Man in the Middle (29 page)

The Vietnam warriors of my father’s generation also maintained their connections to their former lives, to the American lifestyle, to what the Army euphemistically terms “creature comforts.” Their adversaries lived in jungles and tunnels, exposed to the elements and surviving on rice and raw fish, even as helicopters swooped into the American base camps loaded with cold Budweiser,
Playboy
magazines, pizza, and Bob Hope with alluring ladies in miniskirts, all good reminders of what they were fighting for.

One way to win an insurgency is to melt into the environment and culture—to go native—and beat the locals at their own game. This, of course, just has never been the American way. We rearrange the culture and environment to suit us.

Indeed, the day was coming when this highway would be chock-a-block with fast-food places, minimalls, and Days Inns for the hungry, tired traveler, with the obligatory Koran tucked inside the bedside table, a prayer rug at the foot of the bed, and an arrow pointing at Mecca carved on the bedpost. This, I guess, was what the insurgents were fighting against, just as Hitler, Tojo, Mao, and Stalin had fought against it before them. Good luck. The carpetbaggers are here and change is around the corner. Probably someday their grandchildren would look back and wonder what all the fuss was about.

Occasionally we saw long convoys of slow-moving American military vehicles headed where we had just left, toward Kuwait, and behind them, crawling in long impatient lines, Iraqi cars, buses, and trucks, no doubt entertaining unkind thoughts about their occupiers. Passing a military convoy in this country is nearly as perilous as jaywalking in New York City.

His incessant whistling aside, Smith remained almost supernaturally alert, robotically scanning the roadsides for anything that looked out of place or even innocuously suspicious—dead animals, or wayward barrels, or broken-down cars; the usual costumes for roadside bombs. Whenever he saw something he didn’t like, he jerked the humvee off the road to stay on the safe side, bumping and grinding through a few hundred yards of sand.

Increasingly we began to pass ramshackle villages with kids in raggedy clothes who stood by the highway with their hands extended—begging for food, money, or trinkets—a few of whom had obviously learned something from the GIs. By the end of the convoy, when Carl and I passed, the kids were all waving farewell with their middle fingers.

Maybe it was a local gesture meaning good luck and good health. Or maybe not.

Well, enough touristy detail. By late afternoon, we were passing through, or by, larger towns and small cities, and by early evening we entered the outskirts of a large, sprawling city with telltale landmarks that were recognizable from television. I glanced at Smith. “Baghdad?”

He leaned back in his seat and stretched. “Better be.”

I mentioned, “I have an appointment in the Green Zone. You know the way, right?”

He nodded.

I glanced at my watch. I was sixteen hours late for my rendezvous with Eric Finder—but if Phyllis had known to send transportation from Kuwait, I assumed she had also reset our meeting.

Then Carl said, “That ain’t where yer goin’, though.” I looked at him, and he added, “The blood-dimmed tide is loosed.”

After a surprised pause, I replied, “And everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned.”

If you’re interested, this is Phyllis’s eccentric idea of passwords, a passage from a Yeats poem. I guess I understood how this might be sort of a poetic metaphor for this case and all that. But the golden rule of operations is KISS—keep it simple, stupid.

I mean, Carl could have said two, and I could have replied three. Works fine.

Indeed, we were on the same wavelength, because he asked me, “Who thought up that silly shit?”

“My boss.”

He stared, obviously wondering if it was contagious.

I stared back. “You’re Eric Finder?”

“Nope. Still Carl Smith. I’m taking you to Finder.”

“There must be a good reason you lied and didn’t identify yourself.”

“Must be.”

“I’d like to hear it.”

“’Cause you’d of spent the whole drive askin’ me dumbass questions.” He stared straight ahead. “Don’t really like to bullshit.”

To confirm his suspicion, I asked, “Tell me about your group.”

“Like what?”

“How many?”

“Fifteen. Only ten are involved in this, though. Orders are to keep it small and tight as possible.”

Of course. The less witnesses the better. “Who are they?”

“Former Delta or Rangers mostly. There’s two ex-SEALs, and one guy who was NYPD SWAT.” He commented, “He talks real funny.” He glanced at me and remarked, apparently in reference to his own credentials, “Delta. Five years.”

