquarters and had them call us. I still don’t understand.”
“What’s next? What do you want me to do? Am I still under investigation?”
“Here is what I’m going to do. I’m going to call your unit—Bryan and Feghali—and then I’ll also call headquarters and tell them that based on my review of the case and the memo, and based on the interviews I conducted with you and Bryan, I found no malice and no case of a security breach to be investigated.” She paused again. “Based on the response I get from them, especially the response from headquarters, we’ll either close this investigation or continue. You’ll know in a few days, by the end of this week.”
I stood up. “Do you have any other questions? Is this over?”
She also stood and replied, “No, that’s all for now. Thank you for your cooperation.”
I took the elevator back down to the fourth floor. Almost everyone in the unit was gone. Both Bryan and Feghali’s doors were half shut and the lights were out. I looked at my watch: almost six. I had spent the entire day dealing with this mess, being accused and threatened, and then interrogated for reporting criminal activities and wrongdoing. I needed to at least do something productive, to get my mind off this situation.
From the corner of my eye I spotted Dickerson, heading in my direction. She came straight up to me and hissed, “You asked for it. What did I tell you about the FBI not giving a damn about it, huh? This is nothing. The worst is yet to come—for your family in Turkey. You can blame yourself for what’s to come for them.” She then named both my sisters and the neighborhood in Turkey in which the middle one lived.
I was horror stricken, too shocked to respond. She spun around and left. I stood glued to the spot for some time, not moving; then I surveyed my surroundings: there, a translator, four cubicles down. I went over, and she looked up and smiled. “Amerika,” I began (that was her real name), “did you happen to hear any of the conversation that took place just now?”
“You mean Dickerson?”
I nodded.
“Not really.”
“Did you happen to hear anything?”
She thought a moment. “Something about your family; your sisters. I thought one of their names was very pretty …”
This was better than nothing. I thanked her and asked her to remember this, to write it down. She looked puzzled. “Don’t worry,” I assured her, “just remember, OK? I’ll document it.” Reluctantly, she nodded again.
Back at my computer, I opened a new file and word document noting the date, time and conversation; I also noted the name of the translator who witnessed the event and what she said she’d heard. I saved it; then I e-mailed both Bryan and Feghali an account of what had occurred with Dickerson. I clicked Send and off it went: I was on record. From that day on, from that moment, I made sure all my communications—everything that occurred at work—were documented and witnessed. This was a battle.
That night, after dinner, I sat down with Matthew and told him everything—omitting only classified details related to names and specific criminal activities. I unloaded nonstop, barely taking time for breath. I’d bottled up so much that now it all came pouring out in a flood. By the time I finished I was exhausted.
Matthew listened intently without interrupting. Although he knew some of the issues, he was stunned by the extent of what had gone on and horrified at the implications. He started to pace. “I think you had better call your sister in Turkey and have her pack her stuff and come here immediately.”
“How can she? She has a job, a career! She is engaged to be married next year. What am I going to tell her? Pack and leave everything behind and come over here? What will she do here? How long will she stay? I—”
He cut me off, explaining the stark facts. My sister in Turkey had been named. “At least your other sister is here,” he pointed out, “and I’m glad you persuaded your mother not to go back…. You know what they can do to you over there; you know there are no laws and no protections over there for either you or your family.”
Agreed; but how could I persuade my family? They knew nothing about the situation, nothing about the threats.
“I have a suggestion. Don’t make it sound permanent … Tell her to take a leave of absence from work for a couple of months—if necessary, without pay. Once she gets here, while she’s here, we’ll decide what to do. She’ll make her decision based on the situation.”
“What am I going to tell my mother?”
“For now, I’d say nothing. Let’s wait until your sister gets here.”
“When should I call?”
“Now. Right now.”
I made the call. Even though it was five in the morning there, I wasted no time explaining. I urged her to take a leave of absence, to get here as fast she could. I’d tell her more later, face to face. I mentioned her safety, without going into detail. I knew I didn’t make much sense.
My sister responded by telling me about the upcoming busy season in her job, her plans with her fiancé, the wedding, house shopping …
“You listen to me,” I cut her off. “You know me very well. You’ve known me your whole life. Have I ever asked something this peculiar from you? Trust me this one time and take my word for it. If I could give you more reasons right now, over the phone, I would. I can’t. All I’m asking is for you to trust my judgment and do what I’m asking this one time. Please?”
