The Night Crew (27 page)

“I think what you’re trying to say was the army got to bear the blame and Ashad got to call the shots and walk away scot-free. If this is an inaccurate representation, please explain why.”

“Regrettably, that may be the way it works out, Sean . . . I assure you, though, that was not the intent,” she replied, trying to paper over that self-contradiction.

“At this point, do you really expect me to accept anything you say as truth?”

“The lies and evasions are over, Sean. You’ve already uncovered enough of the truth.”

“So the truth will set you free to tell the truth.”

“Something like that.”

I looked at her. “You have one chance to get this right, Margaret. Don’t lose it.”

“There’s no need for threats.” She squirmed in her seat. “We made a mistake. A simple mistake. Through the rearview mirror it looks like an incredible act of stupidity, but at the time nobody factored it into the equation.”

I took an educated guess and stated, “Amal Ashad is a Shiite.”

I don’t think Margaret expected me to put this together, as obvious as it now was, and her face showed her surprise. “Yes, that’s . . .” She regained her composure, and continued. “In fact, Amal’s family fled Iraq because of Saddam’s persecution of their religion. Many members of his extended family suffered terribly under Saddam’s Sunni rule. Some died . . . a few horribly. His uncle, his father’s favorite brother, spent a year in one of Saddam’s prisons. His body was returned to the family so disfigured they didn’t recognize him. Amal grew up being fed a steady porridge of hatred toward the Sunnis.”

Bernhardt leaned toward me and confided, “Our boy went over there harboring a poisonous grudge. He had always been a motivated, reliable agent, but in retrospect . . . well, his stability and tolerance had never been tested under such conditions. No hint of his bias toward the Sunnis had ever surfaced.” He shook his head. “In retrospect, Al Basari was the worst place in the world to put him.”

Margaret amplified on this observation, explaining, “The army intelligence officials at Al Basari were cowed by his abilities. A review conducted afterward showed that all of Amal’s targets were Sunni. In fact, he was cherrypicking men who were involved with the Sunni insurgency that has been ripping the country apart.”

I thought for a moment about these disclosures. If Amal Ashad had gone to Iraq to avenge the miseries and persecutions inflicted against his family, and his faith, Bernhardt was right—It would be hard to imagine a worse place to assign him. It was a prison, and worse, a military prison in wartime, where the normal checks and procedures to avoid abuses were strained to the point of nonexistence. Further, his status as a CIA officer comingling within the army meant even less oversight, as the army chain of command would take a hands-off posture toward an employee of a different agency.

Indeed, Ashad’s nocturnal visits to observe the activities of the night crew, and his weird arrangement for them to photographically record their debaucheries acquired a whole new narrative. Amal Ashad wasn’t a twisted voyeur sneaking in to leer at the depravities, nor was he there to monitor the efforts of his amateur charges to ensure that their unique techniques met his inquisitory standards. He was, instead, a purveyor of vengeance who wanted a firsthand look at the retribution visited upon his enemies.

Bernhardt said, “I see by your expression that it’s coming together for you.”

I ignored that. “So knowing this, how could you cover up his activities?”

“Good question.” Bernhardt cleared his throat, then answered my good question. “Ashad gave us no choice.”

“Bullshit.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, and you know it is. In a pissing match between the US government and a lowly CIA employee, there is no competition. You had a choice, Mr. Bernhardt—you chose not to exercise it.”

Bernhardt looked away from me, and he shared a quick look with Margaret, who seemed to flinch. Bernhardt said to me, “Maybe you need to hear the rest of this before you pass judgment.” He forced a smile. “You might say his interrogations bore some unusual fruit.”

This seemed to be another cue for Margaret, who told me, “A number of the men in that cellblock were key ringleaders in the Sunni insurgency. They disclosed to Ashad that there is growing dissension, what you might term a widening schism, within the insurgency. Certain factions and tribes are becoming disheartened. They believe there are too many foreigners fighting in Iraq. Members of Al Qaeda, in particular. They feel the foreigners are taking over their war, turning it into something they did not ask for, and don’t want.”

