Black Site: A Love Story

PART ONE

ONE

Massachusetts, 2000

Laurel Fetzer had the round face, thick, curly hair, small nose, and full pouting lips of a wanton cherub—wanton, the word suited her. Her eyes were set at a slight slant, which gave her a feline look. She was on the border between average height and short. She had big breasts that many people, mostly other women, said were too big. She walked with them thrust defiantly forward, looking like a busty carved figurehead on the prow of an old sailing ship. When he was in one of his frequent bitchy moods, her journalist quasi-boyfriend Jeremy Gordon enjoyed telling people that Laurel’s breasts were like perfectly ripe fruit that are just a day away from going rotten. Her ass was also in that borderline area between big and too big. Laurel embodied excess in what she wore. She liked expensive cowboy boots and had a half dozen pair that she wore either with long clingy skirts of exotic, hand-loomed fabrics, or with jeans and tight tops. Sometimes she wore a bra, sometimes not. She liked to leave little to people’s imagination. She loaded up her arms with heavy silver jewelry. She had piercings and tattoos—multiple earrings, a small silver ring through her right nostril, a silver stud through her left eyebrow, a tattoo of a snake on her left shoulder, one of a lotus flower on her belly, and a big one of a tiger on her back that looked as if it had pounced on her shoulders and was reaching down to claw her butt. Laurel usually had a sleepy, just-been-fucked way about her. When men stood close to her they would automatically sniff the air as if smelling the powerful pheromones she was emitting.

People assumed from her appearance that, as one of her mother’s therapists put it, Laurel was all id and no ego; which was not true. She was bright, intuitive, and shrewd—albeit also undisciplined and impulsive. When her friends, Miki Herman and Helen Sears, called her dress and manner provocative and risky, Laurel said, If guys stare, and make crude comments, and grope, I can handle them—easily. I’m not going to go around in a burka like one of Marwan’s brainwashed cousins.

Laurel had been born in Peru, where her parents, both children of small business owners, ran their own small businesses exporting sweaters and dealing cocaine to gringo tourists. After some cartel guys shot her father, Laurel’s mother bundled her up and flew home to her parents in New York City. They lived with Pam’s parents above their discount shoe store on Columbus Avenue until Pam and Laurel moved to Western Massachusetts to live in a crafts commune.

Pam, was not technically a neglectful parent; she was a free spirit who easily got caught up in intense relationships with questionable men. This gave her a kind of tunnel vision, and consequently, little Laurel was often exposed to inappropriate, overstimulating behavior at the commune. Eventually, if not inevitably, Laurel was sexually abused. The perpetrator was Pam’s then-boyfriend Owen. Owen had studied photography, then lived for a number of years on an ashram, then had become a naturopathic healer. He claimed to specialize in treating children’s emotional disorders. Most often, Owen treated them over the telephone, prescribing and mailing out tinctures and drams to clients h had never seen in the flesh. However, he treated special cases in person in his private consulting room, which also doubled as his photo studio. On the walls of this room hung black and white photographs of children who had been his clients. The children stood, sat or lay in suggestive and provocative poses. Later on Pam’s therapist would tell her that these photographs were a red flag that should have warned Pam that Owen had boundary issues and would pose a threat to little Laurel.

Pam quite literally opened Pandora’s box one day when, as she was poking around in Owen's bedroom while he was on the phone in his consulting room, she discovered a dozen photographs of Laurel in an inlaid box. Little Laurel in lipstick and mascara, wearing her favorite frilly dress that Pam’s mother had bought for her in a small boutique on Madison Avenue, little Laurel on her knees with her butt in the air, little Laurel naked, posing with her mouth open and tongue protruding sensuously. Pam was sick to her stomach and could not look anymore. She put the photographs back in the box and rushed home to Laurel. She asked Laurel what she and Owen had done together. Laurel gave her mother a long, look and then said, We did stuff together.

What stuff? Pam asked.

We drew. Owen read me stories. We played games.

What games?