“Is there a name to this organization?”

“Nope. Truth is, we don’t like to be known. We don’t bodyguard or handle facility protection like them other groups.”

“What do you do?”

“Wetwork.”

He confided this matter-of-factly, as though I was expected to know he and his team specialized in rubbing out human targets. In fact, I was now a little embarrassed that I ever accepted Carl Smith for a simple driver.

His impressive physical fitness aside, the man was intensely wound, and a stone-cold introvert. A man of few words is often a man of few thoughts; or he can be someone whose thoughts are best kept to himself.

There was a time when I recognized dangerous men, which was how I survived three conflicts, albeit the last time the bad guys scored a few points by pumping two rounds into yours truly. But that Sean Drummond had lost his edge; if he wanted to survive this one, he needed to remember that. I asked Smith, “How much do you know about this mission?”

He smiled. “Much as I need to know. Why?”

“You know what it’s about?”

He shook his head. “We’re paid plenty not to know.”

“How much?”

“Fifty thou’ apiece. Plus expenses.”

I whistled.

He glanced at me and insisted, “Hey, we ain’t mercenaries.”

“Then how about you guys do this one on the house?”

He did not find this funny. After a moment he asked me, “How much you know ’bout Falluja?”

I pointed at the three thick binders on my lap. “I’ve read and memorized every detail inside these Agency binders.”

He asked a little dubiously, “What do they say?”

“I’m an idiot if I go near the place.”

He nodded that this was a good insight. In fact, he said, “That’s all you need to know. This here’s one of them things where a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Just do everything we tell you; don’t even think you know what the heck’s going on.” He glanced at me and confided, “We get into Falluja a lot.”

“No kidding. Where can I buy some postcards?”

He ignored my nervous sarcasm and informed me, “The Agency hires us to tag buildings.”

“Which means what?”

“What we do, we hang around inside the city and sort of watch out for hajis. We see one, we follow ’im back to his nest. We tag the building with an electronic marker, call it in, and wait around to make sure the asshole stays put.”

“And then?”

“Then . . . well, ’bout an hour later, an F-16 comes along, launches a big missile, it locks onto the electronic signature from the tag, and boom. No more assholes.”

This sounded like an interesting job, and I wanted to know a little more, but he continued, “Point is, Falluja’s asshole central. They’re Sunnis, right? . . . Only they’re Wahhabis, like the Saudis. Big-time fanatics. Got it? They don’t even get along with other Sunnis, and even Saddam had trouble with this place. He finally said fuck it, problem too hard. Gave up.”

I nodded. Though more concise and picturesque, this accorded with the historical and social synopses I had just perused in the CIA tour guide. Even in America, our cities and regions have their own quirks and idiosyncrasies; so if you’re operating there, you need to be sensitive to that and adapt, or you stick out like a zit on the prom queen’s nose. I mean, I once wore a Yankees cap and “Nixon’s the One” T-shirt in Boston; I barely made it out alive.

As I understood it, the Fallujans were like Iraq’s Hatfields and McCoys, ornery, moody, and combustible. They don’t like outside interference from any outsiders, and particularly they don’t like Christians sticking their noses into their affairs. I recalled that about seven months back the Marines had launched an all-out assault, and the fighting turned so fierce they were ordered to conduct a hasty withdrawal—aka retreat. The Marines claimed it was to spare civilian lives; the jihadis said that it was to spare Marines. Whatever.

Knowing my Marine Corps friends, this probably wasn’t a good time to invest in Fallujan real estate or to open a shopping mall. A mortuary, however, had possibilities.

“Jihadis now run the place,” Smith continued. “They got their own police, they got spotters and informers everywhere, and they got reaction squads that land on yer ass in a split second.”

“Got it.” I noted that we had peeled off from the convoy and left the roadway. We were bypassing the city center and now were traveling through side streets in what were essentially middle-class neighborhoods in this part of the world.

From the sun’s position, I knew we were traveling west, and from my CIA binders I recalled that this direction was the eye of the storm—Sunni territory, the nexus of discontentment and bad attitudes toward Americans.