I was starting to feel like I was with a tag team of well-oiled newscasters. Bernhardt chimed in, “The foreigners have a different mission—and a different mindset—than the native Sunni insurgents. They’re trying to instigate an all-out war with the Shiites in Iraq. A civil war, a religious war . . . an internecine armageddon. Fighting us is becoming an afterthought.”

Both of them were now looking at me, probably wondering if I was buying this bullshit. I waited a beat, then told them, “This is interesting, but hardly a revelation. Even the press coverage suggests that the Sunnis and Shiites are becoming bored with killing one another. Most of the neighborhoods in Baghdad are already purged of one sect or the other. They’re running out of reasons to kill one another. And targets.”

“We certainly understand that,” Margaret conceded. “You might even say that understanding lent credibility to the claims Ashad was making.”

“All right, what were his claims?”

“He . . . well, he claimed he had a list of tribes who were willing to break with the insurgency. More importantly, he got the names of various tribal leaders and influential men, the very people we would need to talk to if we want to exploit this fissure in the insurgency. Do you understand how invaluable this is?”

I had a good idea but suggested, “Explain it to me.”

Clearly we had gotten to the important part, and Bernhardt leaned in close to me and placed a hand on my arm, an insincere intimacy at best. “It’s an opportunity, Sean. A historic opportunity.”

“Go on.”

“It’s a chance to break what has become a bloody stalemate. A chance to get those tribes and factions to come over to our side. A chance for a whole new strategy. Call it a variation on divide and conquer. We can win this war.”

Over his shoulder, Margaret said, “There is no quick or easy way to obtain those names without Amal. His lists are the product of eight months of constant, unrelenting interrogations. By good fortune, some of the men in that cellblock knew exactly which tribal leaders are disenchanted . . . it was a perfect set of circumstances that just came together.”

“Not to mention the unmentionable,” I mentioned, “Ashad tortured his subjects to get that information.”

“We’re not blind to that,” Margaret snapped in a rare moment of annoyance.

Bernhardt’s lawyer instincts kicked in, and he chimed in, “For God’s sake, this is war, Sean, not a courtroom. In our legal system they would be called Fruits of a Poisoned Tree, and the knowledge obtained through those techniques would be verboten. But that procedural nicety doesn’t apply here, does it? War has its own rules. Exploiting Ashad’s lists will save many, many thousands of lives. American lives . . . Iraqi lives.”

“Amal hid those lists,” Margaret continued. “Now he’s using them as leverage—we protect him from any legal liability and he promises to turn them over. It’s a simple deal.”

This certainly explained how and why the interrogation logbooks went missing—Ashad purloined and then hid them to use as leverage to save his own ass. I looked at Margaret, then at Bernhardt, “Since you appear to be verbally confused, the correct term for the deal you’re describing is blackmail.”

Bernhardt had his fingers formed into a steeple below his chin now. “Can the indictments, Sean. The situation is more morally complicated than that. Ashad is offering us a roadmap to win this war.”

“Amal is offering you a way to cover his ass.”

Like the good corporate lawyer he was, Bernhardt responded, “Isn’t that the definition of a deal? Both sides stand to benefit.”

I asked him, “Who made the decision to let Amal off the hook?”

They looked at each other. Bernhardt replied, “Who gives a shit?”

“Me. The American people.”

“It’s none of your damned business, Colonel.”

Actually, his nonanswer was the answer. With the way things work in Washington, the fact that the National Security Advisor to the President of the United States was seated beside me was an indication of who made the decision. The presence of a senior officer from the CIA, on the other hand, conveyed a different message: plausible deniability. If Sean Drummond did drum up a shitstorm, Margaret Martin and her bosses in the Agency were the ones without an umbrella. No wonder she had bags under her eyes.

