Man in the Middle (51 page)

“He said sandals. What’s your point?”

“My point. You have started this war and made it into an unholy mess. Saddam was a bad man . . . yes, yes, we all knew this—I admit we do not mind seeing him gone. A barbarian. A stain to our Arab reputation. There is a thing, however, worse than Saddam. A Shiite-ruled Iraq, a puppet, or an ally of Iran.”

“Go on.”

“Who brought the Shia to power in Iran in the first place?”

“The Shiites?”

“No, your President Jimmy Carter caused this. In 1979 he drove Shah Pahlavi from power in Iran, and he opened the door for Khomeini, his ayatollahs, and their Shia revolution. An act of principled moralism, your President called it. America no longer would soil itself by aligning with a despot, he swore. For his moral convenience and ignorant naiveté, he destabilized our entire region.”

“Maybe he thought he couldn’t screw it up worse than you screwed it up yourselves,” I replied.

“Instability of our own making is one thing. Instability from foreign meddling is another.”

While I tried to think through this piece of Arab reasoning, he continued, “Afterward came the eight-year Iran-Iraqi war, the Shiite terrorism in Lebanon, and the Iranian threat to carry their revolution into all our countries. Millions of deaths, because of your President, because of America.”

He sort of smiled at me and said, “In your vernacular, this sucked.” The smile was nasty and short-lived, and he continued, “Now the Iranians are developing a nuclear bomb, and if their Shia allies in Iraq win power, you will have left a mortal threat on our doorstep. Do you not understand this?”

I recalled what we had learned about Cliff Daniels and Mahmoud Charabi, and a light flashed on. I glanced at Phyllis. If this guy became privy to our suspicions about Charabi’s flimflammery vis-à-vis America and Iran, the result would be a geopolitical earthquake. I glanced at Bian. She glanced back with silent understanding. I replied noncommittally, “Explain it better.”

“Why? You Americans never listen. You are the most insensitive, self-indulgent, self-righteous people on earth.”

“Well . . . it is hard being great.”

This pissed him off, as it was meant to. He said, “You think the world is your big playground. Your ignorance is awesome. There is an Arab saying that translates something like this—the big man can never see through the eyes of the small man.”

“Maybe the big man has a better view.”

He stared at me a long time, then he turned to Bian. “I am sure you understand. Look what American power and arrogance did for your homeland, your people.”

Bian replied, very wisely, “Stick to the here and now.”

“Yes . . . as you wish. Here—we Saudis opened our soil for your military bases, we gave you our diplomatic support, and for decades we have fed your insatiable worship of big cars and big homes with cheap oil. Which brings us to now—how does your President repay our gifts, our generosity, our friendship?”

I suspected he would tell us, and in fact he said, “Now he openly declares the inferiority of our government. Now he preaches about spreading democracy to our kingdom. Because you have found no nuclear or chemical weapons in Iraq, now he shifts his reason for this war, and now it is about spreading democracy. Who does this fool think his democracy would replace? Is he so blind and stupid he does not know he is threatening our royal family?”

Phyllis was visibly tiring of this sidetrack into political dialectics. She interrupted and said, “Come to the point, Turki.”

He stared at her a moment. “This is the point. There are factions in the royal family—growing factions—who believe we have made a terrible blunder befriending America. And they believe America is manufacturing an astounding disaster in Iraq, a mistake that will be our ruin. The Shiites are coming to power, and already you are tired of this war, and you cannot wait for your soldiers to pull out, to depart. Who do you think the Iraqi Shiites will turn to for protection from the Sunnis?”

He was on a roll, relishing this chance to lecture ignorant Americans, and once again he answered his own question. “The Persians. Iran. All of the Gulf States—all of the great oil-producing states—we all will face destruction. Imagine over half the world’s oil in the hands of the mullahs in Tehran. America is committing economic suicide.” He paused then added, more ominously, “You are committing suicide for all of us.”

Phyllis had had enough of his commentary and asked, “These two princes, Ali and Faud, were they giving money and aid to Zarqawi?”

He drew a few breaths and said, “This . . . I cannot say this for sure.”

“What can you say?”