Like Fashion Model. Doctor. Mommy and Daddy.

Did he take pictures of you?

Yeah.

Did he do stuff with you?

What stuff?

Pam swallowed hard. Like . . . I don’t know . . . like stuff . . . she said tentatively.

Like feel-good stuff? little Laurel asked.

What did you say? Pam could barely breathe and barely hear.

Feel-good stuff.

Yes, what kind of feel-good stuff did he play with you?

Owen said it was special stuff.

Special feel-good stuff? Pam’s chest began to hurt. Maybe she was having a heart attack. Tell me what the special feel-good stuff was.

I’m not supposed to tell. Owen said so.

It’s okay to tell me, Laurel, I’m your mommy. Owen would want me to know.

Owen said it was our special secret just him and me.

Tell me! Pam tried not to shout. It’s okay. Owen and I do special feel-good stuff too.

I know. Sometimes I watch you.

Did Owen get naked with you?

Sometimes.

"Did Owen touch you?

Sometimes.

Where?

All over.

Did Owen kiss you?

Sometimes.

Where?

All over.

Did you touch him?

Sometimes.

Did you touch his . . . thing?

His pee-pee?

Yes, his pee-pee.

Uh-huh.

Did he force you to do it?

No.

Did you like it? Because it made you feel good?

Uh-huh. Just like when you and Owen do feel-good stuff. Laurel smiled happily at her mother like she and her mother were girlfriends.

Pam was starting to get angry at Laurel. She knew this was wrong, so she said, Yes, I like it too. Owen has a nice pee-pee. Trying to normalize.

Uh-huh.

Did you put it in your mouth? Pam thought she was going to gag.

Sometimes. Sometimes I made milk come out of it.

Did he put it inside you, between your legs? Pam wanted to stop asking Laurel these questions, but she couldn’t.

No.

Finally, Pam could stop. She had gotten to the end. She swallowed hard and said, You and I both love Owen very much. We’re lucky to have him in our lives.

The next day, Pam told Laurel that Owen had had to go back to Kansas suddenly because his mother was very sick. After a week, she told Laurel that Owen’s mother had died, wishing that, in reality, Owen had died.

Quickly, Pam moved Laurel and herself to Brookline, Massachusetts. Pam found a job doing cooking, cleaning, and childcare for the Hendersons, a wealthy family in a neighborhood called Cottage Farm. Pam found an apartment in nearby subsidized housing, and a therapist at the community mental health center. She and Laurel settled into their new life.

Pam’s therapist told her that one of the unfortunate complications of child sexual abuse when the abuse was not coercive or violent and when the relationship with the perpetrator seemed loving, was that the relationship could promote in the young child a kind of pseudo-promiscuous way of relating to people. Which was how it was with Laurel. In elementary school, she eagerly played sex games with the older brothers of her friend Crissy. Harmless play, Pam tried to insist when Crissy’s mother confronted her after discovering Laurel and Crissy fellating Crissy’s brothers, They have no idea what they’re doing. Pam’s therapist said Pam was in denial about how Laurel’s precocious exposure had created what the therapist referred to as Laurel issues. Because Pam felt strongly that Laurel needed to put the Owen episode behind her, she willfully blinded herself to the Laurel issues and ignored her therapist’s recommendation to seek treatment for Laurel’s sexual abuse. Believing it was a better way to support her daughter and promote whatever healing Laurel needed by encouraging her to develop her strengths and talents, Pam borrowed money from her parents to pay for painting classes at the Brookline Arts Center instead of psychotherapy. That way, Laurel would pursue Pam’s dream of Laurel’s becoming the famous artist that Pam would have become had she not gotten mixed up with her late husband. Pam also bought Laurel a cat, a Persian. A friend had told her that Persian cats were sweet and affectionate. Pam thought it was a good idea to get a male, so it wouldn’t get pregnant. Laurel named the big-eyed, adorable black fur ball Aladdin. She loved to curl up in bed with him at night stroking his silky fur until she fell asleep. Laurel loved to draw and paint, and she was very conscientious about feeding and grooming Aladdin. Pam felt she had made the right decision about how best to put the dreadful Owen business behind them.

