The Night Crew (21 page)

“Maybe, for once, I don’t believe my client is lying.”

“Then grow up. She and her friends will say anything to wriggle out of this. And Ashad’s death makes him the perfect fall guy. He’s not around to deny or refute their accusations, is he?”

“Ashad knew what they were doing, he encouraged it, he provided instructions and advice, and on several occasions, he even dropped in for a visit.” I added, “He gave them a camera. If he missed the evening matinee, he enjoyed drooling on the pictures over his morning coffee.”

“Just because your client and her friends say so, you expect me to believe that? Don’t take me for a fool.”

I didn’t know if Phyllis believed what she was saying herself—she was the ultimate institutional chameleon, able to lie so adeptly and with such certitude and conviction that even she believed it. Maybe.

But it was time to put a new piece on the board, so I reached into a pocket, withdrew one of the incriminating pictures, and tossed it on her desk.

Phyllis lifted up the photo, carefully using the tips of only two fingers, as though it might carry a sexually transmittable disease, and casually examined it. Her face formed a really distasteful scowl. “Is
that
your client?” she asked, pointing at Lydia, who, with a particularly stupid look on her face, was fondling a man’s dick.

“Forget about her. Upper left corner . . . the guy lurking in the shadows. Recognize him?”

Oozing disbelief, she asked, “You’re saying that’s supposed to be Amal Ashad?” She peered closer at the picture. “This man has no face . . . no name on his uniform . . . no identity I can detect.”

“He disconnected the lightbulbs, and tried to hide, but yes, that’s the pride of the CIA taking in the sights.” I stretched the truth a bit in time, and informed Phyllis, with a dose of unbridled optimism, “This picture, as well as a few others, is in a lab right now having the pixels expanded and clarified to get a clearer look at our voyeur.” I then offered, “Let’s make a bet. Is Mr. Ashad smiling or drooling?”

She put the picture face down on her desk. I didn’t know if Phyllis was aware that somebody had clipped certain pictures from the original computer file, and I didn’t know if the CIA had a hand in that clipping, but if they had, and she did know about it, she was probably saying to herself at that moment, Oh shit, how did those morons let this one slip by?

She fixed me with a severe look. “Even if that
is
Ashad—and I don’t for a moment believe it is . . . but even if you
can
show beyond reasonable doubt that he was present, what does it prove or disprove?” She then answered her own question. “Nothing, not a damned thing.”

“Thank you. When I want opinions on courtroom strategies, I’ll go to somebody with a law degree.”

“What do you think it will accomplish?”

“How about showing the world that the army doesn’t have a monopoly on perverts and sadists?”

“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm.”

Nobody does, Phyllis. I looked in her eyes. “Ashad was there. He was present for some of the worst of the nightly depredations—he not only knew about it, he witnessed it, and he actually offered advice on some very peculiar perversities he thought would be helpful.” I then asked her, “Would you care to hear some of his suggestions?”

Apparently not, because she snapped, “And will that get your client off?”

Obviously she, or a team of Agency lawyers, had thought this through. I decided it was best not to answer that question.

She said, “Expose him, Sean, and you will unmask and thereby undermine the entire program. And for what? The program will almost certainly have to be scrapped. You know the mood in Congress. They go after the CIA like a pool of convicted rapists at an orgy. You’ll be building a scaffold for them. What will that accomplish?”

“Justice.”

“Justice?” she asked as if it were some vulgar foreign word like menage à trois or
fick dich
, which roughly corresponded to my sentiments at that moment.

“Sounds fair to me.”

“Fairness has nothing to do with this.”

“Sure it does. The army might even enjoy having a little company as it’s getting the crap kicked out of it on every front page in the world.”

“Don’t be crazy.”

“It’s lonely at the top.” I added, “Hey, we could carpool to the congressional investigations. Save gas.”

Phyllis hesitated, then leaned forward and said, “Sean, let me offer you some good advice.”

I looked at Phyllis.

“Drop it. Forget everything about Ashad.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ll return to my opening query—which Sean am I speaking with?”

“There never were two Seans, Phyllis. I took an oath to look after the interests of my client, and I took an oath to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States, not the CIA,” I told her. “Have I made myself clear?”

It was time for a fresh approach, and she rolled her eyes. “Your client’s behavior was so abhorrent it can’t be justified by anything Ashad did, or said. This picture tells the whole story.” She held up the picture and directed a finger at Lydia. “Look at her face, Sean. Look closely . . . she’s having the time of her life. This was all about her and her sick desires.”

