Man in the Middle (30 page)

“If you want your fifty thousand bucks, make it my business.”

He studied my face. “You’re not gonna be trouble, are you?”

“Avoid
what
?”

His stare turned cold. “A suicide bomber nailed a bunch of people on our planned route. The Army’s got roadblocks up. We don’t wanna git caught up in it.”

“Right.” This wasn’t my first clue that Iraq sucks, but it was a potent one.

He continued to stare at me. “From here on, we’re operational. Understand? The slightest dick-up, the tiniest mistake . . . and we’re dead.”

“No problem.” I walked around the Peugeot, opened the passenger-side door, and started to get in.

He looked at me, and said, “Hey, pal . . . Arab women don’t never ride in the front.”

“Right.” I climbed into the backseat, he opened the garage door, slid into the driver’s seat, and we quickly backed out into the mean streets of Baghdad.

CHAPTER TWENTY

C
omplete darkness.

We drove north through more suburban streets and ended up traveling west, on Highway 10, which connects Baghdad with Falluja.

The earpiece remained in Smith’s ear, and occasionally he conversed with his compatriots, brief little conversations, all business. There appeared to be a car ahead of us, running interference, and another to our rear, securing our tail.

This reinforced my impression that these people had their act together. Somebody better—I didn’t.

Athough Falluja is a mere thirty miles from Baghdad, the traffic was fairly dense, principally due to more slow-moving American military convoys that completely clogged up the highway. Smith informed me at one point, “Lots of military traffic tonight. Weird. Most Iraqis and even the Army like to be home when the lights go out. The goblins come out.”

A few moments later he pointed to our right and said, “Abu Ghraib prison. Over there . . . See it?”

I looked and saw nothing except a few lights from industrial buildings. Maybe I would come back during daylight when I could view Iraq’s most famous landmark in all its splendor. Maybe not.

After we departed Baghdad proper, I noted, the towns and cities looked poorer, run-down, virtual slums. And according to the CIA guide, we were traveling through the more prosperous, better-developed part of Iraq—the Sunni Triangle—where Saddam threw money and favors at his Sunni coreligionists and Tikriti tribesmen. Where the Shiites live, in the towns and cities of the south, must really suck.

I checked my watch: nearly nine. “When does this thing go down?”

I observed him observing me in the rearview. “Thought you knew that.”

Not wanting to reveal how grab-ass this was, I replied, “Update me.”

“Tonight.”

Tonight?
“I . . . I meant what
time
tonight?”

“Usually best to go in about two in the morning.”

I thought I knew, but asked, “Why?”

“’Cause by then most of the jihadis are asleep. They’re pretty halfassed that way. That gives us an hour to get in, an hour for the snatch, an hour to get out. Maybe thirty minutes of wiggle room in case the shit hits the fan. Understand?”

“What happens if it takes longer?”

“If we’re still there by five, best to lay over till tomorrow night. The hajis set up checkpoints, looking for American spies.” He added, “Don’t worry. We got safe houses inside Falluja.”

After a moment, he informed me, “The target could move anytime. Some of these people, they don’t never sleep in the same place twice.” He looked me in the eye through the rearview mirror. “We expected you fifteen hours ago. That was your prep time. You okay with that?”

“Do I have a choice?” I suggested, “Maybe he moved yesterday.”

“Maybe.”

“I was sort of hoping he had an attack of conscience and turned himself in while I was en route.”

He smiled thinly. “Well, you never know.” He said, “We got a two-man team observing the target building.”

“And what does this team see?”

“There’s jihadis in there, all right. Maybe five. Maybe more. They don’t hang about in big groups. Seems somebody keeps tagging their hideouts and blowing them to hell, and now they disperse as best they can. No way to know if your particular asshole’s there.”

A few minutes later, Smith took a right turn off the highway, and we traveled for another five minutes before he switched off the headlights and we drove for a while in blackout mode. He turned left onto a dirt trail and drove for about a hundred bumpy yards before stopping and turning off the ignition.

He twisted around in his seat and looked at me. “The others will get here in a few hours. You should nap.” He slipped night-vision goggles over his head and stepped out of the car, where he began spinning in slow circles on his heel, observing our surroundings.