And yet it was, perhaps, predictable that Laurel would eventually get drawn in by somebody like Owen. That somebody was Mr. Prince, her arrogant, narcissistic art teacher at Brookline High School. Laurel was fairly talented artistically, and she had a genuine gift for photography, but Mr. Prince chose to recognize her abilities. He patronized and teased everyone in his classes, but Laurel felt especially singled out and humiliated by him. Laurel figured that maybe Mr. Prince had a thing about her and he got off on treating her sadistically. She decided she was not going to take his abuse lying down, so she set about flattering and titillating Mr. Prince—telling him in a breathy voice that he was sooo smart and sooo attractive, telling him he reminded her of the singer Sting. She began dressing even more provocatively than usual. She brushed against Mr. Prince accidently whenever she could. Soon, he began inventing flimsy reasons to see Laurel after school. After requiring several hands-on drawing tutorials after school, Mr. Price began suggesting meetings for coffee at Starbucks. Before too long, Mr. Prince suggested and Laurel accepted his invitation to visit his apartment in Coolidge Corner to see some of his paintings. It turned out, to Laurel’s satisfaction, that Mr. Prince was, if anything, a considerably less gifted artist than she. It turned out that Mr. Prince was far less imperious in his pathetic studio apartment than he was in the classroom. He was nervous and as shy as any of the boys who tried to hit on her at school.

Laure seized the initiative. How about some music? she said. She had brought along her favorite Police album. She said she wanted to play it for him because of his resemblance to Sting. Without asking Mr. Prince’s permission, Laurel put the CD on his stereo and cued up her favorite song. She sang along with Sting and danced around Mr. Prince in her tight tank top and jeans. As Sting and Laurel sang in unison she shimmied close to Mr. Prince—practically on top of him:

Young teacher, the subject

Of schoolgirl fantasy

She wants him so badly

Knows what she wants to be

Inside her there's longing

This girl's an open page

Book marking - she's so close now

This girl is half his age

Mr. Prince blushed and stepped away from her. Laurel turned off the stereo, put her CD back in its case, and skipped out the door. Bye, Mr. Prince, she said. That was fun.

The next year, Mr. Prince was more than willing to write glowing college recommendation letters for her. With his strong letter of recommendation, a strong portfolio, good grades and SATs, and the help of Mr. Henderson, who was a Boston University trustee, Laurel was admitted to the BU School of Visual Arts with a generous scholarship. It turned out, though, that BU’s rigorous studio art program required more discipline that she was capable of and more hours of labor than she was willing to put in. So, after the first semester, she gave up and transferred to the College of General Studies. She found CGS easy. She acquired the liberal education in humanities, natural, and social sciences that CGS promised, and then elected to major in Political Science with a minor in Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies. By so doing, she set herself on a path that eventually led to her showdown with Paul Dean in Taos, New Mexico.

TWO

Virginia, 2002

Thanks to hard work, compulsive conditioning, and meticulous pre-game preparation, Paul Dean had become a standout football player in high school in Pennsylvania, good enough to get a scholarship to Penn State. But, after a promising start he had sustained a career-ending knee injury. The injury turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Dean channeled his determination and thoroughness into a major in Geography, a minor in Middle Eastern studies, and ROTC. After college he had married Maureen, his high school sweetheart. Maureen, who had grown up in a violent dysfunctional family, thought that Dean’s scrupulosity and his many little personal rituals around order and cleanliness promised a better life for her. The Army sent the Deans first to Monterey, California, where Paul attended the Defense Language Institute, and then to Fort Huachuca, Arizona, where he received training in military intelligence.