She sighed. “I’ll talk with my boss at work; see how it goes.”
I pushed harder. “Talk to them right now. Not tomorrow—today. I’ll call you tomorrow. You’ll tell me when you’re leaving and I’ll get your tickets.”
My hands were shaking when I hung up the phone.
My next two working days at the FBI were strange. Coworkers openly avoided me. Feghali had spread the word about me being under criminal investigation.
Kevin Taskesen was sent to Guantanamo, Cuba, for an eight-week stint translating interrogation sessions. Kevin—who had failed his proficiency tests for English and even Turkish—was sent to translate for Uzbeks, Turks, Azerbaijanis, Chechens, and all the rest of the other Turkic language-speaking detainees. I remember the day he came to me in tears saying he should not be sent, that he wasn’t qualified.
Behrooz Sarshar was sent to “purgatory”—that’s what the bureau called it. Those who are subjects of an investigation are placed in low-level positions in a different office during their investigation. This period of purgatory usually, if not always, concludes with that person being fired. Amin and I suspected that in Behrooz’s case, he must have decided to notify headquarters about the Iranian informant’s warnings prior to 9/11. Now he was paying the price for doing the right thing.
With Behrooz in purgatory, Kevin in Guantanamo, Amin on a TDY (paid travel assignment), and Saccher having disappeared, I had no one left in my corner.
The lull ended the following week, on February 14, Valentine’s Day, with a phone call around noon. It was Agent Tilton; she wanted me to go up and see her.
“Sibel,” she greeted me cordially. “I did my best to persuade headquarters and Bryan. They still insist on a full-blown investigation of you.”
“What’s left to investigate? I told you everything. You’ve seen the memo. I gave you guys the disc. I have nothing more to add.”
“Actually you do. They want us to examine your computer—your PC.”
“My home computer?” I asked, incredulous.
She nodded. “Of course, you can demand a court-issued subpoena, but I recommend highly against that. We, the security department, know there will be nothing there, but others, as you know, insist.”
“That computer is not mine alone, my husband and I share it. He has his and his clients’ data on it. After I typed the memo, I put it on a disc and erased the file from the PC, just as Bryan instructed. I gave you guys the disc and the only printed copy.”
“I know,” she said. “It will take us only a few hours to check the PC and confirm that there is nothing there, then report to headquarters. Let’s get this over with ASAP. You don’t want this ridiculous investigation hovering over your head. Forcing us to get a subpoena will only aggravate everyone more, and will drag this out longer for you.”
I had to think. “When?”
“Today. In a couple of hours.”
“I have to call my husband and get his consent,” I told her, resigned. “Do I have your word on this entire ‘investigation’ masquerade being over once you check my computer and find that it’s clean?”
“You have my word,” she responded quickly.
Once out on the street I pulled out my cell and called Matthew. When I told him about Tilton, he was livid.
“What do you mean by ‘making sure it’s clean’? What do they think you have in there, secret codes?”
I explained that the longer this dragged out, the more I’d be harassed by Bryan, Feghali and Frields.
“Then tell them to go and get a subpoena. This is a huge privacy issue. All our life is in that computer: our contacts, finances, my client list and their information. I want to see how they are going to come up with a subpoena …”
I told him the FBI can get whatever they want from federal judges. I had nothing classified in our computer. “Let’s get this over with.”
He could hear desperation verging on panic in my voice. “Okay, let them come,” he said calmly, “but I’m going to have them sign a sheet agreeing to record the chain of custody of the computer while they have it in their possession. I’ll also have them sign an agreement promising to back up everything before they pull out or touch anything in the computer. Understood?”
“Yes, do what you think is right. Let me call Tilton. I’ll call you in two minutes.”
I called Tilton and gave her the OK. She said they’d be at my house in an hour or so. I called Matthew back and told him they were on their way.
Before he was angry and scared; now he was really pissed off. “The FBI has nothing better to do than send their agents to chase, harass, and investigate law-abiding citizens? These guys are supposed to be out there chasing criminals and terrorists!”
