Man in the Middle (47 page)

He paused to see if we had any questions. We did not, and he pointed a finger at the screen and continued, “That entire cellblock is isolated, and the interrogation room we’ll use is on the same wing. The two cells next to bin Pacha’s contain Saudi intelligence agents who will impersonate prisoners, attempt to befriend him, and coax him into sharing confidences. Old trick, but a reliable one. It works more than you would believe. The guards in the wing are all Saudi intelligence.”

He looked at Sheik al-Fayef and added, “Due to the sensitivity of this investigation, the video feed from this cell—in fact from the entire cellblock to the main control room down the hall—has been rerouted to this room. Only from here can you observe or overhear the interrogations.”

He went on awhile with this nickel tour, about how the prisoner would be fed, given medical care, showers, and so forth.

It sounded like these people really had their stuff together—a foolproof charade, supertight security, all the electronic bells and whistles, and the object of this drill was about to be put into play. What was there not to like?

I interrupted his spiel and asked, “Are there any Americans in the cellblock?”

“No. Why?”

“Why not?”

Tirey chuckled like that was a dumb question, which annoyed me a little. He said, “A number of our staff speak Arabic—none, however, are
from
Saudi Arabia. I’m told the dialect is distinct to the ears of native speakers and . . . Look, don’t worry about it. Everything that occurs in that wing can be seen and can be heard from this room. If a fly bats its wings, we’ll hear it. Everything.”

The sheik looked happy but not surprised to hear this, and nodded approvingly. One of his French cigarettes was already dangling between his lips and the ashes fell off and left a big mark on his white robe. He asked me, “You spoke with bin Pacha in the hospital?”

“I did. Major Tran and I prepped him.”

Bian chipped in, “He’ll believe he’s awakening in a Saudi prison.”

“Yes, yes, this is important.” He studied my eyes a moment. Despite, or perhaps because of, our earlier unpleasantness, he seemed to regard me as interesting. He asked me, “And now that you have spoken together, what are your thoughts about him?”

“A tough guy. He enjoys his work, he hates America, and has no fear of spending his life in jail.” After a moment, I noted, “I wouldn’t want my career hanging on whether he’ll talk.”

“So you do not believe he will confess his sources?”

“I do not.” We locked eyes and I couldn’t tell what he thought about this.

Bian helpfully informed him, “I spent six months interrogating suspects and captured mujahideen. Typically, the higher-level ones are superbly trained and conditioned for counterinterrogation. Many proved very difficult to break. Some, impossible.”

“Is this so?”

“Well, there are the lucky few who immediately blurt everything. But there are others, prisoners at Guantanamo, for instance, who required over a year of exhaustive effort. Some of those we have broken, we suspect their testimony was planted disinformation.”

He offered her a faint smile. “We have never experienced this problem.”

Waterbury announced, “There he is,” and we all turned and observed the video screen. Doc Enzenauer led a pair of gentlemen in civilian khakis who carried bin Pacha on a stretcher into the cell. They gently hoisted him by his feet and shoulders off the stretcher and onto the metal cot. Enzenauer then bent down and efficiently withdrew the IV from the prisoner’s arm, a necessary precaution against suicide.

Enzenauer straightened up and stared up into the camera, which, like the one on the top floor, was apparently planted in the light fixture. After a moment he asked uncertainly, “Can you hear me?”

The sound was locked on full blast and it sounded like he was howling through a megaphone; it was a one-way feed, though, and there was no answer. After a long hesitation, he informed us, “He should remain unconscious for perhaps another hour.” He stared awkwardly into the camera, like a stagestruck actor wondering if the scene was over.

Then he and the two men backed out of the room and closed and locked the cell door behind them. We all stared for a moment at the unconscious prisoner resting on the bed, and we shared the same unspoken thought—inside that skull was knowledge that could change the course of this war, that could lead us to the architect of countless killings, that could expose the names of people and groups who were funding the wholesale destruction of an entire society. Unlock those secrets and a world of invaluable knowledge would land in our laps.

Bian whispered to me, “You realize the only thing you and I might’ve accomplished here depends on whether he talks.”

I whispered back, “And it will be worth it.”

