Walder Tracy - The Unexpected Spy: From the CIA to the FBI, My Secret Life Taking Down Some of the Worlds Most Notorious Terrorists: Jessica Anya Blau

After 9/11

It was the smallest thing, but I needed it to feel like myself, to feel human. I wanted to believe that the world hadnt changed completely.

Mom, I said into the phone, can you make me a root touch-up appointment at Salon Renee George in Reston, Virginia?

What? my mother said. Where are you calling from?

I was standing on the other side of the world, in the middle of blown-out rubble, in 109-degree heat, armed, and with a charcoal pashmina draped around my shoulders. My mother had no idea where I was. No one did, other than those who were with me and the five people I worked with at Langley. But Id spotted an Inmarsat phoneas large as a brickin the room where Id left my bulletproof vest. Id snatched the Inmarsat and run outside to make the call. The phone was pressed to my ear. Sweat ran down my cheek. My back was to one of the armed guards two feet away, smoking an unfiltered cigarette. Beyond the heavily guarded borders of where I stood, people were being blown apart by improvised explosive devices (IEDs), museums were being looted, and men were holing up together in packs, trying to figure out the best way to kill the greatest number of people in one fell swoop.

My life felt upside down, and I needed just one thing to set me upright again, one thing to create a sense of normalcy. Even if that normalcy only extended to the ends of my hair.

Johnny ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ came looking for me. The crunching of his boots on the gravel was the loudest sound around. I turned and gave him the one-minute signal.

Mom, I have to go just try and make the appointment for next month, Ill be there the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth, and then Ill be back here. I love you!

Those last three words always felt more emotional, more poignant, when I said them while standing in a war zone.

That morning had been like any other. I had gone to the kitchen of the abandoned building we used for offices, dining, and a makeshift bar, which we had named ~~~~~~~~~~~~ , and ate French fries. Other than black coffee, bottled water, and the cookie dough PowerBars Id brought from the States, this was my only sustenance. Most people in this facility were suffering from dysentery. So far, the fries-and-bars diet had kept me safe.

After breakfast, I had picked out a perfect orange from the fruit bin, and then gone down the hall to the safe where I got my Glock and holster out of a lockbox and put on a bulletproof vest. Then I had trotted down the old, sloping marble steps and out of the decrepit building, through the dust to the single-wide trailer that was my home.

My trailer, number 4, was a plain white box inside and out. The only personal item I had was my pink reading lamp. Many nights, I was so tired that I never even turned it on. But when I wasnt tired, reading was the best way to empty my mind and escape the intensity of the day.

The trailer on my left belonged to a doctor, who regularly visited ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ and was on call for any of the government employees.

The trailer on my right belonged to a guy in human resources. Beyond him was the resident psychologist, one of the few other women at this location. Like the medical doctor, her charge was ~~~~~~~~~ as well as employees. It must have been a tough job, as everyones traumas were interconnected. Obviously, it would be worse to be a ~~~~~~~~ than the person who is ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ . But no one should ever think that the experience ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ is emotionally easy. It didnt bring about feelings of joy.

The gravel and dirt area around our four trailers was unadorned. But surrounding many of the other trailers, especially those inhabited by the Navy SEALs, were pink flamingos, blow-up pools, and lounge chairs. An ironic attempt to duplicate American trailer-park life.

The government-issued white sheets on everyones bed were changed weekly by local men who had been thoroughly vetted. The guards who worked the entry gate and the people who worked in the kitchen were also local men. Because I could never leave the facility without hiding in some way, my only acquaintance with the people of the country I was now inhabiting was through these workers. I had to trust them with my life, and, I suppose, they were trusting us with their lives as well. A polite reserve was in place, however, and so I never felt like I knew any of them.