I looked at Margaret, who was trying not to appear nearly as desperate as she was. I then looked at Bernhardt who now had his hands crossed in his lap, and appeared to be studying the cover of a hymnal in the rear shelf of the pew in front of him—he looked like a choirboy discovered in a brothel, though a whore discovered in church was a more accurate characterization.

I addressed them both and asked the question they were waiting to hear. “Now that I know what I know, what do you expect me to do about it?”

In keeping with the theme of plausible deniability, Margaret addressed this question. “We
have
to honor this deal, Sean. I know you don’t like it, and . . . my God, it’s far from satisfying to us. But it must go through.”

“A deal struck under coercion is not a deal, Margaret—not in a courtroom and not in the real world. Ashad committed very serious crimes. Let a jury of his peers decide if he spends the next twenty years sleeping with his wife, or with Big Earl at Leavenworth.”

“For God’s sake, Sean, Amal’s career is already ruined. We agreed we would keep him on the payroll for one year, then he’ll be retired on a medical disability. But his professional life is over. His career is finished.”

“His career? My client is facing life in prison.”

Margaret appeared annoyed to be reminded of this reality. But she replied, as calmly as she could, “We’re all aware of that, Sean.”

Bernhardt apparently thought it was safe to weigh in again. “Look, Sean, an operation has already been designed to exploit the information Amal possesses. The president has the deployment order sitting on his desk ordering a surge of forces, an influx of sixty thousand additional troops to bring stability to the country while we exploit this opening. But it’s conditional. He’s waiting on Ashad to give us these lists. The tribal list will be the roadmap, and the list of names the blueprint for dismantling the insurgency.” He reached over and squeezed my arm. “It’s all on your shoulders now. The president is waiting on you, Sean.”

“And five soldiers are awaiting their day in court. Ashad needs to join them. That’s on your shoulders.”

He acted like he hadn’t heard me and continued his pitch. “The generals in Baghdad are elated. Forgive me for expressing another stale euphemism, but this is the light at the end of the tunnel they’ve been waiting for.”

I looked at Bernhardt. “But you don’t have the lists yet?”

“Not yet, no. Ashad will turn them over only when he’s confident he’s not going to be prosecuted.” He felt the need to inform me, “Your unexpected visit to his home upset him greatly.”

“Then you have a big problem.”

“It doesn’t need to be a problem, Sean.”

“You’re not hearing me, sir. Amal Ashad is a material witness to everything that transpired in that cellblock. He was the recipient of photographic evidence, and, on occasion, a participant, and a coconspirator. He has exculpatory knowledge that will benefit my client, as well as the four other accused.”

“Amal Ashad won’t make a damn bit of difference in that trial,” he assured me. “Oh sure, it’ll make a big news splash, and drag the CIA through the mud. But your client will not be exonerated.” After a moment, he suggested, curiously, “Actually his testimony would be a disaster for your client.”

“You have no way of knowing that.”

“Don’t be so sure of yourself.” He nodded at Margaret who picked her briefcase off the floor and placed it on her lap. Fearing the worst, I immediately reached to my belt and started to draw my .45, when Bernhardt told me, “Relax, Colonel. What Margaret has to show you will hurt, but it won’t kill you.”

Instead of a gun, Margaret withdrew a compact DVD player, with the DVD already inserted and ready to play.

Margaret said, “Watch this before you make your final decision.”

She might as well have reached for a gun. She reached down and pushed play.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The golden rule for a seasoned litigator is never ask a witness on the stand a question you don’t already know the answer to. As a lawyer himself, I had walked straight into his trap, and Bernhardt couldn’t resist a smile as I watched the screen come to life on Margaret’s lap.

The video began playing. The lighting was better than I expected, as was the audio quality. Not quite on par with a high-definition Hollywood production, but everything was clear enough, so I assumed Margaret had run the video through the CIA’s equivalent of technical enhancement.

It opened with four Iraqi males seated on wooden chairs, lined up almost like schoolchildren waiting for the exam to begin—or considering the setting, like sitting ducks waiting for the shotgun blasts to tear them apart. They appeared somewhat frightened, but expectation had yet to jell into all-out dread.

