sisters are concerned. We don’t rat each other out to get some credit or receive recognition.”
I exploded. “ Screw recognition or getting credit! Is that what you think this is all about? I even told you to assign it to more savvy Farsi translators! This is about the nine eleven terrorist attacks, Mike. This suspect may hold a big key to what occurred, how it was planned, and the ones behind its planning. There was discussion on future ‘operators,’ this time women, being sent; illegally obtained visas … this agent had already suspected that much. There is a reason he sent those for retranslation and review. You are obligated to report to him what we have found—now! You better call him or give me his number and let me call him now. This is not about some stupid office politics and bureaucracy, damn it!”
Feghali stared at me coldly. “The case is closed, forever. We, the FBI Washington Field Office, thoroughly examined the document and found no discrepancy, period. I’ll have the computer department remove your notes from your computer today. I should not have assigned that task to you. You haven’t been here long enough to know how we operate in here.” He took a deep breath and continued. “Now, go back to your regular assignments. As far as you know, everything has been taken care of.”
I stood up, shaking with rage. “You are an administrative supervisor. You have no authority over the actual projects and their contents. This has to be dealt with by the agents and agents in charge, not you. If I have to report to the agent in charge in here, I will.”
“I have the approval of everyone in charge here,” he hissed. “Whatever we do here is sanctioned by the agent in charge of our unit. This conversation is over and I suggest you go and cool off; then, after coming to your senses, do what you are supposed to be doing: Do as you are told by me.”
I stormed out. Once in the hall, I stopped to figure out what I would do next. Who should I see? I knew of only one special agent in charge, Bobby Wiggins, formally assigned to the Language department, who kept a small office here; yet he was almost always absent. Due to retire soon, he only showed up once a week, in silly clown-like golf attire to check messages and retrieve any memos. During my entire tenure, I only saw him inside the unit and among the translators once, at his own good-bye party. When I thought about what the agents in the field go through daily—putting their lives on the line—this manager’s indifference made me cringe.
I thought of going to Dennis Saccher; but then I changed my mind. First, he was in charge of his unit only and had no authority over my department or the counterterrorism case involved. Second, doing so would be seen as going beyond the department’s turf and result in disciplinary action against me.
Frustrated, angry, and feeling thwarted by not having the agent’s contact information, I marched over to the Farsi translators’ cluster, the unit’s Iranian territory. Sarshar, Amin, and a few others looked up. “Any of you know about this project?” I named the file, field office and division involved. “Did anyone here originally translate this particular document?” The translators exchanged looks and shook their heads no.
Amin saw that I was shaking and brought me some hot tea. Sarshar rolled his chair over. “Do you want to tell us what happened to get you so very furious?”
I began slowly and told them everything, leaving nothing out. When I got to what Feghali had said to me, I started shaking all over again.
“Welcome to FBI-WFO Inferno department, Sibel,” Amin said. “You have just begun to discover and understand how this department operates. My friend, you haven’t seen anything yet, just wait.”
“Don’t repeat Feghali’s lines to me,” I lashed out. “I am not going to get used to this and shrug it off with a ‘hey this is how things are, what you gonna do’ attitude. I
I exploded. “ Screw recognition or getting credit! Is that what you think this is all about? I even told you to assign it to more savvy Farsi translators! This is about the nine eleven terrorist attacks, Mike. This suspect may hold a big key to what occurred, how it was planned, and the ones behind its planning. There was discussion on future ‘operators,’ this time women, being sent; illegally obtained visas … this agent had already suspected that much. There is a reason he sent those for retranslation and review. You are obligated to report to him what we have found—now! You better call him or give me his number and let me call him now. This is not about some stupid office politics and bureaucracy, damn it!”
Feghali stared at me coldly. “The case is closed, forever. We, the FBI Washington Field Office, thoroughly examined the document and found no discrepancy, period. I’ll have the computer department remove your notes from your computer today. I should not have assigned that task to you. You haven’t been here long enough to know how we operate in here.” He took a deep breath and continued. “Now, go back to your regular assignments. As far as you know, everything has been taken care of.”
I stood up, shaking with rage. “You are an administrative supervisor. You have no authority over the actual projects and their contents. This has to be dealt with by the agents and agents in charge, not you. If I have to report to the agent in charge in here, I will.”
“I have the approval of everyone in charge here,” he hissed. “Whatever we do here is sanctioned by the agent in charge of our unit. This conversation is over and I suggest you go and cool off; then, after coming to your senses, do what you are supposed to be doing: Do as you are told by me.”
I stormed out. Once in the hall, I stopped to figure out what I would do next. Who should I see? I knew of only one special agent in charge, Bobby Wiggins, formally assigned to the Language department, who kept a small office here; yet he was almost always absent. Due to retire soon, he only showed up once a week, in silly clown-like golf attire to check messages and retrieve any memos. During my entire tenure, I only saw him inside the unit and among the translators once, at his own good-bye party. When I thought about what the agents in the field go through daily—putting their lives on the line—this manager’s indifference made me cringe.
I thought of going to Dennis Saccher; but then I changed my mind. First, he was in charge of his unit only and had no authority over my department or the counterterrorism case involved. Second, doing so would be seen as going beyond the department’s turf and result in disciplinary action against me.
Frustrated, angry, and feeling thwarted by not having the agent’s contact information, I marched over to the Farsi translators’ cluster, the unit’s Iranian territory. Sarshar, Amin, and a few others looked up. “Any of you know about this project?” I named the file, field office and division involved. “Did anyone here originally translate this particular document?” The translators exchanged looks and shook their heads no.
Amin saw that I was shaking and brought me some hot tea. Sarshar rolled his chair over. “Do you want to tell us what happened to get you so very furious?”
I began slowly and told them everything, leaving nothing out. When I got to what Feghali had said to me, I started shaking all over again.
“Welcome to FBI-WFO Inferno department, Sibel,” Amin said. “You have just begun to discover and understand how this department operates. My friend, you haven’t seen anything yet, just wait.”
“Don’t repeat Feghali’s lines to me,” I lashed out. “I am not going to get used to this and shrug it off with a ‘hey this is how things are, what you gonna do’ attitude. I
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