It required a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the night, and around us, I saw, were flat, open fields with no growth, no stalks or seedlings, though off two to three miles in the distance were several small, dimly lit villages. All in all, a good location for a meeting. Smith could observe anybody approaching from at least a mile away, a range that exceeds even the most sophisticated sniper rifles. You have to think of these things.

I closed my eyes and spent a moment thinking about what was next. Assuming we made it intact into Falluja, assuming bin Pacha was inside the building, and assuming we actually caught him—which, by my count, involved thrice ignoring the old Army dictum that assumptions make asses out of everyone—there was still the vexing matter of what to do with this guy once we had our hands on him. Smith and his team were supposed to transport us back to Baghdad, where I would rendezvous with Bian, who, if all was on schedule, was already cooling her heels in a specially chartered aircraft at Baghdad Airport.

Accompanying her would be an Agency doctor, a totally unnecessary precaution, Phyllis had calmly assured me—though it never hurts to plan for the worst. Knowing Phyllis, the doc was named Mengele and his toolbox was packed with truth serum, electric shocks, pliers, toothpicks for fingernails, et cetera. But maybe my imagination was running away with me. Or maybe you had to know Phyllis.

Anyway, as I had implied to the first sergeant on the plane, Bian was cleared into the airport on the pretense of picking up an American military prisoner, with his lawyer, and then transporting them back to the States. That passenger would of course be Mr. bin Pacha, his esteemed attorney would be yours truly, and the destination would not be America—where bin Pacha would acquire the protective shield of

U.S. legal rights—but a location where he would have no rights and might feel more amenable about ratting out his colleagues and betraying his cause.

So the question was, what then? I didn’t think bin Pacha was the type of guy who would voluntarily spill the beans. These were hardened terrorists, people who enthusiastically drive cars piled high with explosives into civilian crowds and military convoys.

That wasn’t my problem—my job was to deliver bin Pacha to Bian; her job was to make him open up and squeal. But I hoped she and Phyllis had come up with a few better recipes than the ones I heard them tossing around before I departed. With that reassuring thought, I dozed off.

The next thing I knew, somebody was pounding metal on the car window. I must’ve been jumpy, because Smith said, “Relax. It’s Finder.”

My rear door was opened and I stepped out. I glanced at my watch and saw I had slept for hours: 1:15. I could sense but not see Finder’s eyes examining me in the darkness, then he said, “Welcome to Iraq, Colonel. You’ve traveled a long way.”

“And you’ve picked a lousy way to make a living.”

“Don’t kid yourself. The money’s damned good.”

“But of course that’s not why you do it.”

He laughed. “Bullshit. Why else would I do it?”

Although it was dark, I could make out a man: short, perhaps five and a half feet in height; age, late thirties; color, black; build, slight; with facial features that looked improbably fine and delicate. On the battlefield, of course, it’s not about the size of the man; it’s all about the size of the gun. His voice, on the other hand, was deep baritone and commanding.

He informed me, “Your partner beat you here. She linked up with me five hours ago.”

“Partner?”

“Yeah, Tran. Major Bian Tran. She’s your partner, right? She’s in my car.”

Maybe she
had
been in his car, but nearby, out of the darkness, Bian’s voice said, “Change of plans, Sean. I’m accompanying you.”

I looked in her direction. “No, you’re going back to the plane.”

“It’s good to see you, too.”

“In seven or eight hours it will be even better. In Baghdad, as we planned.”

“Phyllis and I talked it over after you left. And we—”

“Am I or am I not still in charge of the snatch?” I asked.

“Well . . . yes. That hasn’t—”

“Good.” I looked at Finder. “The lady wants to go back to Baghdad. Now.”

She looked at Eric Finder and stated very firmly, “The lady does not.” She then turned to me and suggested, even more firmly and less pleasantly, “We should have this discussion alone.”

In the darkness, I couldn’t observe Finder’s expression, but I didn’t need to see his face to know what he was thinking:
Here I am on the cusp of a dangerous and difficult mission, and those idiots from Washington send me Lucy and Ricky.

I took Bian’s arm and marched her until we were fifty feet from Finder.