She nodded and we shared an unspoken agreement: We were going home empty-handed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

P
hyllis and party left to grab dinner in the dining facility, leaving Bian and me to observe Ali bin Pacha.

To kill the boredom, Bian and I made small talk for a while before I very suavely inched into what really interested me. I said, “So, how was Baghdad?”

“You stayed in Baghdad also.”

“Airports aren’t
in
countries. They’re all part of the Twilight Zone.”

She smiled. “Baghdad was wonderful. The jihadis took a breather. Very few bombings and I heard gunshots only half the time.”

I smiled back. “And did you see Mark?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Am I being too personal?”

“It’s . . .” After a long pause, she informed me, “Yes.”

“Yes, it’s too personal, or yes, you saw Mark?”

“Yes . . . I saw Mark. We got a room at the Visiting Officers’ Quarters inside the Green Zone. We spent two wonderful days together.”

“Good . . . I’m glad . . . really . . . it’s . . . Hey, did you catch the Redskins game?”

“Do you want to talk about this or not?”

“I . . .”
Not.

She looked at me.

I started to say something, but she beat me to it. She said, “I’ve made this awkward for both of us, haven’t I? Are you mad at me for leading you on? Don’t answer that. I know it’s my fault . . . and my . . . my responsibility to clear the air. So I’ll just say it—I do now, and I will always love Mark. I remembered that the instant I laid eyes on him. I’m sorry if I became confused.” She added, in a quiet voice, “I’m even sorrier if I confused you.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Because I don’t.” She gave me a sad smile.

“Bian, what happened . . . This is a war zone, a lot of bad memories are flooding back for you, this case is tapping into your emotions, and—”

“Okay, I’ve got it. What I did . . . in the shower . . . it was a careless lapse, an excusable stupidity.”

“Well . . .”

“I . . . That came out wrong, didn’t it? I didn’t mean it that way, Sean. Seriously . . . I’m incredibly fond of you.” She was struggling to find the right words, and eventually said, “If there was anybody in the world I would enjoy cheating on Mark with, it would be you.”

“That’s—”

“I know. I did it again. I’m a little tongue-tied here. I haven’t experienced this before.”

“I hope not.” I looked at her and asked, “Did you tell Mark about us?”

“I did not. What was there to tell? Nothing really happened, did it? I owe that to you. I doubt many men would’ve . . . you know.”

“Don’t remind me.”

She smiled. “Believe it or not, I appreciate it.”

Mercifully, our little
Days of Our Lives
episode came to an abrupt end, because the door opened and in stepped Jim Tirey, the FBI SAC. I mean, in my line of work, I can and do talk freely and intelligently with hardened killers, pissed-off judges, skeptical juries—but when it comes to heart-to-heart discussions with women . . .

Anyway, for about ten seconds Tirey casually watched bin Pacha on the screen, then he informed us, “We’re about to start the treatment. Our welcome concert for all new internees. Thought I’d better alert you.”

He turned around, looked at us, and almost as an afterthought asked, “May I join you?”

Bian said, “Please do . . . uh—”

“Jim . . . please.” He moved to the table, sat across from us, and took a moment getting comfortable. He said, “I’m told you two went into Falluja and made the apprehension.”

Bian nodded.

He shook his head. “That was . . . incredibly brave. The same morning the attack started, right?”

“Somebody forgot to warn us,” I informed him truthfully.

“Glad you explained that.” He smiled. “I was worried that you’re complete idiots.”

Bian pointed at me and commented, “He told me he was taking me to Vegas. So you can imagine my surprise when . . .”

Jim chuckled. We all laughed. Ha-ha. Baghdad humor. He said, “Well, for the record, it was worth it. We get a lot of the old regime here, and their testimonies and confessions will be helpful when the Iraqis get around to prosecuting Saddam and the old guard. But their value is historical at this point. Old business. Current operational guys are more rare, and definitely more interesting.”

I didn’t really want to talk about this, so to divert the conversation, I mentioned, “I didn’t even realize the FBI was here.”

“The American public doesn’t know we’re here.”

