we’ve added a few CIA officers, plus people from other Federal and State law enforcement and intelligence agencies. The actual number is classified, and if someone asks me how many people work here, I say, “About half.”
The New York Task Force experiment worked well, and prior to September 11, 2001, there were about thirty-five other anti-terrorist task forces across the country. Now, post-9/11, there are over a hundred nationwide. A sign of the times.
The theory behind these task forces is that if you mix people from various law enforcement and intelligence agencies into a single organization, you will get different skills and mind-sets coming together to form synergy, and that will lead to better results. It sort of works. I mean, my wife is FBI and I’m NYPD and we get along and communicate pretty well. In fact, everyone here would get along better if they slept with one another.
The other reason for including the local police in the Federal Task Force is that most FBI agents—my wife included—are from non-urban areas, meaning the ’burbs or the boondocks. So in a big city like New York, it’s the local cops who know the territory. I’ve instructed new FBI agents on how to read a subway map and I’ve pinpointed for them the location of every Irish pub on Second and Third Avenues.
In any case, I’m actually a contract agent here, meaning I’m a civilian. Until five years ago I was NYPD, but I’m retired on medical disability as a result of being shot three times in the line of duty, all on the same day. I’m fine physically (mentally maybe not so fine), but there were other reasons to take the offer to retire. Now, like a lot of ex-cops, I’ve found a new career with the Feds, who have zillions of anti-terrorist dollars to spend. Do I like this job? I was about to find out.
CHAPTER THREE
My boss and my wife were sitting at a round table near a big window that faced south with a good view of Lower Manhattan and the Statue of Liberty in the harbor; a view now unobstructed by the Towers, though on the window was a black decal of the missing buildings with the words “Never Forget.”
No one, myself included, commented on my lateness, and I took a seat at the table.
I am not overly fond of Mr. Walsh, but I respect the job he does, and I appreciate the stress he’s under. I’d like to think I make his job easier, but… well, I don’t. I have, however, covered his butt on occasion and made him look good. He does the same for me now and then. It’s a trade-off for Tom. So why did he want to send me to Yemen?
Tom informed me, “Kate and I haven’t discussed the subject of my memo.”
“Good.” Bullshit.
Kate is career FBI, which is maybe why she likes the boss. Or maybe she just likes him, which is maybe why I don’t.
A quick word about Special Agent in Charge Tom Walsh. He’s young for the job—mid-forties—good-looking if you like store mannequins, never married, but in a long-term relationship with a woman who is as self-absorbed and narcissistic as he is. Did that come out right?
As for his management style, he’s somewhat aloof with his own FBI agents, and he’s borderline condescending to the NYPD detectives under his command. He demands total loyalty, but he’s forgotten that the essence of loyalty is reciprocity. Tom is loyal to his superiors in Washington; everyone else is expendable. I never forget that when I deal directly with him. Like now.
But human beings are very complex, and I’ve seen a better side of Tom Walsh. As a for-instance, in our last major case, involving the Libyan terrorist Asad Khalil, a.k.a. The Lion, Walsh exhibited a degree of physical bravery that matched anything I’ve seen in my twenty years with the NYPD and my four years with the Task Force. If it wasn’t for that one act of incredible courage, when he put his life on the line to save thousands of innocent lives, I’d now be thinking about another job when my contract expires next month.
Tom got right to the point and said, “Let me get right to the point.” He glanced at an e-mail in front of him and informed us, “Two overseas postings have come down from Washington.”
I inquired, “Paris and Rome?”
“No,” he replied, “two jobs in Sana’a.” He reminded me, “That’s the capital of Yemen.”
“Not happening,” I assured