The city center, I knew from newsreels, had wide, glorious boulevards lined with palm and date trees, statuesque luxury hotels, magnificent government buildings, and opulent palaces, all in line with Saddam’s effusive vision of turning Baghdad into the Paris of the Mideast, though the effect was more of a Babylonian Las Vegas.

But outside of the glitzy pomposity of this Potemkin city center, where we were now traveling, the streets were narrow to the point of claustrophobic, grubbier; in fact, squalid. The buildings and homes were packed closely together, and nowhere did I see trees, grass, or shrubbery, which shows that Iraqi homeowners have more sense than Americans—except for the people, nothing here needs to be watered, fertilized, or manicured.

Speaking of fertilizer, what really got my attention was the smell. The city’s sewage system obviously wasn’t back up to speed, and this was a windy fall day. I couldn’t imagine the effect on a breezeless summer afternoon. Were I in charge of this occupation I would worry about people’s innate tendency toward mental association; the Americans are here and it smells like shit.

Also there was a fair amount of pedestrian and street traffic, small trucks laden with goods and vegetables, and various models of Japanese and European cars, most of which looked old, though it’s difficult to judge in a part of the world where sun and sand prematurely age paint jobs, and people. We began slowing down and after a few moments, I asked Smith, “Where are you taking me?”

He pointed his finger toward a home at the end of the street, a narrow, one-level house, squat in shape, tan or dirty white in color, constructed of concrete and stucco, with bars on the windows, an orange-tiled roof, and an oversize satellite dish, like a big wart sticking off the side. In the States this would be called a Mediterranean ranch, as would the surrounding homes, which were identical in size and architectural style. The Achmeds had no trouble keeping up with the Bashirs on this block. Usually this is a source of domestic harmony, though apparently not. He explained, “It’s a safe house.”

A moment later he pulled up to a two-car garage whose double door had been conveniently left open. I deduced from this that our arrival was expected. A squat, ugly, lime green 1980ish Peugeot with Iraqi plates was parked to the right.

I knew that few Iraqi homes have attached garages at all, and a two-car is a very rare indulgence; probably this feature weighed heavily when this house was chosen. Regardless, a military humvee is monstrously wide, and it took Smith a few careful attempts to maneuver it inside the garage without peeling the side off the Peugeot. He parked, turned off the engine, and said, “Get out.”

I did, while he bolted behind the car and quickly pulled shut the garage door. He next walked to the Peugeot, opened the rear door, withdrew an armful of clothing, and began separating them.

He withdrew a black chador—a veil—and an abaya—a long, baggy woman’s black robe—and tossed them at me.

Without further ado, Smith began stripping off his American Army uniform and then slipped into black jeans, dark sweatshirt, and worn Adidas sneakers. With his jet-black hair and dusky complexion, as he was now dressed, he passed for an Arab. I held up the dress and examined it more closely.

He noted, “For one thing it covers your all-American good looks. For another . . . You speak Arabic?”

I shook my head.

“Well, there you have it. Nobody talks to women ’round here less they’re hitched.”

Obviously these people had thought this thing through. Carl Smith struck me as competent, meticulous, and well attuned to the local culture; how I struck him was another story.

I pulled the abaya over my head and tried to figure out how to put on the chador. Eventually, Smith grew impatient with my fumbling and reached over, saying, “Like this.” He made a few deft adjustments and then tapped my shoulder. “Remember how to do that.”

While he placed my duffel and legal briefcase in the car trunk, I regarded myself in the Peugeot’s side mirror. Smith could pass for a native, as I said; the problem was me, and even the veil didn’t fully hide my whitebread looks. But at least an observer would have to be close to pick up on my blue eyes and untrimmed eyebrows, and if they got that close, probably the jig was up anyway.

He slipped an earphone into his ear, from which extruded a mouthpiece, and spent a moment adjusting a few knobs. He said into the microphone, “Smith here. Ready to roll.” I had not a clue whom he was speaking with, though the lack of verbal foreplay suggested the call was expected, and further, that we were under the eye of somebody. He listened for a moment, “Uh-huh . . . okay. Yeah, I’ll avoid it.”

I said, “Avoid what?”

“None of your business.”