I was getting tired of having the pictures rubbed in my face. “I’m not so sure about that.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Surely you’re not serious?”

“It doesn’t matter whether I’m serious. It’s irrelevant, here, between you and me, but it becomes very relevant in a court of law. Ashad, as you said, was the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing. I have no idea how well his guise worked with the prisoners, but I know it worked wonders with five easily corrupted American soldiers. He manipulated these five soldiers into the behavior you so colorfully described as wicked and abhorrent. He gave them the ticket to act out their darkest fantasies, to see the prisoners as playthings, as objects for their sexual gratification. Worse, he led them to believe it was in the national interest, that the more twisted and perverted they became, the more they were helping win the war.”

Phyllis got up from behind her desk and she walked around it, then sat in a chair at the conference table, ending up right beside me. She placed her hand on my arm and, in a soft, maternal voice, said, “One of the things I most like and admire about you, Sean, is your soldier’s ethics and sensibilities. So here we have a young man who died defending this country. He died in a horrible way, on a lonely street, in a terrible war. My God, there weren’t even enough pieces left to bring home. Right now, his grieving family . . . his wife, and his three young children, have only one thin solace to hold on to, one irreplaceable thought: Amal Ashad died a hero.” She tightened her grip. “Think of his family, Sean. Don’t ruin that memory.”

“That has got to be . . .” I paused to shake my head. “Really, Phyllis, couldn’t you at least arrange a little Wagnerian background music to accompany your bullshit?”

The hand fell off my arm. She smiled and shrugged. “Not working, I take it?”

I did not smile back. Phyllis is not a sentimental person and that she had resorted to such a mushy, saccharine stab at changing my mind indicated she was reaching the end of her repertoire. That meant either that she was done, or it was time for the threats.

She leaned back in her chair and said, “All right, there are . . . other considerations.”

“There always are, Phyllis. I really don’t care.”

“But you should, Sean. You really should. You’re getting in way over your head. A great deal more rides on this than you know. There are people who will go to some length to keep you from exposing this.”

“Who are these people?”

“I don’t know.” My expression might’ve indicated some skepticism about her claim because she felt the need to reassert, “I’m telling the truth—I really don’t.”

“Are
you
one of those people?”

“I’m not part of this effort, no. And it goes much higher than me.”

I wasn’t sure where Phyllis stood in the Agency’s line chart, but I knew her direct boss was the director himself. By extension this meant the big honcho himself was involved, and possibly his boss, the occupant of the White House.

I looked at Phyllis and, as usual, I couldn’t tell if this was total bullshit, or if she was being perfectly sincere. Her face did convey an expression of worry and concern, like one of her children was about to do something terribly stupid that would bring a world of hurt and misery down on his head. But this was Phyllis; more likely, she was fretting about her tea getting cold.

Still looking at her, I asked, “Is this a threat?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“Let me simplify it. There are already two dead defense attorneys. Is there going to be a third?”

“Don’t be silly. Nobody’s contemplating anything so drastic.”

That reassurance aside—with its understated yet implied threat—the question was, what did the CIA consider less drastic? A quick trip to the most Taliban-infested archipelago in Afghanistan? A plane that takes off and never lands? The thing about paranoia is, it’s a game two people can play: your worst nightmare might understate their favorite option. I gave Phyllis a hard look. “I’m trying to decide where you’re coming from.”

“I’m your boss and . . . I’d like to believe I’m also your friend.”

“Friends don’t let friends get hurt.”

“It’s out of my hands, Sean. I’m just passing on a warning. I told you I’m not part of this.”

“Then give your other friends a message from me. If I find the slightest evidence of obstruction or tampering with this case, I’ll blow the top off this agency.”

Phyllis made no reply to this macho claim, but she did get up and return to her desk, and her tea. I had the feeling that she’d done her job, which was figuring out how Sean Drummond was feeling that day.

As both an army officer and a temporary employee of the Agency, I had just made it clear which side of my split personality I came down on; it wasn’t hers, and it definitely wasn’t theirs, whoever they were. She sat quietly and sipped from her tea, while I sat and watched her sip and contemplate what to do about her favorite recalcitrant employee.