I spun her around and said, “This isn’t working for me.”

“You’re right. It’s the abaya. You look ridiculous.” I should note here that she also wore an abaya and a chador, and she looked good; actually, she looked great. Her eyes were really beautiful. Mysterious-looking.

“Bian, I’m not in the mood. Okay? I—”

“How do I look?” she interrupted.

“I’ll tell Finder—”

“I can’t imagine how women wear these all day. They’re hot, cumbersome, and unattractive. On the other hand, no need to shave your legs, wear stockings, or bother with your hair. Plus if you put on a few extra few pounds, nobody notices. Maybe they’re smarter than we are.”

“Stop ignoring me.”

“Start acting civil. Maybe I’ll consider it.”

I took a few breaths and tried to recover my usual nonchalant pleasantry or whatever. I smiled nicely and said, “The outfit becomes you.”

“Thank you.” She swished around.

“How was your trip?” I asked.

“Better than yours. You’ll enjoy the return ticket. A big private jet, comfortable seating, real beds, a well-stocked galley.” She smiled and added, “I smuggled aboard a six-pack of Molson. For you. For your return trip.”

I said nothing.

“It’s in the fridge,” she continued. “Nice and cold. Think of me when you drink it.”

“Right now I’m thinking of choking you.”

“You see? There’s the thanks I get.”

“Stop it.”

“And how was your trip?”

“I ate MREs salted with sand, and my driver was addicted to whistling country music.” I said, “I hate country music.”

“He could have been a rapper.”

“Hey . . . you’re right. I had a wonderful trip.”

“I came up-country on Highway 8 a few times. The noise didn’t appeal to me either, the first time. People were shooting at us. I recall that trip taking twenty-three days, not fourteen hours.”

I knew what she was doing—reminding me she was a soldier, and a combat veteran who had tasted battle. I informed her, “I’m going to have enough trouble watching after myself.”

“Is this one of those stupid macho things?”

“Let’s not go there, Bian.”

But she was already there and replied, “You’re . . . Okay, maybe you’ve done this kind of thing in the past, and maybe you think this is no place for a woman. Times have changed, pal. Catch up.”

“A bullet through the brain is timeless.”

“In your case it wouldn’t make a difference.”

Bitch.
“Bian, listen. This is not a job for any MP—male, female, or anything in between. I was trained for this, I’ve done it half a dozen times, and I’m out of my league here. Also, Finder and his people are a team. Rule one, the team always looks after the team first.”

“Then you should be glad I’m going. I’ll watch your back. Promise.”

When I made no reply, she observed, “Maybe I
need
to look after you.” Anticipating my next thought, she added, “And don’t even think about pulling rank. Phyllis approved this.”

“Did she?” I looked at her and asked, “Why? What changed?”

“Nothing, per se. You need an interpreter.”

“I have an interpreter. Some of Finder’s men are fluent in Arabic and—”

“Exactly—
and
we don’t really want them to know what’s going down.”

“That’s ridiculous. Even if they find out about bin Pacha, they can’t make the connection to Charabi or Daniels.”

“What if they find out who we have our hands on? They lack the appropriate security clearances, they haven’t been vetted, nor are they accountable. And think about this—a twenty-five-milliondollar bounty is on Zarqawi’s head. Should they figure out who bin Pacha is, they might choose the bonus over you.” She added, “You’re going into Falluja. The perfect place for a perfect murder.”

“This sounds like Phyllis talking. People she can’t control give her gas.”

“It was her brainchild. I’ll admit that. But the longer bin Pacha’s apprehension is kept under wraps, the more vulnerable his financial network is to exploitation. Hours make a difference. You see that, right?”

In fact, I did see that. Were word of bin Pacha’s capture to become public, his contacts in the insurgency would shift locations and his financial sources would head for the hills, or at least cover their tracks.

Bian informed me, “Unless you have a better option, I’m going.” She added, “You know what, Sean?
I
need to be there. You don’t.”

“I’m going,” I informed her.

“Why? I see no reason for you to take that risk.”

Neither did I. But I hadn’t traveled this far to sit on my ass. This wasn’t a valid reason but it was a good one. “I need to be there.”