On the day after Dean had completed his course of training at Fort Huachuca, his CO, Colonel Krumholtz, called him into his office and introduced him to a Mr. Black. Looking at him with an expression of fatherly concern, authority, and solemn patriotic zeal, Colonel Krumholtz had said, Son, the Army believes you can best serve your country in paramilitary operations. Mr. Black had nodded in agreement. You will join Mr. Black’s organization. Moderate-income housing has been arranged for you and your family in Fairfax, Virginia. Colonel Krumholtz stood and saluted smartly while Mr. Black remained seated, fiddling with his Blackberry. Those are your orders. That is all, Captain, the Colonel said.

The next day, Dean flew to Virginia where picked up his house keys from a real estate agent, who also gave him two letters that had already been sent to his new address; the two envelopes had no return addresses on them. The first one contained a set of instructions and the job description for a CIA Counterterrorism Analyst. Among other things, it said opportunities exist for foreign travel, and that the CIA was an equal opportunity employer and a drug-free workplace. The second envelope contained a personal history form and a psychological questionnaire. Following the instructions, Dean brought the completed documents along with his military ID, his passport, and his current driver’s license to the Alexandria Courtyard by Marriott Hotel and asked at the reception desk for Ms. Green. Ms. Green came down and took Dean to a room that showed no sign that anyone had actually slept there. Ms. Green went over the information on the forms. Then she said he would be contacted in a week and given the time and location of the written exam if everything checked out. A week later he got instructions to go to another hotel outside Alexandria for the exam, to bring three forms of identification, and to ask for Mr. Brown. Mr. Brown took him to another unoccupied room with a desk in the center. There were an exam book and four sharpened pencils on the desk. Mr. Brown said the exam was like the SAT only easier. After a moment or two spent deciding which pencil to use, Dean plunged ahead and tore through the exam. A week later, Dean got instructions to be at a Red Roof Inn on H Street in Washington. This time the people identified themselves by title but no names. A Reports Officer with the Counterterrorism Center told him about the history and the organization of the CIA. A Psychologist told him about the pressure of doing intelligence work and how you often had to assume alternative identities, and live a lie, even with your closest loved ones. Dean’s last interview was with a Security Officer who explained the security process, including the polygraph test and the background check they had already started doing. Finally, he was given an Arabic language proficiency test, which he found surprisingly rudimentary.

They sent Dean to Camp Peary for the CIA’s version of basic training. Then he was assigned to the Directorate of Intelligence. He was put in a gray cube with gray carpet and a gray desk. Dean found this drab and boring space pleasing. He thought it would be conducive to concentration on the analysis of intelligence information. He put a calendar on the wall—nothing more by way of decoration. He lined up his In and Out boxes one inch from the back of his desk and three inches from each side, the In box on the right and the Out box on the left so that his workflow would be from right to left. He purchased a drawer organizer in which he secured the pencils, yellow highlighters, Post-it note pads and multicolored map markers that he had requisitioned from Central Supply. The anticipatory anxiety, familiar to him from the years of season opening games, soon subsided. He quickly felt fired up and ready to play.

Dean liked the DOI and he performed will there. He was thorough and prompt in his threat analyses. He did his job at Langley as it was meant to be done, just as he had run his routes and carried out his blocking schemes at Penn State as they had been meant to be done. He was foresighted in helping to identify the threat that Osama bin Laden and al Qaeda posed, but he did not get hysterical and Cassandra-ish about al Qaeda, as some case officers had. He did not say I told you so when the bad things started happening, and his superiors, who had been pretty much caught with their pants down, came to think highly of him. He was assigned to the unit called Alec Station that was tasked with tracking bin Laden. The closest Dean ever came to questioning the Company narrative was when, over several beers after work one day in July, 2001, he said to his immediate supervisor, Jeez, Jeff, we know al Qaeda is not state-sponsored, and we don’t have an algorithm for analyzing a loose, horizontally organized, stateless terrorist network like them. Jeff had nodded sagely and said, Yeah, right, we don’t.

