Having recently returned from Pakistan meeting with drone victims, on November 4 my partner Tighe Barry and I were having a leisurely Sunday morning breakfast. The discussion turned to John Brennan, Obama's counterterrorism chief and the key person making decisions about drone strikes. We wondered if Brennan ever had a chance to meet innocent drone victims, as we did, and feel their pain.
"Maybe we should go to his house and talk to him," quipped Tighe. We laughed at the absurdity of the idea but decided to do a little bit of research. Fifteen minutes later, we were out the door, driving to a Virginia suburb an hour south of Washington DC. I had no idea if it was really John's address, but it was a lovely day for a drive--and Tighe was willing to indulge me.
Exiting the freeway, we came to an area of rolling hills, green grass and private horse farms. As we approached what we thought might be John Brennan's street, we were sure it was a mistake. How could this be? It was a nondescript upper middle class neighborhood, with children playing in the yards--no security, no government vehicles. The house was in a cul-de-sac sandwiched between two other houses, without so much as a fence surrounding it.
I decided to go knock on the door to make sure we were wrong. A middle-aged, white-haired guy in a casual sweater and jeans opened the door, accompanied by someone who l assumed was his wife.
Could this really be John Brennan? The same man who championed "enhanced interrogation techniques" under President Bush? The same man who now decides, on "terror Tuesdays", who will be on the CIA kill list? The guy who developed the Orwellian "disposition matrix"--a blueprint for disposing of terrorist suspects for at least another decade?
I hesitated. He looked much younger and thinner than I remembered, and he looked like such a nice man. And would someone who spent his career in the CIA and was the nation's counterterrorism czar be answering his own door?
"John?," I asked. "Yes," he replied tentatively. I continued, still doubting that he was really John Brennan. "I'm sorry to bother you at your home on a Sunday, but I wanted to talk to you about a recent trip."
"A trip?", he asked, squinting his eyes and cocking his head to the side. "A trip to where?" "Pakistan," I answered. "Ohhhhh," he said.
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