But also, I wondered if Phyllis was now in some jeopardy because of me. I was her subordinate, after all, and it was Phyllis who had voluntarily released me to serve as cocounsel for Lydia. Her agency, in retrospect, would consider that a miscalculation, and her inability to enlist my cooperation now would be perceived as a failure to correct that misjudgment. Like most government institutions, the CIA can, and regularly does, forgive failure in the course of routine business, but it draws the line when that mistake tarnishes the reputation of their beloved Agency.

Eventually she said, “I’ll tell them that I can’t control you. But that you’ve been advised that Ashad’s status is a highly sensitive, classified matter, and you promised you’ll tread lightly.”

“Tell them whatever you want. Just be sure to add that if they take the first shot and miss, the next shot is mine and I won’t miss.”

She nodded, but I noticed that she didn’t look overly anxious or even mildly impressed by my threat.

I got up and left, thinking that maybe I was making a big mistake; maybe it was a dumb idea to let them take the first shot.

Chapter Twenty-One

The rule of investigations is, when you have a lead, you follow it. Especially when you have only one lead, which really clears up any maddening ambiguity about which lead to pursue. Or, as somebody clever once said, never miss an opportunity to have an opportunity.

Specifically, Captain Willborn had mentioned during our discussion that the interrogation log kept by him and Ashad may have been shipped home to the surviving families. And though odds were he was lying, no other lead had any odds, good, bad, or otherwise. Simply put, there were no other leads. Besides, I was in the Washington area with nothing to look forward to but a long, exhausting drive back to West Point and Katherine.

According to his military records, Amal Ashad’s home of record was 3822 North 38th Street in Arlington, Virginia—as the crow flies, only about five miles from CIA headquarters.

Had the CIA been smart, the name Amal Ashad would be an alias, the home address would be a sham and, had they really been smart, Sean Drummond would right now be grabbing his ass and dodging mortar rounds in some backwater shithole in Afghanistan instead of sticking his nose up their backside here. But the Agency hadn’t been smart when it composed Ashad’s ersatz military records, nor when it released me to this case, and there was a chance that the lazy bastards had taken the easy way out, and used his true name and his real address.

Actually, until I came along, it hadn’t really been a problem.

After a short thirty-minute trip, I found myself driving down an archetypal suburban street lined thickly on both sides with small homes, mostly brick ranches constructed sometime in the fifties or thereabouts. Ozzie and Harriet would call it paradise.

I pulled up to the front of 3822 and idled at the curb for a minute. The home was compact in appearance, essentially a two-level ranch built of red brick with a minimalist smattering of stone face, and though North Arlington, due to its proximity and short commute to DC was prime real estate, the home did not look impressive or overly expensive. I could easily imagine a mid- or high-level government employee and his family squashed into this small, drab place, especially if his wife worked, so I decided to throw the dice and go to the front door.

It was well after eleven at night, and the lights in the home were out, but I’m good company and I was sure Mrs. Ashad wouldn’t mind.

I stood on the doorstoop and pushed the buzzer. About two minutes passed—with me jamming the stupid buzzer every thirty seconds—before the door cracked open. I hoped the lady of the house hadn’t been awakened by my impatience—actually, I hoped she had been in a very deep sleep cycle and was susceptible to my bullshit and lies.

An attractive woman, about thirty, long black hair, slender, and clearly of Arabic extraction, peeked out the crack. She examined my face, then my uniform, then said, “How can I help you?”

She was not smiling, so I smiled at her, and she managed a slight smile in reply. Polite lady. “Mrs. Ashad?” She produced a quick nod, and I lied and informed her, “I served with your husband in Iraq.”

“Oh . . . I see.”

“And I just got back and wanted to stop by and extend my condolences. He was a good man.”

She looked confused for a moment, then recovered a bit. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t catch your name.” She then felt the need to observe, “It’s very late.”

I widened my smile and mumbled as incoherently as I could, “Drummond . . . Harry Drummond.” Because I did not want the CIA to know I was rooting around in Ashad’s life, I did not want Mrs. Ashad to know my true identity, but I was still in uniform, with its accompanying nametag, so this stupid, impromptu half-lie was the best I could come up with. I could picture somebody saying, let’s see, Harry Drummond . . . Sean Drummond . . . could this be the same guy? It might confuse the average person for about two seconds. Then again, this was the same CIA that was still looking for nukes in Iraq. Never overestimate the opposition.

I said, “My apologies for dropping by so late. Are the kiddies in bed?”