A male voice I recognized as Danny Elton’s yelled, “I hear you turds ain’t givin’ my buddy Ashad what he wants to hear. That’s fucked up, boys.
Real
fucked up. Now yer gonna regret it.”

A soldier in BDU trousers and a sweat-stained brown T-shirt stepped purposely into the frame. Though his back was turned to the camera, he was obviously black, and I assumed this was Private Mike Tiller, one of the accused I hadn’t yet met. He walked up to the line of men seated in chairs, then appeared to spend a moment selecting which one was worthy of victimization; after some indecision he settled on the ugly, skinny little man on the right side. He lifted the man and the chair together, and repositioned them both about six feet toward front and center, so the victim could be easily observed by the three other Iraqis.

He then stepped aside, and turned and faced the camera, smirking as though he had just accomplished a difficult task. Private Tiller was a handsome man, and well built, with thick, powerful shoulders and sculpted arms that had obviously benefited from a weightroom.

Elton’s voice yelled, “Great pick, Mike. Yeah, yeah, that’s good . . . start out with that skinny little fucker . . . then work our way up to the heavyweights.” After a pause, Elton’s voice asked, “What do ya think, Lydia? How’re we gonna bust his punk ass?”

There was the sound of two women laughing, then a female entered the frame.

In the event I was confused, Margaret informed me, “That’s your client, if you’re wondering.”

My brain didn’t respond for a second. Lydia was dressed in G-string panties with a tight, white halter top covering a pair of breasts that appeared lumpy and saggy. A riding crop was in her right hand, and her hips were moving in an exaggerated sashaying motion. “Sure, I got some ideas,” she announced in a more self-confident tone than I had heard from her lips before. “You . . . git off yer ass’n git on yer feet,” she yelled at the skinny little Iraqi. He did not appear to comprehend English—or maybe it was her thick country vernacular of it—and stayed where he was, with a clueless expression on his face.

The riding crop in Lydia’s hand lashed out and caught him on the side of the head. The man’s head whipped sideways, and he jumped to his feet, howling something in Arabic at Lydia.

Lydia waited until he finished wailing, then she spun around and addressed someone out of camera range. “What’s he yakkin’ about?” she asked.

A voice easily recognizable as Elton’s replied, “Oh, he’s jus’ beggin’ for a
little
special treatment. Wants you to give it to ’im, bad.”

This elicited a chuckle from Lydia, who then turned back around and faced the prisoner. “Okay, but I guess I gotta see how
little
he is, first.” She then bent over, unzipped the man’s trousers, and pulled out his Mr. Johnson. The prisoner’s face was somewhere between shocked, dismayed, and fearful—and, judging by the size of his weaponry, perhaps ashamed, as well.

Lydia was laughing loudly now. “Anybody here got a looking glass? How ’bout some tweezers? This guy’s pecker is teenier’n an inchworm’s.” She shrugged at her specators as though she was confused. “Dang, I had no idea these things came so small.”

She was now holding the prisoner’s member in her hand; she was bent over, examining it closely. Suddenly, she gripped it tight, stood up, and began dancing small circles around the room, dragging the prisoner around by his member. Several voices from outside the frame were laughing and yelling encouragement. A female voice was screaming, almost hysterically, “Faster . . . faster . . . hey, Lydia, see if you can pull his cock off . . . go faster.”

Elton yelled, “Wooee . . . now that’s what I call a handjob.”

This went on for nearly a minute, it quickly became tedious, and I actually began to lose interest. I looked away and into the face of Margaret Martin. Her expression was ominously inscrutable, though I thought I saw a hint of self-satisfaction.

My attention was drawn back to the video when Elton yelled, “Now see if you can give him a big ole woody.”

Lydia stopped in her tracks, let go of the man’s organ, and shoved him back into the chair. She looked back over her shoulder and hollered, “Hey, gimme some mood music. Make it somethin’ nice’n sassy, and I’ll turn this guy’s wiener into a friggin’ telephone pole.”

