by Brian Haig
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Bian trailed behind me in her car, a cute little green Mazda Miata— Maseratis for poor chicks. I turned on the radio and listened to the
8:00 p.m. news update.
The newscaster spooled off the results of the latest poll for the upcoming presidential election, just over a week off and picking up steam fast. This poll, like the ten polls that preceded it, showed a nation more or less evenly divided, and an election too close to predict.
A smug blabberperson for the President came on the air and described the poll numbers as a stunning victory for his camp, because after nearly four years his boss had only managed to piss off half the electorate.
The contender’s equally self-assured spokesperson used his equal time to proclaim a signal triumph for his man, as, even after two years of energetic campaigning, half the electorate still did not realize what a complete stinker he was.
Though it’s possible I paraphrased their words incorrectly.
What I thought it showed was a margin so thin that the smallest political fart could blow the election either way. I wondered if the big guy in the Oval Office had yet been notified about the death of Clifford Daniels—probably yes and probably, somewhere in the White House basement, unsmiling people were burning the midnight oil.
The next news item was casual and succinct: A car bomb went off in Karbala, a Shiite city south of Baghdad, with sixty dead and more than thirty wounded. Somewhere else, north of Baghdad, three U.S. Marines were killed by a roadside bomb. Then we rushed into the weather—chilly and wet for the foreseeable future—which accorded with what I could see through the windshield, and with my mood.
Regarding the discussion a few minutes before, it struck me that I, too, had become inured, even blasé, toward these recurrent reports of death and destruction in Iraq. It’s a little like Chinese water torture— either you ignore the incessant drumbeat or it drives you nuts.
But for Bian, who had served there, who had lost soldiers there, whose fiancé was serving there, her emotional investment was bigger—for her, detachment wasn’t an option. Nor was it for several hundred thousand other families and loved ones who would spend the next few days cowering each time the doorbell chimed, fearing the sight of a Jarhead officer on their doorstep, delivering the tragic news that one of the dead Marines shared their surname.
Anyway, when we arrived, Will and John were lounging in Phyllis’s office. As was a third gent, whose mother must’ve been acquainted with Will’s dad—their resemblance was scary.
Phyllis introduced us to this new gentleman, whose name was Samuel Elkins, from the NSA Office of External Support, whatever that means.
Samuel—not Sam, he stipulated—spent a few moments explaining to Bian and me what he did for a living. Who cared? He eventually suggested, “Why don’t we all sit, and I’ll go over what we found.”
We all sat.
In the middle of the conference table were two imposing stacks of paper, about three inches thick each. A third stack was in front of Phyllis, which, from the bent and misaligned edges, had already been read and digested. But before Bian or I were allowed to indulge our curiosity, we had to go through the usual obligatory self-congratulatory claptrap.
Samuel summed it up, telling us, “The point is, you were lucky. The code on Daniels’s computer is one we’re familiar with. The patent belongs to a company named NEMOD, a small boutique outfit outside San Francisco.”
Apparently, he and Tim had already talked about me, because he glanced in my direction and mentioned, “I’ll spare you the technical details, except to make a few points.”
I informed him, “My hands are registered weapons. A very few points.”
Everybody chuckled. I’m a lot of fun at these things.
Samuel continued, “NEMOD creates and handles secure accounts for customer groups. You pay them a fairly stiff monthly fee, certify the individual members of your transmission group or cell, and they send you encoding and decoding software, which you upload on your computer. The messages are routed through NEMOD’s proprietary servers directly between correspondents. It’s fairly foolproof.”
Bian commented, “It’s a closed system, right?”
He nodded. “That’s why it’s fortunate you got that laptop. There’s really no other way to detect and read these e-mails.” He looked at me and hypothesized, “Whoever owned that computer, maybe he had a background in counterintelligence.”
No maybes about it, buster. But Phyllis quickly cut off that line of inquiry and informed me, “NEMOD does mostly private-sector work—as a matter of interest, it has legally binding confidentiality agreements with its clients. But after the CEO and I had a brief and amicable discussion, he became reasonable.”
Samuel must’ve overheard their conversation, because he laughed. He noted, “After Phyllis busted his . . . well, after she talked with him, we e-mailed NEMOD the files, and they promptly decoded and e-mailed back the transcripts.”
In a sign of impatience that I shared, Bian reached across the conference table and asked, “May we see these?”
He nodded, and we both ended up with a large stack of messages, all written in English, some short, others long and fairly wordy.
As I thumbed through the tops of the pages, it seemed like all of them were back-and-forth stuff between two parties, labeled Crusader One and Crusader Two.
Bian, also perusing her stack, mentioned, “The headers, the two subjects, they appear to think of themselves—or maybe they relate to each other—as conspirators involving Iraq.”