I could almost smile; here was Matthew, ever calm and even-tempered, always the optimist, aflame with this gross injustice. Bravo!
Then they came and took our computer.
It was already dark, and I was one of the few translators who had stayed to work late. I had my headset on, typing, rewinding, and typing again. While focused on the screen, I sensed someone beside me. I turned and there was Saccher, looking at me. I glanced at my watch: it was past six. Saccher usually left no later than three. I hadn’t seen him since my home computer was confiscated, and had received no response to the voice mails I’d left. I knew he was under severe pressure from his boss—but I could also tell how angry and frustrated he was.
I removed the headset and put the tape on Pause. “And where have you been? I’ve left dozens of messages for you! Do you know what I’ve been going through the past two weeks?”
“Long story; they don’t want us to communicate.”
“They? Who is
they
?”
“My boss, Frields; you know … I stopped by to … Sibel, this is bigger than what you think it is …”
I threw up my hands. “Bigger than a scandal involving espionage, blocked translations, tipping off FBI targets? Bigger than U.S. officials passing state secrets to criminal thugs? Look, we’ve got the blocked translations and documented them; we know who she’s working for … I sent a letter to headquarters—”
Saccher interrupted me. “You don’t get it, do you? This goes beyond the Dickersons and the targets. There is no way the bureau will let it go further. Do you realize what they’re going to have on their hands if they pursue this? Combine Watergate with Iran-Contra: elected politicians, State guys, Pentagon, MIC, espionage, money laundering, terrorists—”
Now I cut him off. “So? Everything is documented, we have them on tapes … once we take it further up, it will be pursued. It’s one thing to deal with Frields … it’s another story when it gets to the guys on top.”
By that time we already knew about the previous administration’s plan to bring a special prosecutor to look into that part of the scandal involving State Department officials, lobbyists, and some representatives.
He narrowed his eyes. “I was referring to the guys on top,” he said in a near whisper. “They want this to go away. No one up there is going to pursue this. Instead, get ready—they’ll come after you. Haven’t you already realized that much?”
I shrugged and took in a breath. “Fine, then we’ll take it to Congress, the Intel Committee, Judiciary—”
He forced a frustrated laugh. “And who are you going to go to in Congress? Let’s see, you and I know of a dozen or so dirty ones in Congress—filthy ones involved in this damn thing. How many more are there; those we don’t know about? Who in Congress are you going to trust, Sibel?”
Saccher pointed at the area behind me, covered by hundreds of cubicles. “Do you ever wonder how many elected officials are involved in the dirty stuff these people are covering? Chinese, Russians, Saudis, Israelis, Pakistanis … I’m asking you again: How will you determine who’s clean to go to in Congress? The filth touches both parties, so we don’t even have partisanship on our side, my friend. You heard my boss:
This is a can of worms.
Those were his exact words; considering the realities, an understatement. Remember?”
Then it hit me. Saccher now was telling me to let it go. They had gotten to him. “What are you telling me, Dennis? That’s it? You’re no longer pursuing this? What is it you’re asking me to do?”
He pulled a swivel chair from a nearby cubicle and sat to face me. “That’s why I came here tonight. I like you, Sibel,” he continued, “a lot. You’re one of the best language specialists this department has ever had. You’re bright, overly qualified, and I hate to see them destroy your life. This place is disgusting. I became an agent believing in it; I was wrong. Know what I’m planning to do? As soon as I get my GS-13 status, I’m out of here, on my way to work for Boeing in California…. Now, as a friend, as someone who likes you, respects you, and as someone who knows far more about the shit that goes on here, I have one piece of advice for you: go home tonight, write a one-page resignation letter, submit it tomorrow, and then leave. Run for your life and don’t ever look back.”
I blinked a few times and said simply, “I’m not going to do that. I just can’t. It’s already too late.” I vowed I would take this as far as I could, adding, “How can you give up?”
His shoulders drooped; the dark circles and heavy rings under his eyes—his whole resigned expression—made him look years older. He stood up slowly. “I have two babies and a wife to take care of, Sibel. I also have more experience with this shit hole than you. I know what they can do to people like you—messengers. They will come after you. They will destroy your marriage, your finances, your future career … and there is nowhere to go, nowhere to run to. No one will ever come to rescue you, Sibel, neither the Congress nor the courts. They will make your life miserable. They have already started doing just that. What we know will never see the light of day.”
