Man in the Middle (52 page)

But we did not go away, and she finally looked up at us and asked, “What did you expect?”

“We didn’t
expect
anything,” I replied. “Just definitely not this.” I asked, “Was this little charade prearranged?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he walked in here with those folders, and you just allowed him to walk out of here with everything he wanted.”

“This is how our business works. Turki is a professional, and professionals come prepared.” She looked at Bian. “You don’t have to like it, but this is how you have to play it.”

“I don’t like it,” Bian responded.

“No? Well . . . try thinking about what will save the most American lives, what will help win this war. Compromises are necessary evils.”

“What else would I be thinking about?”

Phyllis studied her face, then said, “He told us who these two princes are. Whatever they did, they’re gold-plated, and it doesn’t matter—we weren’t getting them.” She added, “Nor is antagonizing the Saudis in our interest. For all the obvious reasons, we need them.”

Bian said, “The calculus doesn’t confuse me. But what you just did . . . it was no different than the pact Cliff Daniels made with Charabi, and we’re doing nothing about that either. Guilty men walk, and everybody gets to avoid a scandal. That’s what I question.”

Phyllis’s finger was tapping the table, a less than subtle warning that her patience was wearing thin. But Bian was beyond impatience; she was in a slow rage, and being scolded with cold reason not only failed to douse her inner fires it was an aphrodisiac.

Phyllis said, “Welcome to a world where every choice is flawed and you have to pick the one that least stinks. We lost bin Pacha. Nothing will change that. But at least we now have three new names, three fresh chances to pick up key figures, to find out what they know, and who they know.”

I heard what Phyllis was saying, and on one level it made sense. I also understood that Bian, a military cop, was taught to reason and was trained to act on another level—good guys versus bad guys; do the crime, do the time. The mind of a police officer is not simple, but the job is morally not all that complex: guilt or innocence, black or white, without any ethical vagaries. But for the lawyer, guilt and innocence are parsed into many shades, crime is subjective, and punishment is merely a commodity you negotiate with a prosecutor, a judge, or a jury. We call this justice, and we say it is evenhanded, and if you can afford a five-hundred-buck-an-hour attorney, you might even believe that. As lawyer friends of mine say, in America you get all the justice you can afford.

So I wasn’t really shocked that this applies to espionage as well. And neither should Bian have been appalled, or even surprised. She was, though. And Phyllis, who usually exerts a more deft touch when she shoves around her subordinates, this time appeared surprisingly tone-deaf and clumsy.

I knew it would do no good, but I advised Bian, “I don’t like it either. It
is
, though, the best deal we’re going to get.”

She replied, “That man ordered an assassination to keep us from knowledge that was invaluable to us and embarrassing to him. That same man just bartered his country’s way out of a black eye it has definitely earned. That’s wrong—we all know it’s wrong. Pretend otherwise and you’re as bad as her.” She stood and left the room.

Phyllis watched her leave and drew a long breath, then turned her eyes to me and said, “You need to get her under control.”

I stood and moved toward the door, but then I stopped and turned around. I said, “I understand your decision. I really do, Phyllis. And, you know what? Were I in your shoes, I might’ve made the same deal.”

“Thank you.”

For a moment I stood quietly. I then said, “But that doesn’t make it any more morally excusable, or even right. So she’s disgusted and disillusioned. Frankly, if you and I had souls, we would be, too.”

Phyllis started to say something, and I kept talking. “And that’s the problem. At the beginning of this case, we had lots of chances to do the right thing. The chance to find out about and expose Charabi. The chance to expose Daniels and his bosses, to expose the truth about the cooked intelligence, about a possible betrayal, and along the way, we stumble into a money scheme that implicates a government that is a titular ally. Instead, we settle for a few garden-variety terrorists. I think you can see where that might turn the stomach of a good soldier.”

“She’s obsessed with justice and honor. We’re doing what’s best for the country.”

“I won’t argue what’s best or not. I really don’t know anymore, and that bothers me more than anything.” I added after a long moment, “Fire me or transfer me; I really don’t care. I’m through with this job.”