On 9/11, along with everybody else at Langley, Dean learned that the first plane had hit the South Tower at 8:46 am, the second plane had hit the North Tower at 9:03, and the third plane had hit the Pentagon at 9:38. Cofer Black, the head of the Counterterrorism Center, was going around talking about bringing back bin Laden’s head in a box, about flies walking on bin Laden’s eyeballs. Talking some trash, man! Jeff had said enthusiastically to Dean, We’re gonna get that motherfucker now.

In January, with the war in Afghanistan well underway, Jeff summoned Dean to his office. We have a situation, he said. The prison at Bagram Air Base is filling up with detainees. The Army is trying to interrogate them the best they can, but they really don’t have the skills to get actionable intel, so we’ve been given orders from as high up the chain as you can imagine to set up our own operations. We’re going to move in and interrogate the high-value detainees. Jeff moved some papers around on his desk. Dean straightened his tie. He thought he should have unrolled his sleeves before coming into Jeff’s office and buttoned his cuffs they way Jeff’s were buttoned. Jeff cleared his throat and said ceremoniously, Paul, you’ve been picked to manage one of these operations because, first of all, you’ve been trained as an Army interrogator, so you know how to deal with the Army guys; second of all, you speak Arabic; and third of all, your performance evaluations rate you a superior analyst. You’ve been vetted at the highest level, I might add. Dean imagined George Tenet and Donald Rumsfeld signing off on him. You have everybody’s confidence. We know you’ll do an outstanding job.

Jeff told Dean that under no circumstances could he tell anyone, including his wife, what country he was being sent to. Dean simply told Maureen he had to go on assignment for a while—he didn’t even say overseas. He explained that there would be no way for her to contact him directly; she would have to go through Jeff’s office. There could be no phone conversations either, only emails that they would encrypt and transmit for her.

This operation will be off the books, Jeff said. Your cover will be as an employee of a small computer software company. He grinned. The added benefit of this arrangement besides the usual security enhancement is that you salary as an employee of this private sector company will be double what you’re getting in your current government pay grade. He told Dean that he had set up an appointment for him with a person named Rick at the Hilton in Rockville. Rick works for an outfit like Blackwater, only not Blackwater.

How will I recognize Rick? Dean said.

Don’t worry, Jeff said, Rick will recognize you.

Two days later, when Dean walked into the lobby of the Hilton, a voice said Paul? and Rick appeared in front of him like a magic trick. Rick was wearing an expensive suit and the kind of fancy silk tie somebody might buy in a hotel boutique. Rick’s wristwatch was one of those chunky chronometers that mercenaries like to wear. Right on time, Rick said, looking at the watch.

What did you expect? Dean said.

Let’s go to my room.

Rick’s room had the unlived-in look that Dean had come to expect—not even a suitcase for show. The room has been swept for bugs, he said. Rick gave Dean his business card. It read Pathfinder Security, Richard Carbone, Senior Vice President for European Operations. Pathfinder has subcontracted to Thor Global Informatic Functions, Rick said. You will be working for TGIF.

TGIF? Dean laughed. You mean like Thank God It’s Friday? Or like the restaurant chain?

Rick chuckled mirthlessly. No, TGIF is a registered Swedish company, headquartered in Stockholm, and very reputable. Its founder and CEO is a guy named Magnus Thor. Thor is a computer genius and a national treasure—like a Swedish Steve Jobs. TGIF is not a joke. Rick showed Dean samples of his new stationery and business card. They had on them the logo of a big fist clutching a hammer. That’s the hammer of Thor, in case you don’t know, Rick said. The letterhead and cards read TGIF, Paul Downs, Vice-President, Eastern Europe. The address on the cards and letterhead was in Gdansk, Poland. Dean flinched for an instant when he saw the name Downs. The name made him immediately think of his son Eddie, who had Down syndrome. Rick noticed Dean’s reaction and said, You see we know all there is to know about you. When the Company creates a cover legend for an agent in the field it wants to make damn sure it doesn’t slip, not even for a millisecond. You appreciate that. As Paul Downs, you’ll be sure to remember your legend. He added, In case your situation gets hairy. Rick handed Dean a sheet of paper. Here’s your resumé. It said that Paul Downs was from western Pennsylvania. Downs had a B.A. from Penn State, a master’s degree in computer science, and an MBA, both from Carnegie Mellon University. "Enough similarities to your real life so you can fill in little details accurately if you need to.