“Dennis, are you telling me that you won’t back me up when it gets into the right hands?”
“There’s no such a thing,
right people, right hands
. I said what I was going to say. Resign and leave, now. Don’t ever say I didn’t warn you.” Then he walked away.
I watched him until he exited through the double glass doors. That was the last time I saw or spoke to Dennis Saccher. From that point on, the bureau assigned him somewhere else, outside the Washington field office. My operations boss simply disappeared.
Later that evening, when my anger had subsided somewhat, I reflected on our conversation, going over it again and again. What would I have done, if I were he? The bureau operates on the military command model; his boss had ordered him not to pursue this. To continue would mean risking a fifteen-year career and his family’s livelihood. Saccher had two young children; his family depended solely on him. I also knew that if Saccher were ever questioned, subpoenaed or placed under oath, he’d tell the truth—he’d tell it all.
I had to get to those who were in a position to bring this corruption into the light. Once this case and the facts were in proper hands, my role would be over. All I needed to do was to find a few good people in our government.
How hard could that be?
More than a week had passed since the infamous memo, yet I had not been given an appointment with the head of our unit, Special Agent in Charge Thomas Frields. There had been no response to my request for a meeting. I did not, however, plan to wait around forever; neither would I bombard Bryan with e-mails for that promised meeting with Frields. Instead, I decided to go to the next level: to report the case to HQ and ask for an investigation.
After some fishing and poking around, I found that the most helpful person to contact would be the executive assistant director for Counterterrorism and Counterintelligence, Dale Watson.
At home I wrote a brief, one-page letter to Watson and sent it to his office at FBI Headquarters via certified mail. My letter emphasized the urgency of the situation, its impact on the integrity of the translated intelligence and consequences to national security.
About a week after I sent the letter, Bryan called to let me know that Frields wanted to meet with me. The meeting was scheduled for two o’clock at his office. I told her I’d be there. When I entered at two precisely, Bryan was already seated.
SAC Thomas Frields was in his early-to-mid sixties, of average height, with a slight body, heavily wrinkled face, and a set of sharp blue eyes. He spoke with a thick Southern drawl. I had not met him before but had heard him described as a bigot and a sexist who patronized women every chance he got. There were rumors of an ugly past, and of his disdain for and hatred of female agents. How much of this was true I wasn’t sure.
Frields shook my hand and guided me to the sofa. I had my pen and notepad with me. He took the chair next to Bryan, so that both sat facing me.
“Ms. Edmonds,” Frields began, “I’ve heard a lot of good stuff about you. I understand you have accumulated quite a file of commendation letters in such a short period of time; agents keep requesting you as their case translator. That’s very impressive. I also find your background very impressive. You’ve lived in Iran, in Turkey; attended school in both countries. I understand you’ll graduate this year; criminal justice?”
I was surprised. I didn’t see this coming. What was the game? “Yes, criminal justice, and I’m also majoring in psychology.”
He nodded. “What are your plans? I understand you’ve applied for National Security Studies, graduate school. Have you considered becoming an agent? You’re a perfect candidate: language skills, international experience, relevant degrees, and obviously meticulous in what you do.”
This was getting really strange. “I haven’t thought about it.”
“Well, I certainly hope that you will at least consider it.”
I couldn’t prolong this further. We were wasting time with phony niceties. “Agent Frields,” I started in, “I understand you were given the memo I wrote two weeks ago and the set of initial audit translations of Ms. Dickerson’s work. I’m sure you were also told by SA Saccher about Dickerson’s previous employment and associations, all of which were omitted from her application and somehow strangely and unexplainably missed by the background investigator.”
Frields raised both hands to stop me. I stopped. “Ms. Edmonds, I got everything. I reviewed everything. In fact, I investigated everything you and SA Saccher had reported. That’s why it took a while to grant this meeting. But we are done looking into this stuff. First of all, I want to tell you, thank you for doing the right thing, for bringing this to our attention. You did the right thing. Second, I’m here today, meeting with you, to assure you that everything has been taken care of, everything has been looked at, and that you’ve got nothing to worry about. You have my word.”