“It is possible, maybe, that they, and maybe others . . . maybe they have decided that the Shiites cannot be allowed to rule Iraq.”

Arabs rarely answer a question directly, especially an embarrassing one. You have to listen closely, cut through the elliptical bullshit, and apply the rule of opposites; no means yes, yes means maybe, and maybe can mean maybe, or it might mean none of your business. Phyllis asked, “Others?”

“Maybe.”

“Who are these others?”

“I have no idea.” Translation—for him to know, and us not to find out.

“Who are these two princes?”

Here was a question he didn’t want to hear and he couldn’t evade. But since we already knew their names, we could, and obviously, we would, find out through our own sources. So for once he answered directly and unequivocally. “Prince Faud is the third son of the defense minister. Prince Ali is the second son of the oil minister.”

He watched our faces, studying our reactions. He had previously asserted that the princes were themselves insignificant figures— which might or might not be true—but their daddies were two of the most powerful and influential men in the kingdom, and in a land where lucky sperm is the ticket, this made their kids very important indeed.

In response to our silence, he assured us, “I can handle this. And I will handle this.”

I was about to ask what he meant by that when Bian leaned across the table. She said, “You had an intelligence file on bin Pacha. Why? Why was bin Pacha under an intelligence watch?”

He treated her question as irrelevant. “We observe all returning mujahideen. Nothing is suspicious about this. These men who have come back from Afghanistan, Somalia, Bosnia, and Chechnya, they pick up . . . strange ideas.”

In other words, the Saudis had no problem exporting jihadis, but big issues when jihadis came home.

“How long were you watching bin Pacha?” asked Bian.

“It began, I believe, after his return from jihad in Somalia.”

Bian’s fingers were tapping the table, and she said sarcastically, “You
believe
?”

“My bureau handles external security, not internal . . . and so I cannot say this for sure. As I said, it was routine.”

“Ten years?”

“Perhaps. Not continuously, though, or even very thoroughly. He was merely one of thousands of our returned mujahideen.” The irony of this statement eluded him, and after a moment he added, “You saw his file. He raised no particular concerns or alarms.”

This statement was so blatantly disingenuous I had to laugh.

He did not like this and gave me a nasty look.

“Yet,” Bian noted, “when you learned he was about to be apprehended, your ambassador rushed to the White House and intervened. If this . . . if Ali bin Pacha was beneath your radar, why go to such extraordinary trouble?”

Another question he didn’t want to hear. In fact, I had not put this piece together, and Bian’s analysis caught me by surprise—not the fact that the Saudis wanted to hide bin Pacha’s secrets, per se; something else. It caught him by surprise as well, and he simply stared at her.

Since he was no longer answering, Bian answered for him. “You were aware bin Pacha was part of a terrorist cell and you knew rich Saudis were giving him money. Until he was about to be captured, you didn’t care, or . . . you did care, and approved of his activities.”

“This is speculation. Completely absurd.”

She kept her eyes on his face.

I also was studying al-Fayef’s face. He was too much the veteran professional to do something stupid, like look guilty, or even more stupidly, confess. But he did lick his lips a few times, and with a shaky hand he fumbled out a fresh cigarette and lit it.

He turned to Phyllis and insisted, “I have nothing more to say. Now you must tell me what you intend to do.”

Actually, he’d told us as minimal truth he could get away with: a careful mixture of what we could learn on our own, what was intuitively obvious, and what any intelligent regional expert could divine from the facts. The problem for us, and the bigger problem for him, was what he didn’t tell us, but that Bian had just surmised.

Regarding Phyllis, as usual her eyes conveyed one emotion, her lips another, and neither betrayed what probably was in her heart, or in her head. I was sure she was angry, frustrated, and worried. But for Phyllis, emotion and logic were never at war; it just never occurred to her that reason has a peer, or that emotion should incubate action. She announced unequivocally and, I thought, predictably, “What’s done is done. We move forward.”

Bian asked, “What does that mean?”

“It means what it means.”

“What about justice?”

“For who?” Phyllis asked.

“For the soldiers who are fighting. For those who are dead. For their families, for their loved ones. For America.”

