On Monday, I’m sending the attached file to various correspondents at the Post, Times, AP, and network news channels — with an explanation.
Have a nice weekend.
Gideon Crew
7
Chamblee S. Tucker sat behind an enormous desk in the oak-paneled study of his house in McLean, Virginia, thoughtfully hefting a four-pound Murano glass paperweight in one hand. At seventy years old, he was fit for his age and proud of it.
He shifted the paperweight to the other hand, pressed it a few times.
A knock came at the door.
“Come in.” He set the paperweight down with exquisite care.
Charles Dajkovic entered the study. He was in civilian clothes, but his bearing and physique shouted military: whitewall haircut, massive neck, ramrod posture, steely blue eyes. A grizzled, close-clipped mustache was his only concession to civilian life.
“Good morning, General,” he said.
“Good morning, Charlie. Sit down. Have a cup of coffee.”
“Thank you.” The man eased his frame into the proffered chair. Tucker indicated a silver salver on a nearby side table with coffeepot, sugar, cream, and cups. Dajkovic helped himself.
“Let’s see now…” The general paused. “You’ve been with Tucker and Associates for, what, ten years?”
“That’s about right, sir.”
“But you and I, we go way back.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We have a history. Operation Urgent Fury. That’s why I hired you: because the trust built on the battlefield is the finest trust that exists in this crazy world. Men who haven’t fought together in battle don’t even know the full meaning of the words trust and loyalty.”
“That’s very true, sir.”
“And that is why I asked you to come to my home. Because I can trust you.” The general paused. “Let me tell you a story. It has a moral but you’ll have to figure it out on your own. I can’t be too specific — you’ll see why.”
A nod.
“Ever hear of John Walker Lindh?”
“The ‘American Taliban’?”
“Right. And Adam Gadahn?”
“Isn’t he the guy who joined al-Qaeda and makes videos for Bin Laden?”
“Right you are. I’ve come into possession of some highly classified information regarding a third American convert — only this one is far more dangerous.” Tucker paused again. “This fellow’s father worked for INSCOM when I was there. Turned out the man was a traitor, passing information to the Soviets. You may remember the aftermath: he took a hostage over at the old HQ. Our snipers took him down. His kid witnessed it.”
“I recall that incident.”
“What you don’t know, because it’s also classified, is that he was responsible for exposing twenty-six operatives. They were swept up in one night and tortured to death in Soviet gulags.”
Dajkovic said nothing. He set down the now empty coffee cup.
“That’s just background. You can imagine what it was like to grow up in that kind of environment…Anyway, just like Lindh and Gadahn, this fellow converted. Only he didn’t do anything stupid like go off to a training camp in Afghanistan. He went on to MIT and now he works at Los Alamos. Name’s Gideon Crew. C-R-E-W.”
“How’d he get security clearance?”
“Powerful friends in high places. He’s made no mistakes. He’s good, he’s totally convincing, he’s sincere. And he’s al-Qaeda’s pipeline to getting the Bomb.”
Dajkovic shifted in his seat. “Why don’t they arrest him? Or at least cancel his security clearance?”
Tucker leaned forward. “Charlie, are you really that naive?”
“I hope not, sir.”
“What do you think’s going on in this country? Just like we were infiltrated by the Reds during the Cold War, now we’re being infiltrated by jihadists. American jihadists.”
“I understand.”
“Now, with the kind of high-level protection this fellow has, he’s untouchable. There’s nothing concrete, of course. This information fell into my lap by accident, and I’m not one to shy away from defending my country. Imagine what al-Qaeda would do with a nuke.”
“It’s unthinkable.”
“Charlie, I know you. You were the top Special Forces guy in my command. You’ve got skills no one else has. The question is: how much do you love your country?”
The man seemed to swell in his chair. “You don’t ever need to ask me that question, sir.”
“I know that. That’s why you’re the only one I’d dare share this information with. All I can say is, sometimes a man has to take his patriotic duty into his own hands.”
Dajkovic remained silent. A faint flush had suffused his weathered face.
“Last time I checked, the fellow was in DC. Staying at the Luna Motel out in Dodge Park. We believe he’s going to make contact with a fellow jihadist. He may be getting ready to pass documents.”
Dajkovic said nothing.
“I don’t know how long he’s going to be there, or where he’s going next. He’s got a computer with him, of course, which is as dangerous as he is. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I understand completely. And I thank you for giving me this opportunity.”
“Charlie, thank you. From the bottom of my heart.” He grasped Dajkovic’s hand and then, in a spontaneous display of emotion, pulled him in and gave him a crushing hug.
As the fellow left, Tucker thought he noted tears in his eyes.
8
Skyline Drive swept around the curve of Stormtower Ridge, and the Manahoac Lodge and Resort came into view, a collection of condominiums and A-frames surrounding a hotel and golf course at the base of Stormtower Mountain. The Blue Ridge Mountains, layer after layer, stretched off behind into the hazy distance.
Dajkovic eased his foot off the pedal as the car approached the entrance to the resort, and he came to a stop at the gate.
“Just checking in,” he said, and was waved through.
Crew had left this forwarding address at the Luna Motel, written it down “in case someone needed to find him,” according to the clerk. He was staying at this resort now — isolated, long drive to get to, no doubt with security cameras up the wazoo. So either, as Tucker had said, Crew was getting ready to meet a fellow operative…or this was a trap. The latter seemed more likely. But a trap for whom? To what purpose?
Dajkovic swung into the entry drive and parked in front, giving the valet a five-dollar bill. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”
“Oh yes,” said the lady at the front desk in response to his query. “Gideon Crew checked in this morning.” She clicked away at a keyboard. “Left word for you he was climbing Stormtower Mountain—”
“For me?”
“Well,” she said, “the message he left says a man would be coming to meet with him, and we were to tell him where he’d gone.”
“I see.”
“It says here he’s climbing Stormtower by the Sawmill Trail, expects to be back by six.”
“How long is the climb?”
“About two hours each way.” She looked at him with a smile, her eyes running up and down his physique. “For you, probably less.”
Dajkovic checked the time. Two o’clock. “He must have just left.”
“Yes. The message was left at the front desk…just twenty minutes ago.”
“Do you have a map of the mountain?”
“Of course.”
She produced a map — an excellent topographic one, with the trails clearly marked. Dajkovic took it back to his car and climbed in. The Sawmill trailhead was down the road, and the map showed it to be a winding path going up the ridge of the mountain, apparently following an old fire road.