Man in the Middle (42 page)

The inside of the plane was, as I said, a sauna, and my uniform was pasted to my body. Even Phyllis, who has the physiology of a lizard, sported a light coat of dew on her upper lip.

Neither she nor I said a word as we left the plane, or as we walked together through the hangar and out onto the airfield, where there was a brisk breeze, hot yet refreshing.

Eventually, we were far enough away and I said, not softly, “You screwed us and you betrayed us.”

“Harsh words. You look tired. So how are you?”

“Didn’t you promise to watch my backside?”

“She’s a very attractive woman, don’t you think?”

“She’s a good soldier.”

“And very beautiful, too. Do I sense something developing between you two?”

“I didn’t even realize she was female until she walked into a ladies’ latrine.” I wasn’t going to let her change the subject, and I asked, “Why, Phyllis? Why did you cave?”

“Incidentally, you handled Turki brilliantly. He’s a tough negotiator. You ran a nice bluff, though you nearly drove it off a cliff.” She gave me a long stare and added, “Still, you squeezed a better deal out of him than we got.”

“Maybe you didn’t push hard enough. Who’s ‘we’?”

She looked away from me. “Powerful people. You don’t need to know their names and I wouldn’t tell you anyway.”

“Tigerman? Hirschfield? Do those names fit?”

She chose not to answer directly, but did say, “Even three years ago, the Agency could have stood up to the whole lot of them. We’ve lost so much prestige, clout, and influence since 9/11. Did you know the President is considering a new Director?”

“So what? The old Director will make a bundle off corporate boards and speeches and books. The new Director will learn that he needs you more than you need him. The bureaucracy is forever, and the bureaucracy
always
prevails.”

“I’m not so sure. Washington is changing. The Agency is due for changes also. It has to . . . and maybe that’s not a bad idea.”

“Who is Turki al-Fayef?” I asked.

“Turki is the number two or three or four in Saudi intelligence.”

“Which one?”

“It depends on how many royal princes decide they want to play spymaster. I’ve known him for many years, and with Turki around that’s all they do: play. It’s perfectly harmless.”

“But he’s not harmless.”

“Don’t blame him. Turki does what’s best for his country, as we do what’s best for ours.”

“Then hire him. He does it better.”

“Stop acting naive, Sean. It doesn’t sit well on you.”

“Excuse me for thinking we were here to do the right thing.”

“How do you know we’re
not
doing the right thing?”

Regarding Phyllis, she’s not shameless, but she has that annoying Washington syndrome, a stunning inability to blush, no matter how raw the lie or how awful the embarrassment. I asked, “What does Ali bin Pacha know that’s scaring everybody?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot. But he’s a Saudi, and his own countrymen can handle this better than we.”

“I know you don’t believe that.”

An Air Force C-130 began sprinting down the runway, and she said something, but it was drowned out by the roar of the noisy engines. We stood, sharing a moment in silence, and watched the big plane lift off, and our eyes stayed on it as the pilot began a series of corkscrew maneuvers intended to elude ground-to-air missiles. This place sucked.

The passengers in the rear of the aircraft were probably tossing their lunch; I was feeling a wave of nausea myself. “What about Charabi?”

“Who?”

I looked at her. “You can’t allow this.”

“I follow orders.” After a moment she observed, “Needless to say, you also will follow orders.”

“He betrayed us.”

“Do you know that for sure? You have a suspicion based on a flimsy circumstantial foundation. A few e-mails in a computer that belonged to a seriously troubled, contemptible man who perhaps committed suicide. Were you the defense attorney, would you allow that to be entered into evidence? I think not.” She didn’t need to state the obvious, that her question was as abstract as it was specious, since I would never be allowed within ten miles of that computer or the incriminating e-mails. She did add, however, “You have no tangible proof that Charabi passed any secrets to the Iranians. He’s not even a U.S. citizen. That’s a requirement for an indictment for treason, is it not?”

“He’s a suspect in the murder of Clifford Daniels. That’s an extraditable offense.”

“You said the murderer was a woman.”

“I also told you I believe she was a
hired
assassin. She was the murder weapon, not the murderer.”