She nodded, somewhat impatiently. “They have school tomorrow.”

To show her I wasn’t a total stranger, I noted, “There are three of them, right?”

“Three . . . yes. And I have to work.” In the event I wasn’t getting the message, she emphasized, “Early. I have to drop them off at school and be in the office at seven.”

“Right. Well, I’ll just take a moment of your time.” I rubbed my arms to remind her that it was cold outside and she was being rude. “Can I step inside?”

“That would inappropriate. I’m not wearing a dressing gown.”

“I’ll wait. I’ve traveled a long way. Please, Mrs. Ashad. Your husband and I were friends.”

She appeared indecisive, so I blew on my hands and shivered a little to subtly remind her again of the near-Arctic conditions. She was obviously a nice, well-mannered lady, and eventually she said, with obvious reluctance, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

So, as I stood there and with nothing better to do, I made a quick survey of my surroundings. A heavy, wet snow had fallen that morning, and the sidewalk and driveway were already cleared, and the all-weather bushes along the side of the house looked neat and well-groomed, suggestive that Mrs. Ashad was a good groundskeeper, and that the recent death of her husband had not caused her to fall off on the job. Some newly minted widows go completely to pieces and ignore everything; others go to the other extreme, trying to fill the sudden void in their life with unrelenting work and activity, no matter how useful or useless. I didn’t know which of these categories applied to Mrs. Ashad, but she had a full-time job, three young children, and she appeared to be keeping her life in order.

The door swung open and Mrs. Ashad beckoned me to enter. She now wore a long, fluffy pink robe that went nicely with her long black hair and dark complexion. She led me down a short hallway, then we hooked a left, passed through a small, wood-lined study, and entered a kitchen that was so small that the family better really love one another, or at least be good diplomats.

From what I could observe of their home, the Ashads, Americanized as they were, retained the furnishing tastes of their heritage. As with the home’s exterior, the interior also was neatly kept—no toys or kiddie bric-a-brac in sight—with enough Oriental rugs and tapestries to outfit a souk, plenty of brass tables and elaborate floor cushions, and Mohamedian paintings and whatever. On the outside, the home looked like a piece of Americana, circa 1950, where Ted and Wilma could be found knocking back cocktails and flipping burgers in the back; inside, Ali Babba and the Forty Thieves could be huddled around a hookah, planning their next heist.

She sat at a small table next to the big, black refrigerator, and indicated I should join her. So I did and she announced, “It’s late so I won’t offer tea or coffee.”

“I don’t mind.”

She came right to the point and asked me, “What’s this about?”

In my most nonthreatening tone, I replied, “The truth, Mrs. Ashad, is I never was in Iraq with your husband, nor did I ever know, nor have I ever met him.” Before she could become overly alarmed or invite me to show myself out, I added, “I’m an army investigator on official business.” I reached for my wallet, and pinched my ordinary military ID card. “Here . . . I’ll show you my credentials.”

As I hoped she would, she waved it off and replied, “That won’t be necessary.”

“Thank you.” I leaned back into the chair and inquired, “Are you aware of your husband’s professional activities in Iraq?”

“I was aware of his job. I don’t know the details, however.”

“Then you know he was actually an employee of the CIA?”

“Of course. I know a lot of people believe that Agency employees keep it secret from their spouses, but we do know, Colonel Drummond. Of course, he didn’t share the particulars with me. He wasn’t supposed to, and Amal respected that.” She then asked, “What’s this investigation about?”

I offered her my most reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, your husband wasn’t in trouble or anything.” Though if I had anything to do with it, his balls would be dragging from my rear bumper.

She appeared relieved to hear that.

“After he died, some documents were lost, or perhaps misplaced. Very sensitive papers we wouldn’t want to fall into the wrong hands,” I mentioned, without also mentioning how much her husband’s employers wanted to keep them out of
my
hands. “It’s my job to plug the security leak.”

She had a refined accent, was obviously highly educated, and she carried herself well, despite the bathrobe and the late hour. In better lighting, in fact, even without makeup, I couldn’t help noticing what an attractive woman she was—and exotically sexy—with large, round, black eyes, high, sculpted cheeks, a long patrician nose, and thick black hair. Also, despite the bulky, fluffy robe, she appeared to have an excellent figure—not that I was looking.

She replied to my mission, stating, “I’m afraid . . . I know nothing about any missing documents.”