I paused and tried to digest what he’d said. I had to think before I replied. Some of it didn’t make sense. “As far as I know … we haven’t even
begun
to go over and audit the blocked translations and those intentionally mistranslated. My family and I have been threatened directly by Ms. Dickerson—twice. We have an unresolved case of my signature being forged on sensitive counterterrorism-related documents by Ms. Dickerson; the case coincidentally involves certain Turkish detainees in New Jersey who happen to be connected to our targets of investigations who, in return, happened to buy their way into the State Department in order to get them released, off the hook—”
Frields cut me off, no longer smiling. “Ms. Edmonds, those things are not for you to worry about. You did your job; you notified us. We did ours, and determined that there is nothing to worry about. Now we all have to move on.”
“Agent Frields,” I responded quickly, “it
is
my business. When I took this job, I was informed by the briefing security officer that everyone who worked in this unit had to pass thorough background checks. I was assured that neither I nor my family in Turkey would ever be compromised over there, in Turkey, as a result of what I happened to be doing here as my job. If you read those files, you should be very well aware of the fact that the targets of our counterintelligence operations happen to be close associates and former coworkers of Ms. Dickerson. As you know, we are talking about dangerous Mafia-like criminals here who happen to have a free hand in Turkey, with complete immunity. Are you telling me that you are assuring my immediate family’s safety in Turkey?”
Frields leaned over and said, “I’m not promising such a thing. I can assure your safety and theirs as long as you are in the United States. That’s all. I want to repeat myself one more time: we have decided not to investigate this case because we have found
no need to do so
.”
I too leaned over, but for a different reason: I started to write down what Frields had just said. This mightily ticked him off. He instantly changed from Jekyll to Hyde.
“And just what the hell are you doing?”
“I’m taking notes of your assurance on the Dickersons; and I’m taking notes of your statement of deciding not to investigate this case, that’s all.”
His face turned fiery red and he sharply raised his voice. “I have a question for you. Besides SA Saccher, Ms. Bryan, Agent Tilton and myself, have you taken this issue to anyone else?”
“You mean within the FBI?”
“I mean anywhere.”
“I have not taken this issue, reported it, outside the FBI.”
“That was not my question. I already named the individuals; I asked you anyone,
anyone
, besides the individuals I named?”
“I understand. I have not reported this issue outside the FBI.”
Now he was yelling. “You stop playing games with me, miss! Who else have you told within the bureau? Have you notified anyone at headquarters?”
I answered him calmly. “After waiting for a meeting with you for almost ten days, I did notify an appropriate person at HQ.”
Frields stood up and started pacing. He stopped and turned to me. “I want names. Who did you report it to at HQ?”
“I notified an appropriate person, at the executive level.”
He pounded his fist into his hand. “I said I wanted
names
. Disclosing this to an unauthorized person will land you in jail. Do you want to be on your way to jail?”
“Are you telling me that the director and assistant directors are not authorized, or not cleared, to know what goes on inside this unit?”
He now towered over me, looking down with an anger I can’t even begin to describe. “This is the last time I’m asking you. If you refuse to answer I’ll have a security officer put you under arrest for unauthorized disclosure of the highest level state secrets. Do you understand? Now, who did you notify?”
I was dumbfounded. Why would he go into such a panic? If what he said were true—that there was absolutely nothing to investigate or look into—then why would he be so worried about me contacting a senior executive at headquarters? He was threatening me with arrest for writing a letter to the assistant director of Counterintelligence?
“I sent a letter to Dale Watson,” I replied, looking Frields in the eye. “I requested a meeting to brief his office on what’s been occurring and obviously being covered up here. Now I want to see how you can legally threaten me with investigation and jail time for sending a letter to an assistant director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“When was that letter sent?”
“Three or four days ago.”
Frields sprinted toward his desk, grabbed his briefcase and started toward the door. Then he stopped and turned around. “I’m on my way to HQ now,” he said to Bryan. “This cannot wait. I’ll intercept that letter or make sure it will be intercepted if it hasn’t gotten there. I won’t have that letter going to Mueller or Watson.”