There will be four other people in the Gdansk office, Rick continued, taking back the sheet of paper. "One is named Krzysztof Kozovski. He's the so-called Polish partner. We need a local guy in order to do business in Poland. The other three are software engineers who report to you. You report to me, at least on paper. Once we’re through here you won’t be seeing me again, though."

Meaning that . . .what?

Meaning that you’ll be reporting electronically to the people you need to report to. With our telecom setup you won’t know and you shouldn’t care who’s on the receiving end. The intel will get where it needs to go. Just focus on making a lot of ‘software sales.’ Rick smiled. He seemed to enjoy using the tech business analogy. Don’t worry about performance evaluations and merit raises and such like. We already know you’re an exemplary performer, as are your engineers. We trust you and you trust us. Understood?

When do I leave for Poland?

In a week. You’ll be briefed on the rest of what you need to know in Gdansk.

THREE

Massachusetts, 2001

In her sophomore year at the College of General Studies, Laurel Fetzer had her consciousness raised by Barry Popkin, the instructor in her Social Science 202 course, America’s Response to Revolution Since World War II. Barry didn’t rate especially high on Laurel’s scale of potential hook-ups, but she found him cute enough to flirt with after class. He had curly hair, like her own, which he would nervously comb with his fingers when Laurel stood too near him. His combination of classroom superciliousness and up close discomfort reminded her of Mr. Prince. In the class Laurel was introduced to a view of history as a succession of conspiracies. Her mind was as attuned to sedition and seduction; she automatically assumed that people were hard-wired to have hidden agendas and to operate secretly to gain advantage over others. She said as much to Barry Popkin during their first coffee date. Does that mean I’m paranoid? she asked.

"Kid, it’s not paranoia when people actually are out to get you. Popkin smiled paternalistically at Laurel. Who’s to say what is ‘paranoid?’ One person’s paranoia is another person’s rational analysis—as you will learn. Bottom line: it never hurts to be a little paranoid."

Oh, Professor Popkin . . .

You can call me Barry, kid.

Laurel made some kind of low breathy sound. "Oh, Barry, I bet you’re more than a little paranoid." To Popkin it sounded as if she were saying I bet your dick is more than a little large. This little bimbette with the tabula rasa really turned him on.

Barry showed the class video clips of Joe McCarthy in action. He taught them about COINTELPRO, Operation Ajax in Iran, Operation Condor in South America, the Secret Wars in Laos and Cambodia, Iran-Contra. Barry frequently said, We’re the world’s Nazis now. He seemed to enjoy how this bothered the Jewish students and members of ROTC in the class. Put US actions in historical context and that’s the conclusion you come up with, he would say.

Barry might have been masterful in a classroom and a faculty cocktail party, but he wasn’t much in bed. Laurel tried to put his premature ejaculation in historical context so he could last a little longer. I understand, she said, stroking his limp member. When you worry all the time that the Pigs are just about to break down your door, it’s good to be able to get it in and get it out fast. Still . . . she said, taking him into her mouth, Times change. Under Laurel’s tutelage, Barry was eventually able to earn a passing grade in Laurel’s classroom. The following year, Laurel would get an A for a paper she wrote for Gender and Sexuality I, titled Premature Ejaculation as a Tool for the Oppression of Women.

Laurel had time on her hands and she felt unfulfilled. Her courses at the College of General Studies were easy, and Barry Popkin, her only extracurricular activity, didn’t take up much of her time. She hit upon the idea of enrolling as a part-time student at the New England School of Photography in nearby Kenmore Square. That NESOP was more geared to teaching commercial photography than art photography proved to be a benefit for Laurel. Photographs in her textbooks, like MLK being carried out of the Lorraine Motel, and RFK dead on the concrete floor of the Ambassador Hotel, had