Phyllis did not look surprised but neither did she look ready to fire me. She picked up another folder. “I’ll consider this as a sentiment expressed in a moment of haste, anger, and frustration. You have nothing to feel guilty or ashamed about. Nor do I. We handled the cards we were dealt as best we could. If there are moral shortcomings, they lie with others.”

I said nothing.

“Sleep on it.” She stuck her nose inside the folder. “Make your decision later, with a clear head.”

She read. I walked out.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

J
ust when you think it’s over, you get jerked through a new knothole.

Two matters needed to be resolved before we returned home— and Phyllis made it clear that nobody was leaving until both jobs were finished. Probably, after all that happened, she needed to notch a few victories on her belt before she flew home into a shitstorm. A thousand successes do not wipe clean one screwup, but neither is it a good idea to appear empty-handed before a review board.

Problem one was the apprehension of the smuggler of arms and jihadists into Iraq. As he was operating across the border in Syria, his capture offered what Phyllis politely referred to as “delicate diplomatic and extralegal issues.” Under the proper protocol, the American ambassador in Damascus would lodge a formal request to the Syrian government to arrest the perp, followed by a speedy and efficient extradition process. Given Syrian hostility to America, the name of this option was “pissing into the wind.”

So when Phyllis said extralegal, she meant illegal, and when she said diplomatic, she meant violating Syria’s sovereignty with a kidnapping. Delicate, of course, meant a black bag job by Agency operatives.

As long as it didn’t mean Sean Drummond; my fun, travel, and adventure quotient was pegged out.

So Phyllis worked the phones, coordinating his apprehension, and I was dispatched to handle problem two: to wit, the terrorist master planner in Karbala. As this guy operated inside Iraq proper, his apprehension required neither finesse nor skullduggery, which meant the blunt power of the U.S. Army, and this meant Drummond and Tran were designated to be the mail carriers.

Bian was in the mess hall when I found her, seated alone, and wearing a desultory expression as she picked at her food. I fell into the chair across from her, cleared my throat a few times, and noisily shifted my chair.

She sawed off a piece of steak, put it in her mouth, and chewed.

I smiled at her and asked, “How’s the chow, soldier?”

Her mouth must’ve been full, because she did not get a word out.

The famous Drummond charm obviously wasn’t doing it. I cut to the chase and said, “You have one last mission.”

“Is this an order?”

“No. You’re involuntarily volunteering.”

She laughed. Not nicely.

“The Saudi planner in Karbala is being referred to the Army for apprehension. You served on the corps intelligence staff, so I assume you know who to bring this to.”

She continued eating.

I informed her, “You and I will together deliver the Saudi file on this man, and then go straight to the airport for the flight home.”

“Go to hell.”

“Bian, look at me.”

She studied her steak.

“You’re directing your anger at the wrong person.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Don’t hate the players, hate the game.”

“Oh . . . now it’s a
game
.”

“You know what I mean.”

“And you know what I mean.”

She was being unreasonable, and I guess it was no mystery why. She was furious at the powers that be in Washington, disgusted by their decisions, their machinations, their cover-ups, their bullshit— and she needed to lash out. Sean Drummond wasn’t responsible for that, of course. But the idiots in Washington weren’t seated across from her, they were five thousand miles away, and not likely to take her calls. Still, this was starting to piss me off.

I said very sharply, “Finish your meal. We’ll go to the motor pool together and sign out a vehicle.”

She pushed away her tray and focused on me for the first time. “You’re right. I still have friends in the corps intel staff. So . . . yes, I do know who to refer this to. In fact, my old office handles these matters.”

“Good. Everything should—”

“But if I do this, I do it alone.”

“Wrong. We do this—”

“
Alone
. Also, I’ll fly home alone,” she continued. “Actually, I’d prefer a military flight. The company of real soldiers will be refreshing.”

That really hurt. I responded, “How you get back is your business. I don’t really care. You are not, however, driving
alone
to Baghdad.”

“Why not? I know the way.”

“The buddy system. It’s—”

“You’re not my buddy,” she pointed out.

