Man in the Middle (26 page)

Phyllis lifted a paper off her desk, which she handed to Bian, who read it before she passed it to me. It was another of the missing messages, this one from Charabi to Daniels, and it read:

Clifford, my most loyal, truly dearest friend. I am apologizing for this long lapse of time that I have not given you the promised information. Alas, I should have heeded the old Arab saying: To trust a Persian is to trust a snake. Truly, they are the rottenest race of all Allah’s followers, dirty beggars, Ali Babas, and thieving miscreants. But they continued to insist, as I have several times repeated to you, that the trail of this bad fellow has been lost, and he needed to be re-found, which now they say has been accomplished. As my Persian friends promised, this is a big fish, the moneyman behind Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, whom you know has killed many of your soldiers and caused much mayhem in this country. This man has the name Ali bin Pacha, a Saudi who stays in the city of Falluja, in a white compound at the end of the Avenue of Ali, near the city center. They say this man can be recognized because he misses his left leg, and they advise you must move swiftly, because a man of such value and cleverness does not grow roots. So you see, my friend, I am not, as you cruelly and unfairly proclaimed in your recent messages, a rotten turd.

Phyllis informed us, “This was the last message in the file.” She added, “It was sent only two days ago.”

Bian looked at me. “Then this man . . . this Ali bin Pacha—”

“That’s correct.” Phyllis finished Bian’s thought, “Presumably he’s still on the loose, still in Falluja, and still ripe for the taking. But for how long . . . ?” She shrugged.

I said nothing. I hoped she wasn’t thinking what she seemed to be thinking.

She was studying me, her left eyebrow cocked expectantly.

When I didn’t
voluntarily
volunteer, Phyllis prodded, “Well, Drummond . . . ?”

So that was what she was thinking. Did I want in? No, absolutely not—this was nuts, or worse.

For one thing, Ali bin Pacha might already have shifted to a new location, or alternatively, this whole thing might be another con by Charabi, and/or by his Iranian pals.

Second, Phyllis was keeping secrets. An operation of this nature is risky even when you
know
what’s happening behind your back and everything is on the up-and-up.

And not insignificantly, now that we were cognizant of criminal activity, if we failed to refer this to the FBI, we were also committing a crime.

I’m not always a stickler for rules and legalities, especially when I think I won’t get caught. This was not one of those times.

But before I could answer, Bian leaned forward and responded, “I’m in.” After a moment, she added, “Actually, if you think about it, I’m the ideal choice.”

“Why would that be?” asked Phyllis, her eyes on me.

“I completed a full tour there. I know the country and culture, I’m fluent in the language, and I have recent operational experience.”

I looked at Bian. “Have you ever done an operation like
this
?”

“I . . . I spent six months policing some of the most violent sewers of Baghdad.”

“Answer the question I asked.”

“I’ve arrested suspects, and I’ve planned raids on insurgent compounds.” Apparently I looked dubious, because she added, “I don’t see a difference.”

There was a world of difference—her unawareness of that was the first clue that she was the wrong person for this mission. Clue two, there was no right person.

I tried not to sound patronizing and said, “Well . . . how do I say this? I mean—”

“You don’t say it,” she snapped. “I’m an MP. You’re a lawyer. By training, experience, and inclination, I think I can handle this better than you.”

Phyllis cleared her throat and said, “Drummond was in Special Ops before he became a lawyer.” She smiled. “He served for five years with a unit that performed operations almost identical to what I have in mind. He might be a little rusty . . . I’m told, however, that it’s like riding a bicycle.”

Partly true, and in that statement Phyllis revealed a little more of her thinking, about her intentions and about my favorite subject: me.

What wasn’t true was her comforting sentiment about easing back into the profession of arms. Perhaps Sean Drummond had once been a lean, mean killing machine, death from the skies, one hundred and eighty pounds of twisted steel and sex appeal. The new Drummond had packed on a few pounds, a new attitude, and had become a creature of the courtroom, with all that implies.