She started to get up before I quickly inquired, “Were you aware that your husband’s job in Iraq required him to impersonate a soldier?”

“No.” With a slightly annoyed expression, she sat back down. “I thought I told you I know nothing about what Amal did over there.”

“Then you might be interested to know he worked in a military detention facility. He interrogated enemy prisoners and provided intelligence to our forces.” I offered her an appropriately sad smile. “According to the reports, he was ingenious at finding ways to make the prisoners talk.”

This news did not seem to surprise her. In fact, she nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose, given his language skills, it makes sense.”

I said nothing and allowed her the opportunity to ask some follow-up questions. Surely she must’ve had considerable curiosity about the final months of her husband’s life, about what he actually did for a living that led to his death. Perhaps a little more about his contributions to the war effort she could one day pass on to their children.

But she just stared straight ahead—maybe the CIA programs its wives to do that—so I eventually skipped past the fibs I was prepared to tell and asked her, “After his death, did you receive a package from the army containing his personnel effects?”

This question appeared to confuse her because there was a long pause before she answered. “Yes, I . . . I believe it was a month or so after his death.”

“Good, but according to our records, closer to two weeks after his death. The postal service always gives us a receipt.”

“It may have been . . . Yes, yes, two weeks sounds more accurate,” she quickly corrected. She then added, with an appropriately forlorn expression, “Frankly, everything in those days was a horrible blur.”

“I’m sorry . . . I know this must be very painful for you, but I assure you it’s necessary. Now do you happen to recall what was in the package?” I gave her a brief explanation of army procedures regarding the handling of a deceased soldier’s personnel effects, and ended up, by saying, “Perhaps you saved the inventory sheet. If I could see it, it would save a lot of time and trouble.”

She bit her lip and looked bothered. “Inventory sheet?”

“Yes ma’am. It’s a standard military form. A commissioned officer signs it, in duplicate, and the original copy of the form is included in the shipping container.”

“I . . . well, to be truthful, Colonel Drummond, I don’t recall seeing any such forms. Maybe it got lost, or . . . Oh God, could I have failed to notice it before I threw the box away?”

As a lawyer, I work with liars for a living. Mrs. Ashad seemed sincere and above board, yet something about her was giving me an uneasy feeling. I suggested, “Some idiot on the other end probably forgot to include it. You know how the army is.”

“Well, I don’t, not really. But I’ll take your word for it.”

I smiled. “Let’s see how good your memory is.”

She smiled back. “Without that inventory form, how will you know if my memory is accurate?”

“As I said, it was filled out in duplicate. I studied a copy before I came over,” I fibbed. “I have a good memory.”

“How fortunate.”

“We don’t screw everything up, Mrs. Ashad.”

“With two wars going on, I should hope not.”

“Me too, Mrs. Ashad, me too. But to be sure we’re talking about the same box, did it include a set of green prayer beads? On the form, they were described as having these little gold squiggles.”

This was another lie, of course, but I needed to test Mrs. Ashad’s credibility and see if
she
was lying.

“That’s right.” She looked at me and elaborated, “The beads were a gift . . . from Amal’s uncle, I believe. They meant a great deal to my husband.”

“Ah . . . well, perhaps I can see them? It won’t hurt to be sure we’re talking about the same beads, and the right box.”

“I’m afraid not.” She hesitated, then with a solemn expression, informed me, “I gave the beads to one of the children. To Amro, who was so distraught over his father’s death, and I thought . . . well, I hoped it might console him.” A cute pout came over her face. “A schoolyard bully beat him up and stole it. Little boys can be so cruel.”

“Big boys are even worse.”

“Yes,” she said, looking at me, “I suppose that’s true.”

“Now please think hard because this is important. Amal kept a journal at the prison, probably about four hundred pages in length. It may have been typed or it may have been handwritten. Do you recall seeing it?”

It was obvious that if she answered yes, I would want to see the journal and, if no, I would still want to see it, but I would have to go away. “I’m sorry,” she answered. “There was no such journal. Is that what you’re looking for?”

“It is. Are you certain?”

“Did the inventory form indicate it should’ve been there?”

I feigned a look of disappointment. “Unfortunately not. But one of the soldiers who participated in the inventory swore he included it in the shipment, so I thought I’d give it a shot. Sadly, this isn’t the first lie we caught him in”—or you, I might’ve added, except I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.