“—it’s theater policy. Nobody travels through Indian country without a buddy,” I continued. “Also this is a very sensitive and important mission. It requires an armed shotgun.”

She looked at me and said, “Suit yourself.”

“I always do.”

She glanced at her watch. “You know, depending on traffic, this could be your last chance to eat. Go ahead. The food was wonderful, since you asked. I need to freshen up and get my equipment together.”

“Fine. Motor pool. One hour.” I went to the chow line, loaded my tray, and when I returned to the table, Bian was gone. The dining facility, incidentally, was managed by civilian contractors, and the servers and waiters were all Iraqi nationals, which smacks a little of colonialism—natives waiting hand and foot on their occupiers and all that. Though to be truthful, nobody looked unhappy to have jobs. Contractors might get a bad rap back in the States, but the food, however, was amazing, better than anything I’d eaten in any Army facility, which is not the faint praise it sounds like. I relaxed, savored my first decent meal in days, went back for seconds—twice—and made a pig of myself.

For the first time in years, I even read the
Stars and Stripes
, which reminded me why I stopped reading it in the first place. If the
New York Times
’s motto is “All the news fit to print,” the motto here is “There is no bad news fit to print.” I particularly enjoyed the article headlined, “Recruiting Riots in Six States: President Orders Lottery System to Decide Which of Millions of Desperate Applicants Get Chance to Serve in Iraq.” Okay, I’m making that up.

Anyway, fifty minutes later, with my bags and my tummy packed, I stood before Phyllis’s desk waiting to pick up the file. She was on the phone, and it took five minutes before she hung up and asked, “Well?”

“I need the file.”

“Don’t you two communicate?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Bian picked it up. About forty minutes ago. She said she was meeting you in the motor pool.”

I must’ve looked surprised, because Phyllis asked, “Is something wrong?”

“No. I’m . . . Be back in a minute.”

I had a wave of bad feeling in my stomach and I walked as fast my feet could carry me to the motor pool, where my wave of bad feeling immediately turned into a tsunami. Yes, Major Tran had been here, the motor sergeant informed me, and she had signed out a Toyota Land Cruiser, the fancy model reserved for Special Ops, and departed about thirty minutes before. I asked him if the vehicle had a radio; no—no radio, no armor plating, and worse, no Drummond in the passenger seat.

However, the major had left a note, which the motor sergeant withdrew from his pocket with a greasy hand that left black smudges on the paper. It was handwritten and read, “
Sean, don’t be angry with me. I don’t blame you for anything that’s happened. I’ve been a complete bitch. Sorry. And I mean it. But I need to think this through, and for some reason, you distract me. I’ll call as soon as I arrive. Don’t worry. You know by now I can handle it. Bian
.”

The sergeant was watching my face and said, “Anything wrong, sir?”

“What? No . . . I— How long is the drive to the Green Zone?”

“An hour, maybe. Hour and a half when the traffic sucks. Usually does suck at this hour.”

I should have been furious with her, but I wasn’t. Truthfully, she’d been acting strangely ever since her two days in Baghdad—or, on second thought, earlier, as I recalled the shower episode—and I knew the incident with bin Pacha had really pushed her over an edge. When the head isn’t in the right place, the body follows. I should have kept a better eye on her.

I returned to the subterranean jail and updated Phyllis that Bian was en route and would call and notify us as soon as she landed. I further informed her that Bian had left alone, which caused a raised eyebrow and a chilly admonition to stay on top of this.

I asked the man on the switch to put through any calls from Major Tran, then found an empty desk and parked myself beside the phone. After two hours of spinning my wheels, when Bian still had not called, I had the switch put me through to the corps G2—the intel staff—inside the Green Zone.

A very polite captain came on the line, I offered him the abbreviated version of my problem, and then asked with great politeness if Major Tran had checked in.

He replied, “Gee, sir, your guess is as good as mine. This is a large staff, with many offices on several floors.” He then hypothesized, “Maybe your major got lost, or maybe she ran into an old friend in the hallways. There’s a bazaar in the compound, so maybe she’s shopping. You know how the ladies are.” He laughed.