I couldn’t recall the last time I was on a firing range, nor had I run more than ten miles in years. As battlefield veterans will tell you, the key to survival is speed—depending on the day you’re having, either toward the enemy or away. I recalled the admonition the Army drills into the thick skulls of all new recruits: “There are two kinds of soldiers on the battlefield—the quick and the dead.”

Well, I was quick with my tongue, but my footwork and my survival instincts could stand a little work. Maybe a lot of work.

Bian, who required a moment to absorb this new and interesting facet of my professional background, eventually said, “Oh.”

“So you see,” Phyllis continued, “he has the ideal résumé.”

Without the slightest concession of inferiority, Bian replied, “It’s irrelevant. I’m offering; he’s not.”

For a moment nobody said anything.

What could I say? I knew what Phyllis was doing—pitting me against Bian, exploiting my overblown chauvinist instincts, and at the same time engaging in a little emotional blackmail. Phyllis is a world-class manipulator, and usually knows exactly how to push my buttons—but not this time. If Bian wanted a piece of this, she was a big girl. Her life, her call. Welcome to the newly liberated world; equality between the sexes means an equal risk of coming home in a pine box.

I was curious, though, and I looked at Bian, then at Phyllis, and said, “What exactly is it that you intend?”

“I thought that was obvious,” Phyllis replied. “Get our hands on the low-hanging fruit, Mr. bin Pacha.” She added, “What to do about Charabi is trickier. But he’s not going anywhere, whereas bin Pacha could disappear at any moment.” She looked at me and said, “Charabi will have to wait.”

I couldn’t believe what I just heard. “We seem to have a different definition of low-hanging fruit. Ali bin Pacha is in Falluja.”

“Yes. I recall reading that from the message.”

“Maybe you don’t read the newspapers. The Army declared it a no-man’s-land six months ago and pulled everybody out. It’s a jihadist country club.”

“That’s what our assessments say. A most unpleasant place.”

“Unpleasant? This is the same city where the four contractors were killed and hung from a bridge.”

“I know, I know . . . These are very nasty people. All the more reason they have to be stopped, whatever it takes.”

“And you know the chances of nabbing this guy and getting back out are nearly impossible?”

“It would have to be a very well-run operation.”

“And you know this could be a trap?”

“Yes, that’s an important consideration. We’ll certainly have to account for it in our plans.”

“He’s an important figure in the insurgency. He’ll be heavily guarded.”

“I think he would . . . yes.” She looked at me. “But if Charabi told the truth—”

“Or if the Iranians told him the truth . . .”

“All right . . . that’s another risk.” She was becoming visibly annoyed by my stream of well-reasoned objections and added, “Assuming this bin Pacha is the moneyman behind al-Zarqawi, getting our hands on him would be an incredible blow to the insurgency. Large rewards are worth large risks.”

“Here’s a no-risk solution. Drop a bomb down his chimney. No more bin Pacha
and
we’ll all be alive to talk about it. What’s not to like?”

Bian said, “Why are we debating this? Temporarily interrupting Zarqawi’s supply of funds accomplishes nothing. He’ll replace bin Pacha, who, anyway, surely has an understudy or backup. These are not stupid people—they do not run a sloppy operation. I know. I was there.”

“But—”

“But if we capture bin Pacha, who knows what he can reveal?” She looked at me. “You don’t understand the nature of this war. It’s not about cities captured or terrain held. It’s different. It’s about people, important people who are key to the enemy’s operation. The moneymen, the chief planners, the bomb makers. Take them out of commission, find out what they know, and you strike a crippling blow to the insurgency.”

She looked at me to be sure I understood. She said, “Neither his money sources nor Zarqawi will be located if he’s dead. That’s what we want to accomplish, isn’t it? Get Zarqawi. Find out who’s providing the funds and terminate their support.”

“How about if
we’re
terminated?”

She replied, “That’s not your problem. You’re not going.”

“Good point.”

She looked at Phyllis and suggested in a tone I found insultingly dismissive, “We don’t need him anymore. I can handle this.”

Phyllis avoided my eyes. “You’re right. Sean, show yourself out. Everything we discuss from here on is need-to-know only.” She added, “Needless to say—”

“If word leaks, you’ll mount my balls on your wall.”