A moment later, Phil Collins’s rendition of “In the Air Tonight” was booming full blast. I’ve always loved that song, a melody whose every note is either smoke or sexual sparks, a song saturated with seduction—but I did not like hearing it now.

On the screen, Lydia was swaying from side to side, with her eyes shut, apparently getting into the proper mood and mindset. She tugged off her halter and slid off her panties. Completely in the buff now, she began gyrating her hips, pinching her nipples, and taking some small mincing steps like a prowling stripper.

But June’s description of Lydia’s physical and musical nimbleness proved to be farcically accurate, if not understated—her limbs looked disconnected from her chunky torso, her rhythm out of sync, her body neither lithe nor supple, her movements both too slow and too frenzied in all the wrong places, at all the wrong times. It looked, I thought, like a really awful slapstick of a burlesque.

Strip joints should have a sign hanging over their entrance warning women that this should definitely not be tried at home—obviously, Lydia offered a shining example of why not.

After a minute of this, Lydia turned around and faced somebody offscreen. She was full frontal nudity now, her back to the prisoner, her naked butt nearly in his face. I now had a clear view of Lydia’s expression—her eyes were closed, and she was doing something incredibly stupid with her tongue, sticking it out of her lips and lolling it around like a spastic windshield wiper. I had the impression she had seen this routine in a movie, perhaps had even studied it with an ambition to replicate it. She then bent forward and shook her shoulders, her breasts hanging low, swinging from side-to-side like a pair of saggy watermelons.

Clearly, this imbecilic corruption of erotica was intended for somebody offscreen—and, no doubt, that somebody was Danny Elton. She finally looked up at somebody off-camera and taunted, “How do you like this, huh?” and I nearly laughed.

In fact, I
could
hear someone laughing; it was Danny Elton, and the tone was cruel and derisive. Lydia shook her shoulders harder, becoming spasmodic, as though trying to make up for her deflating lack of sensuality with energy and speed, before Elton’s voice bellowed at her, “Shit, look at that Arab—that guy’s still limp as a wet noodle.”

Lydia’s movements suddenly ground to a halt. Her eyes opened and any trace of a smile left her face. Elton’s voice said, “June, get yer panties off. Git in there’n show this brain-dead bitch how to give a guy a woody.”

I could hear collective laughter and, a moment later, June leaped into the frame, wearing her birthday suit and twirling a brown T-shirt in her right hand. Somebody started the song over, and June began moving. She had a perfect body, well toned, full-breasted, and sinewy—and, worse for Lydia, she knew exactly how to use it. In perfect pitch and sync with the song, she began languorously, almost snakelike, exerting minimal energy to achieve a fantastic effect.

I turned to Margaret. “That’s enough. Punch stop now.”

“It’s not nearly enough,” she replied. “You need to see the rest.” She offered me a clenched smile. “I want you to get full exposure to your client.”

That unfortunate choice of words aside, I looked back at the screen. Lydia had made the foolish decision to keep dancing, turning it into a competition—but only in her mind. In fact, June’s response to this thrown gauntlet was to turn up the heat, and the Iraqi prisoner was responding in the most visible way possible—his puddly had swung from half-mast to full glory waving in the wind.

Poor Lydia, dancing now with even more frantic gawkiness beside an effortless temptress like June, looked somehow even more ineptly vulgar.

Elton was crudely, and sophomorically, yelling, “Hell, yeah, baby. Shit, yer givin’
me
a boner. That’s it—shake that fine ass, June.”

The prisoner was now an afterthought, though even he couldn’t take his eyes off June, as was the case, as well, with the three other prisoners still seated in the wooden chairs who now looked like three gawking statues with their eyes frozen on one spot.

June began employing the T-shirt in her hand as a matador would a red cape. Both the song and her dance were now reaching a crescendo, and Danny Elton jumped into the frame. He had removed his shirt and his trousers, and was stripped down to his undershorts.