“There’s that ‘possibly’ word again. I thought the law dealt with facts, and I thought innocence is presumed.”

These weasel words had a lawyerly ring, as if Phyllis was parroting the stupid rationale cooked up by the nameless powers that be back in D.C.

You can imagine how much I enjoy legal lectures, and I informed her, “Investigations always begin with vague and uncertain suspicions, you dig a little, and you decide which suspicious assholes need a second look. And, if you’re interested, the presumption of innocence pertains to jurors, not investigators. To the cop everybody is a suspect until proven otherwise.”

She did not reply.

“He’s a suspect. He needs to be questioned.”

“He is an Iraqi citizen. This is Iraq. You have neither the legal basis nor the authority, nor the access to question him.”

“No problem. I’ll just walk into his office and ask a few questions. Perfectly harmless. Man-to-man. See where it goes.”

“I was instructed to convey three words: Forget about him.”

We locked eyes for a moment.

She said, “The Iraqi people are scheduled to have their first election in January. This is a critical milestone to victory in this war, a necessary step for bringing our troops home. Mahmoud Charabi—maybe you read this in the papers—is a leading contender for future prime minister.”

“And that’s
why
he needs to be investigated. What if he’s elected, and what if he’s working for Iran, and what if he’s behind the murder of Cliff Daniels? That won’t be good for America, and that’s not what my comrades in arms are fighting and dying for.”

“
Why
is irrelevant. Pay attention. Neither you nor I are allowed to carry this any further.” She pointed a finger, daggerlike, into my arm and invoked those sacred words: “That’s an order.”

“What’s going on here?”

There was silence for a moment. Eventually, Phyllis said, “Two words, this time: Martin Lebrowski.”

“Who?”

“The man you know as Don.”

“Am I going to dislike Martin as much as I dislike Don?”

“More.” She added, “The leak of the Iranian operation occurred on his watch. He was responsible for all aspects of that operation. Especially, operational security. Lebrowski was facing a serious career crisis.”

“Lebrowski never should have had a career in the first place.”

“Whatever. He has more savvy than I gave him credit for. Right after Martin departed our meeting he called a few friends, on the NSC staff and at the Defense Department. He disclosed what we knew.” She added, “The details were off, but it didn’t matter.”

“What happened next?”

“What do you think happened next?”

Her response was as rhetorical as my question. This was Washington—a meeting happened next. The bright boys scrummed around a long mahogany table in a lushly carpeted back room and collectively they realized that, with a seesaw election mere days away, the opposition could begin picking out Secret Service nicknames and contacting their real estate agents. One meeting always begets the next, and this time Phyllis and her boss were invited, not as guests but as factotums to hear their marching orders. I asked her, “And what was Martin’s reward?”

“Oh, well . . . he now works in the White House. On the National Security Council staff. A special assistant to the President.”

“I love when the good guy wins.”

“Martin outsmarted us—”

“Martin outsmarted
you
. Personally, I thought he was an asshole.”

“All right . . . me. There’s nothing to be done about it now.”

She was right, of course. And actually, I felt a pang of guilt for indulging in that bratty told-you-so. I can rise above the vindictive and small-minded stuff. Then again, she doesn’t; why should I?

I stared at her for a moment, then said, “Let’s make sure I’m clear on all this. In summary: Ali bin Pacha will be interrogated by his homies, Lebrowski has a new desk with job security, Charabi has a papal dispensation, and . . . what have I missed?”

“A few details. Nothing important.”

Actually there was something important—me. I asked, “Where does this leave Bian and me?”

“Oh . . . yes. You will complete this leg of the investigation. Actually, the people who redirected this operation are very impressed with both of you.”

“Does that mean my plane won’t accidentally blow up on the way home?”

She ignored my paranoia. “You’ve apprehended an important terrorist, Sean. If he talks, it could help change the course of this war. We’re all very interested in what he might disclose.”

“It sounds like Washington is more interested in suppressing what Charabi might divulge.”

“In this business, you rarely achieve all that you want. You have to celebrate what you get.” She looked away from me and said, “There’s a good chance you’ll be rewarded for this impressive accomplishment.”