The publicity machine of the besainted Bureau makes Madison Avenue look like pikers, so I was surprised to hear this. “Why are you here?”

He lit a cigarette and spent a moment considering his response. “A little of this, some of that. We give investigations training to the Iraqi police. For a high-value investigation—say, a particularly nasty bombing or VIP assassination—we handle the more demanding criminology work, forensic collection, residue analysis, technical analysis. Also, there are a lot of American firms here—sometimes we investigate them.” He smiled. “Believe it or not, there’s a lot of graft over here. Uncle Sam is spending over a billion bucks a month, and it brings out everybody’s best instincts. Bribery, overbilling, kickbacks, the usual funny business.” He stopped smiling. “My detachment’s not that big, so sometimes it’s just liaison work with the labs at Quantico or referral work with stateside offices.”

“This must be a career-enhancing assignment.”

He forced a tight smile. “Sure is. If you survive.” He added, “But the Bureau
does
look kindly on overseas hardship assignments. If you’re interested, we’re all volunteers here. This is where the action is—great training, great experience, and great tax benefits.”

This sounded like the standard recruiting spiel, and as with Army recruiters, one thing was not emphasized, and that was the great odds of a premature funeral.

But frankly I was having trouble picturing boys and girls in blue suits and starched white shirts running around Baghdad. Tirey apparently read my thoughts, because he remarked, frowning, “It takes a little adjustment. The hours suck. And the working conditions are almost indescribable.” He said, “Also, the cops here are a joke. They’re lazy, crooked, corrupt, on the take, infiltrated, or scared shitless of the insurgents.”

“Maybe the fact that the insurgents are targeting them has something to do with it.”

“Tell me about it. It’s just that you can’t trust them. They destroy evidence, pollute crime scenes, and feed us false leads. I used to think the stateside cops are a pain in the ass . . . You know what? I actually look forward to working with the NYPD.”

I could’ve told him that a lot of foreign armies we work with are worse; instead, I nodded.

He continued, “The Bureau has opened a lot of these overseas stations in the past ten years. In the old days, if you wanted fast track, the New York office was the place to be. Now it’s pissholes like this.” He shook his head.

Truly it was a new world, and the FBI, like the Army, was struggling to find its footing, and its people, trained and bred as they were to fight American crime in American cities, were having to learn new tricks and new angles, with different rules. He mentioned, “You might be interested to know that we flew in a team of financial forensics specialists. Assuming bin Pacha spills, they’ll follow the money.”

Bian was just responding to that statement when, out of the blue, our conversation was drowned out by an earsplitting noise, the sound of people shrieking and howling, that was really awful. The surround sound system was set at full blast and it sounded like a live concert from Dante’s Inferno. I nearly jumped out of my shorts, and Bian actually did jump out of her chair and grabbed and squeezed my arm.

Jim mouthed the word “Relax.” He got up, walked to the video screen, grabbed the remote, and pushed the mute button, which brought instant silence. He smiled at us in an amused way. “I tried to warn you. And don’t get your pants on fire. It’s a tape. Speakers are mounted outside of bin Pacha’s cell. A little mood music to put new detainees in the right frame of mind.”

And indeed, on the screen you could see bin Pacha’s eyes pop open, and then he bolted upright and made a swift visual survey of his new environment. Doc Enzenauer had cautioned us that the aftereffects of the drugs and anesthetics would leave him groggy and possibly would impair his judgment for a day or two. But on his face I saw no sign of confusion or disorientation—he
knew
he was in the shithole of the universe.

Jim had apparently seen this movie before, and wasn’t interested in the rerun. He lit another cigarette and, through the billows of smoke, studied Bian and me. He said, “How did you know bin Pacha was in Falluja? And
where
to find him?”

I mean, it was hard not to admire the sneaky way he’d worked up to this question—this guy was smooth. It was none of his business, of course. But when you say that to a cop they make your business their business. Without pausing, Bian replied, “An informer. A member of his own network, if you can believe it.”

“An inside informer? Wow.”

“I know. Almost unheard of.” After a moment, she added, “You’ll enjoy this delicious irony. Zarqawi’s people accidently blew up their own man’s family with a car bomb. It’s about revenge.”