I had forgotten Bryan was there; she hadn’t opened her mouth. She stood up and I did the same. As Frields chased into an elevator, Bryan and I went back to the Language unit—separately.
On my way in, I bumped into Amin. He looked at me with concern. “Are you feeling all right? You look so white!” I realized my hands were ice.
“I was in an hour-long meeting with Frields and Bryan. I expect the worst to come.”
Amin suggested we go and grab some hot tea. I agreed and we headed to the cafeteria in the basement. The exhaustion hit me as soon as I sat, and the windowless room closed in on me.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Have you heard about my situation? Dickerson? Feghali?” I asked him.
Amin mentioned gossip, and that Feghali had been bad-mouthing me. “According to him you are under investigation for a serious security breach and possible espionage; the bureau is about to fire you, and your agent, Saccher, doesn’t want to work with you. We all know it’s a bunch of boloney.”
“
I’m
the one who reported possible espionage! Actually, Saccher is the one who discovered Dickerson’s intentional blocking of CI, which in turn led to him checking her employment file and realizing that she worked—and still associates with—our primary two targets.” I gave him the thumbnail version of the case.
Amin looked desperately concerned. “You can still back off from the whole thing. Are you sure you want to continue to press on? It seems Saccher is in hiding, shitting in his pants.”
I disagreed, explaining about Frields’ strenuous objections and Saccher’s family situation—but more importantly, that I could not, as a matter of conscience, simply turn around and leave at this point. “We’ll see what happens when it gets to HQ,” I told him.
“Who did you send it to there?”
“Dale Watson.”
Amin dealt with some very high-profile cases and knew just about everyone. “Don’t know much about that one; only that he is a pretty boy, risk-averse bureaucrat. I heard he is under tremendous pressure over nine eleven. So it will be tossing the dice for you.”
I told him of Frields’ plan to intercept and that I would call Watson’s office the next day to make sure that he got the letter.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t get my hopes up for any action by HQ,” Amin continued. “Frields has a lot of friends up there. You think what you see in here is bad! … the FBI assigns its worst, most incompetent people to HQ …”
“Well, that’s as high as I can go internally. Where else can I go?” I shook my head in disgust. “What’s happening with Behrooz? Did he go to HQ?”
Amin nodded; he looked sad.
“Who in HQ? Amin, I can corroborate his report, at least some of it.”
“It went directly to Mueller. They’ve made his life miserable. I can’t tell you everything I know, but I think they will do everything in their power to keep this from coming out.” He looked at his watch. “It’s time to head up, my friend. Next we’ll be accused of conspiring on the job!” He gave a forced laugh. I knew it wasn’t meant to be funny. I understood his fear of retaliation from being seen with me. I understood too well.
The following morning I called Dale Watson’s office and left a message. His secretary called back and left a voice mail saying the letter had been received a few days earlier. He had gotten it.
I called his office once again for an appointment. The secretary was evasive; she wouldn’t give a straight answer. This went on for several days until I received another voice mail from HQ—but not from Watson’s office. The woman identified herself as an assistant to Deputy Assistant Director Tim Caruso at FBI HQ. I was asked to call her back to set up an appointment with Mr. Caruso. My letter had gone to Dale Watson, who oversaw the Language unit. Who was this Tim Caruso?
I called her back. She was crisp. “It was decided to transfer your letter to Mr. Caruso and have him handle the meeting you requested.”
“Why?” I asked. She didn’t know. She scheduled me for March 7 at noon.
The next day at work I stopped by Amin’s desk. “Who is Tim Caruso?”
He let out a long low whistle. “Don’t tell me
he’s
the one who is going to meet with you!”
I was annoyed. “As a matter of fact he is. I got a call from his office. My letter to Dale Watson was transferred to his office and I’m scheduled to meet with him on March seven.”
“Now you can say with one hundred percent certainty that your letter was successfully intercepted by Agent Frields!” He laughed unpleasantly.
“What do you mean?”
“Tom Frields and Tim Caruso used to be partners. They both worked for the FBI Washington Field Office Counterterrorism unit dealing with Iran. They’re
buddies
. Caruso is Frields’ guardian angel at HQ…. Caruso has gotten Frields’ ass out of trouble more than once …”