“You can’t imagine how good that makes me feel.”

“And your personal feelings, as you know, are entirely irrelevant.”

“That’s what I meant.”

“Also I was asked to remind you of the secrecy statements you signed—you remember what that means. As I’m sure you’ve guessed, this is what Waterbury is discussing with Major Tran back at the plane.”

I looked at her a long time, then said, “They’re rubbing it in our faces. Yours too, Phyllis. Doesn’t this bother you?”

She surprised me and replied, with a rare display of emotion, “You’re damned right it does.”

We walked on in silence for a few moments before another unnerving thought hit me. “Wait . . .” I asked, “How did the Saudis learn about Ali bin Pacha? Don left before we got to that part.”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

I stared at her.

“I’m telling you the truth. Out of the blue, the Saudi ambassador called the White House yesterday. He threw quite a stink.”

“Can’t anybody in the Agency keep a secret?”

This apparently was funny, because she laughed.

I said, “A very small circle were aware of this operation, Phyllis. How could the Saudis have learned about it?”

“I don’t know the answer to that. But the ambassador knew. He wouldn’t disclose how, but he knew. So, the Director and I were directed to work out an arrangement with Turki.”

“You said yesterday?
Before
we had our hands on bin Pacha?”

“That’s right. You might even say that was the decisive factor in our decision.”

“I didn’t think you made any decisions.”

She ignored this sarcastic insight and continued, “We were quite aware that Saudi intelligence could have tipped off bin Pacha’s organization. But in the event we didn’t figure it out on our own, Turki subtly reminded us.”

I said nothing.

“So it became a choice, Sean. A choice between taking bin Pacha out of circulation with the chance of learning what he knows or losing him altogether.”

We walked for a distance in silence. A solitary runner in battle dress trousers and brown desert boots, off to our left, was jogging laps around a building on the airfield, and he drew both of our eyes. His brown Army T-shirt was soaked with dark sweat, his chest heaved with exertion, and he continued to place one foot in front of another, running in endless circles. He and I had a lot in common; but he and this war had even more in common. Phyllis dabbed her upper lip with a hankie and commented, “This is such a miserably hot and complicated place for a war, don’t you think?”

“I don’t recall any wars in good places.”

“I recall better wars. Less convoluted ones.” In a rare moment of philosophizing, she said a little sadly, “All wars have an ugly underbelly to them. The people who fight those clandestine battles are never invited to the ticker-tape parades, and afterward you won’t find them bellying up to the bar of VFW lodges, bragging about their battles.”

Moving back to the topic at hand, I observed, “At least we will now know what bin Pacha tells the Saudis.”

She smiled. “We would’ve known anyway.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you think you’re the only smart person in the room? Before bin Pacha’s wound was closed, Enzenauer embedded an electronic device beneath his skin. Mr. bin Pacha is already on the air and broadcasting.”

I should’ve been surprised by this revelation, yet for some reason, I wasn’t.

I observed the sheik, off in the distance, with his robes aflutter, scurrying across the airfield, back into the hangar and up the airplane steps, without the slightest clue how completely out of his fucking league he was.

I took Phyllis’s elbow and guided her back to the hangar. We walked up the steps to the plane and, just at the moment Phyllis stepped through the doorway, I mentioned, “By the way, I doubled the pay for Eric and his team.”

If nothing else, I would always have the memory of her expression.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

W
e reconvened and the next few minutes were spent hashing out the logistics, details, and timing of Ali bin Pacha’s interrogation. This whole conversation had a rushed and surreal quality, which is usually the case when the room stinks of guilt.

For Bian, and for me, it felt like being rotated on a barbecue spit.

In return for this “small favor you are providing,” Turki promised to provide us “a very illuminating file” his intelligence service had on Ali bin Pacha. By inference, bin Pacha had been a target of interest to the Saudis for a long time. I already suspected this, of course, though it was nice to have it confirmed. Then again, the file we received would look like Mom’s old coupon book after a busy day at the mall; nothing but holes and ragged edges, a remnant of the mighty file it once had been. He didn’t say this; he didn’t need to.