She pointed at a spot on the wall and said, “Right there. Only three of us are in the know. You understand—a leak of any type would be ridiculously easy to narrow down to its source.”

“I know my responsibility, Phyllis, and I do it.”

I stood. My eyes shifted from Phyllis, who was being her typically inscrutable self, then to Bian, who refused to make eye contact.

Somebody had to say something, and after an awkward pause, Bian said, “It was nice working with you, Sean. If I ever . . .” She smiled weakly. “Well, if I ever need a lawyer, I hope you would agree to represent me.”

“Follow through with this, and you
will
need a lawyer.”

She did not reply.

I took two steps toward the door and stopped. I didn’t like the way this was ending. I knew they wouldn’t listen, but I needed to make one more try. I mean, I understood why Phyllis thought this was a good idea; conspiracy, double crosses, and deception are like oxygen to these people. But Bian? What was she thinking?

I spun around and told Bian, “Waterbury isn’t going to let you do this. You know that.”

Phyllis informed us, “Leave Waterbury to me. I’m sure I can persuade him it’s in his, and in the Pentagon’s, best interest to loan us Bian.”

“You’ll blackmail him.”

“Whatever.”

I said to Bian, “Is this about Mark?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Leave him out of this.”

We stared at each other a moment. She was giving me that look women give when they wake up beside a complete stranger. “I’m right,” I told her. “You believe you owe this to Mark.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You did your tour, Bian. It’s his turn in the box. Were he here, I’m sure he’d tell you the same thing.”

“How do you know what he would tell me?”

“Because if he’s half the man I think he is . . .” Actually, even I couldn’t complete that hackneyed cliché. I leaned across the table and got about two inches from her face. “You’ve already done your part.”

“I didn’t know there was a limit to how much duty you owe your country.”

“Duty, no. Stupidity, yes.” I pointed at Phyllis. “She’s manipulating you.”

“I know what’s happening here.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“I . . . yes, I do. Better than you.”

“Then you would know there are other ways to handle this. And you know what? Some even make sense.”

“That’s not even an option,” Bian replied. “If Daniels’s stupidity is exposed to the public, it will blow the lid off the war. We’ll be the laughingstock of the world. The entire coalition will run from Iraq. All those lives wasted . . . I won’t let that be on my conscience.”

Phyllis stood and approached me. She tapped a finger on her watch and said, “You’ve had your say. There’s a great deal to get done, and not much time to do it. Please see yourself out.”

I turned around and headed toward the door. No way was I going to become involved with this. I had had my say, and my conscience was clean. My actions would look good in front of the eventual in quest that would inevitably result from this stupid idea, too.

I turned around again and I sat.

Bian studied me a moment. “I don’t need your chivalry.”

“How about my idiocy?”

“I mean it, Sean. I’m not some helpless damsel in need of some misguided white knight.”

“This isn’t about you.”

“Then—”

I pointed at Phyllis. “I’m going to keep an eye on her.”

Phyllis smiled. I knew she had expected this outcome; I hate being so predictable, and I decided not to give her the satisfaction of knowing how much that pissed me off. I smiled back.

She had obviously thought this through and said, “So here’s the way this will work. Drummond, you will get our man in Falluja. Bian, you will employ your expertise in interrogation and language to find out what he knows.”

I looked at Phyllis. “And what will you be doing back here?”

“Somebody has to figure out what to do about Charabi.”

I said, “So that’s the carrot?”

“As long as you’re there, we might be able to kill two birds with one stone.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T
rips to combat zones normally are preceded by long and extensive buildups, months of exhaustive training, equipment and personal preparation, country orientations, updating of wills, and so forth.

On the plus side, this affords you the knowledge, the mental outlook, and the expert training to survive—with a chance to tidy up a few loose ends in case vice versa happens. On the minus side, it condemns you to months of restless nights filled with anxiety and cold fear.

So in a way I was happy with only seven hours of notice; in a larger way, I was unhappy with any notice. Speed, however, was the ticket. Mr. bin Pacha might be the paranoid type who hops beds every night, or he might feel secure inside Falluja and get sloppy. We were banking on sloppiness and hoping for the best.