Free Classified Woman by Sibel Edmonds

about this.”
    The agents, exasperated and impatient, told him they reported it and now it would be up to those in charge. When they were leaving, the informant yelled in Farsi, “Why don’t you tell the CIA? Tell the White House! Don’t let them sit on this until it is too late …”
    Sarshar asked one of the agents if he thought sharing this with other agencies might be a good idea. As Sarshar described it, the agent rolled his eyes. “Not up to us, Behrooz. As far as the White House goes, the HQ guys will include it in their briefings; I’m sure they’ve already done so. Frields is obligated to submit what he got, everything he gets under Counterterrorism, to the HQ guys in charge of White House national security briefings. He always does. So, the White House and other agencies have already heard about this. Let’s drop this, man, will ya?”
    He told me, “That was the last time we ever discussed this case before the nine eleven attacks took place. The only other person I told this to and showed the 302 forms and the translation report to, before September eleven, was Amin here. Then, on that Tuesday morning on September eleven, everything came back to me and hit me on the head like several tons of bricks … we were warned about this. We were told, very specifically.”
    Sarshar spoke of getting together with both agents a few days later to go over an assignment; Amin had been present when he brought up the topic. “They avoided eye contact with me. I asked them what they were going to do, if they’d already done something. At first they were evasive. Then, after I insisted, one of them said, ‘Listen, Frields called us into his office and gave us an order, an absolute order.’ I asked them what the order was. He said, ‘We never got any warnings. Those conversations never existed; it never happened, period. No one should ever mention a word about this, period. Never!’ I almost went ballistic; Amin sat quietly with his head down.”
    He paused. “That was the end of it, Sibel. The top managers—those in charge you now want to inform—are the ones who are covering up reports and cases like this. And you want to go and take it up to them?”
    I was mortified; shocked. When I finally found my voice, I asked, “What are you guys going to do with this? Are you going to obey Frields’ order, for God’s sake?”
    Amin responded this time. “It’s too late, Sibel. What was done was done. We cannot turn back the clock. Also, there is no place to go with this. They seemed to all be in this together: the CIA, the White House … That’s how I view it.”
    I turned to Sarshar. He whispered, “I can’t let this go. One way or another, this will get out. I made several copies of the documents; they are resting in very safe places.” He handed me the file with the 302 forms.
    They were right. In my case, however, here was the difference: a man was in U.S. custody; the agent in charge of his case was suspicious, but did not know to what degree his target related to the events surrounding 9/11. Even more importantly, the target had discussed plans about future “female operatives” and means to obtain visas for them illegally; to what ends, exactly?
    I repeated what I thought, this time out loud, and went back to my desk to make sure that my documents and file—what was left of it—remained in more than one safe place.
    About half an hour later, Sarshar, Amin, and Mariana, a French translator in her early thirties, stopped by my desk. “Mariana here also has an interesting nine eleven story, a major case,” Sarshar began. “Come on, Marie, tell Sibel.”
    Mariana didn’t seem too happy to be dragged into this. She rolled her eyes. “In late June—two thousand one, that is—the French Intelligence contacted us, the FBI, with a warning of upcoming attacks. They had intercepted intelligence that showed planning for attacks in the U.S. via airplanes. They also provided us with some names: suspects.”