The man was powerfully built and well-toned, and wearing nothing but his whitey-tighties, it was apparent that he also was well-endowed, and in a state of arousal. June wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled him into her, and they began grinding together.

I turned my focus to Lydia. She had stopped dancing, and was standing, now as naked emotionally as she was physically, watching the man she thought was both her lover and her boyfriend simulating the dirty deed with another woman. I felt sorry for her, but also disgusted, and, I suppose, embarrassed in that way you get when you witness somebody humiliating herself.

Elton noticed the pouty look on her face and, over his shoulder, yelled, “Yo Mikey-boy, put down the camera and git in here’n dance with ole Lydia,” apparently to Mike Tiller, who was still off-camera.

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” Tiller laughed, then yelled back, “I’d sooner dance with a cow.”

The song ended and Danny Elton, June Johnston, and Lydia were just standing there, three people under a metaphysical spotlight, with all their unhappy and dysfunctional dynamics on full display. Elton still had his arms wrapped around June’s shoulders, his loins still pressed into her groin. June had an expression I could only describe as satisfaction, or perhaps, exultation.

Lydia simply looked lost, dazed, and despondent—as though somebody just pulled the plug on her life.

Clearly they had forgotten they were in a war zone, forgotten they were in a prison, forgotten they were soldiers—they were totally engrossed in playing out their raunchy love lives in the presence of the prisoners they were supposed to be guarding.

I reached across Margaret’s lap and punched stop. “That’s enough, Margaret.”

“Does it bother you? Just think what those Iraqi prisoners were thinking as they watched this.”

I did not need to wonder; I knew exactly what they were thinking—Americans are crazy as hell. But my chief concern wasn’t with four anonymous men in a faraway land, but with what the seven members of the court martial board would think. It wasn’t all that hard to figure out. Lydia Eddelston was toast.

Margaret, however, wasn’t finished and she again stabbed the play button. The screen popped back to life, and once again, there Lydia was, still standing perfectly nude, still staring at Danny Elton, still with his crotch buried in June’s groin.

Suddenly her expression changed from childish resentment to fury. She walked over to the skinny little prisoner who was sitting with his Mr. Johnson awkwardly sticking out of his trousers.

She got two inches from his face. “What’s yer problem?” she yelled. “Don’t you like pussy?”

As I said, I don’t think he understood English because he responded with a silly grin, which, under the circumstances, might not have been the most diplomatic response.

Lydia’s riding crop flashed and struck him straight across the face. In his aroused state it was the last thing he expected—his head whipped sideways, and he yelped at the top of his lungs. Lydia then announced to all concerned, “Okay. Since you don’t seem to cotton to girls, let’s see how ya cater to boys.”

Clearly none of the Iraqi prisoners understood English or had any idea what she was saying, but you could tell by their expressions that they got the basic idea; the shit had really hit the fan and they were about to get splattered with the product. Lydia was glowering at the three men in the chairs now, appearing to examine them as though they were specimens. “You,” she yelled—she was pointing her riding crop at the one on the left end.

He reluctantly stood up, and was looking down into the faces of the other two men seated beside him, who were looking back as though he had two feet planted on the gallows, about to feel the snap of the noose. I had the sense that these four Iraqi prisoners had been through this before, or at the least, as most prisons tend to be hothouses for rumors, they had heard enough crazy stories to have an idea about what was coming. The standing man now had tears streaming down his cheeks. His knees were actually wobbling.

I said to Margaret, “Turn it off.”

“Getting a little atrocity fatigue?” she asked. She pushed stop, then looking at me, commented, “Why don’t I spare you and describe what transpired?”

It wasn’t really a question. I said nothing.

“Your client made that man get down on his knees and perform oral sex on the little skinny man.”

I still said nothing.

“Maybe you’d like to guess where that riding crop ended up?” When I did not respond to that provocative mystery, she informed me, “After she stuck it in his rump, she rode him around, forcing him to make braying sounds like a donkey.”