“There is no justice for dead soldiers,” Phyllis replied with typically chilling logic. “They are not murder victims—they’re casualties of war.”

“The Saudis have been feeding money, people, and who knows what to their killers. We now have the names of two princes.” Bian looked in al-Fayef’s direction and added, “It sounds like there are more names, and possibly the Saudi government’s implicated as well. You can’t ignore or paste over that.”

Wrong, because Phyllis turned to al-Fayef and said, “It’s not in our interest to expose the royal family to . . . embarrassment.”

He smiled, though I saw no hint of pleasure or even contentment in his eyes; I saw relief. He said, “Good choice. It would be, you know, a disaster for both our countries.” He looked around the room, at each of our faces, then added agreeably, “A war is going on, after all. We must remain friends. Good allies.”

After all he had just said, about America, about our arrogance, about our incompetence, I was amazed that a bolt of lightning didn’t strike. Apparently, while Bian and I missed the cues, the sheik and Phyllis had moved to a new song, this one titled “Row, row, row the boat gently down the stream.”

And, in fact, Phyllis gave a cool nod to her sheik friend.

He said, “I recognize, however, that we have caused you certain difficulties.” He waved his cigarette in small circles through the air. “Embarrassments. Inconveniences.”

“Your sensitivity is greatly appreciated.”

He leaned back into his chair and exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Two names, Phyllis. This is all I have been authorized to offer.”

Phyllis shuffled her hands and replied noncommittally, “If they’re the
right
names.”

“Yes, yes . . . of course.” He watched her face. “There is a man in Syria, a man who arranges the shipment of weapons and jihadists into Iraq. A smuggler of considerable talent and cleverness.” Phyllis looked unimpressed, and he quickly emphasized, “He is big. Very big. Perhaps a third of the mujahideen entering Iraq flow through his channels.”

Phyllis stared at him, then nodded. “We’re halfway there.”

“And I have heard of another man, a Saudi expatriate, who recruits jihadists in Jordan. He—”

Phyllis interrupted. “Forget about him. Recruiters are too easily replaced.”

“Ah . . .” A pained expression came to the sheik’s face, and he hesitated before he said, “There is another man, in Iraq, who decides the targets the mujahideen strike in the city of Karbala.”

Phyllis bent forward with intensified interest.

“Alas, he also is Saudi, from a prominent family—his father is a dear friend of many years—and it . . . I am greatly pained to betray him.”

This guy was a real craftsman, and probably he threw that in to make us all feel better. After a moment, Phyllis observed, “You know, of course, that names without addresses are of no use.”

“And you know, of course, that my guards will depart with me. Also that infernal machine,” he said, pointing at the recorder, with its incriminating recording. He quickly added, “And I’ll give you the man in Jordan for free. We have no use for him.”

“The recorder and guards are yours. I have no use for them.”

As I said, Bian and I were not clued in to the rules here, but the flesh trading was apparently over, because the sheik rose from his seat and began casually brushing ashes off his white robes, even as he nonchalantly took a final pull from his stinky cigarette and crushed it beneath his foot. After about three seconds, he opened his valise, rummaged inside, fished out three manila folders, and slid them inelegantly across the table. He said to Phyllis, “Their names and where they can be found. Also background information that I am sure will be helpful when you interrogate them.”

Phyllis grabbed the folders and, one by one, opened them and inspected the contents while the sheik picked up the recorder and inspected it to be sure the damning tape was still inside. They had just sold their souls to each other, and still did not trust each other.

The sheik said to Phyllis, “My sincerest apologies to the Director.” There was an awkward pause, and then with a pained expression he confided, “I had no option, Phyllis. It was this, or my job.”

She nodded.

“If not me, it would have been somebody else.”

“I’m sure.”

He looked at Bian and said, “It was a pleasure meeting you.” He turned to me and could not help smiling. “Better luck next time, Colonel.”

I smiled back. “Count on it.”

I knew what Bian was going to say, and she said it. “Go to hell.” My sentiments exactly.

The sheik shrugged his robes and left, gently closing the door behind him.

Phyllis quietly read the files and, more to the point, quietly ignored Bian and me. She did not want to have this discussion, and seemed to be silently hoping the problem—us—would go away.