Samuel replied, “That would seem to be correct.”
I read through the first few missives. They opened with warm salutations, a little friendly banter and gossip, then segued into the more substantive material. The style of writing was informal and the tone suggested correspondents who were well acquainted, even chummy. A lot of Arab names and Iraqi organizations were cited, which looked to me like alphabet soup.
I turned to Bian. “Do you recognize any of these people?”
“Yes, a lot are familiar. Mostly senior Iraqi political or religious figures.”
At this point, Phyllis turned to Tim, John, and Samuel. “I’m sure you three can find something better to do.”
Tim, John, and Samuel did not seem to mind, and they gathered their stuff and departed, without the door hitting them in the ass. Actually, she’d done them a favor, a big one, and I think they knew it. If they were subpoenaed later, they could honestly say they left before we got into the real muck. Sean Drummond would’ve followed them if I had a brain in my head. But I was curious. And we all know where that gets you.
I continued to read. The messages sent by Crusader One to Crusader Two, judging by the language and vernacular, were authored by a native-speaking American—presumably Cliff Daniels.
Crusader Two’s English was decent and showed a good command of vocabulary, though he occasionally confused his verb tenses—the land mine of all languages—or he switched his verbs with his nouns, and he polluted a few fairly common idiomatic expressions.
Ergo, Crusader Two wasn’t a native speaker; he was someone for whom English was a second language.
I saw no dates on the messages, and no subject headings. Based on the themes and contents, however, the first thirty or so messages seemed to reference the same general time frame.
The initial messages from Crusader One kept Crusader Two abreast on events and moods inside the Office of the Secretary of Defense, the State Department, and occasionally within the White House. Certain figures were mentioned and discussed by name, a few of whom were famous and I recognized. The two names cited most frequently I definitely recognized: Hirschfield and Tigerman.
These particular references were usually in the form of relayed requests or orders from Tigerman and/or Hirschfield—for information, for insights, or imparting special instructions to Crusader Two. For example, one relayed an instruction from Hirschfield ordering Crusader Two to meet with two officia
ls of the Coalition Provisional Authority in Baghdad, and to put them into contact with various Shia authorities in the city of Karbala. Another relayed an order from Tigerman to transfer ten million dollars from Crusader Two’s operating account to an account number provided later in the message. And so on.
The initial messages from Crusader Two essentially involved his take on current events inside Iraq, including his personal struggle to form his own militia—recruiting, provisioning, weapons, training, and so forth—and his progress at creating a political power base.
Bian glanced over at Phyllis. “You do recognize the true identity of Crusader Two?”
Phyllis said, with a tiny note of impatience, “Yes, Mahmoud Charabi. Keep reading.”
I took the remainder of my stack, roughly a hundred and fifty pages, and divided it into two neat piles: those sent by Crusader One and those by Crusader Two.
To be honest, all these messages were becoming a blur. I have enough trouble with American names—all the Arab names and the inside baseball stuff about Washington and Baghdad were sailing over my head. Also, most of these messages contained replies to other messages, and they made better sense when I compared them side by side. Not full sense. Better sense.
A third of the way through, the tone, mood, and demeanor began to shift—faintly at first, then the anger and sense of betrayal took root and picked up steam. The time frame appeared to be mid- through late in the initial year of the occupation. Daniels, in increasingly purple prose, began accusing Charabi of providing prewar tips, promises, and intelligence that weren’t panning out. There were a number of references to various Iraqi weapons depots and factories that Charabi and his pals had pinpointed before the war, now being searched by American forces with an embarrassing absence of bugs, noxious gases, or glow-in-the-dark stuff.
Charabi’s initial responses were bluff and confident rejoinders to keep looking, the evidence was there—America and the world would soon witness the wicked elixirs and technological nasties he and his friends had prophesied. At one point, he offered the interesting aphorism, “Persistence is the mother of invention.” After a while he changed tack, blaming Ali-this or Mustafa-so-and-so, insisting that he had only passed on, in perfectly good faith, what others had sworn to be fact.
By midway through the stack, the trust and bonhomie between the two men had visibly deteriorated; the opening salutations became shorter, pointed, frostier, with the ensuing language more formal and factual than conversational. No longer were they big pals sharing a most amazing adventure. The prevalent themes became strained negotiations, threats, and counterthreats—Charabi reminding Daniels of his own personal criticality to the American occupation, Daniels reminding him back that if American protection, money, and support dried up, Charabi was toast, his ass was grass, and so on.
Another thought struck me—the time frame of these messages seemed roughly to correspond to the letters in the computer from Daniels to Theresa, his ex. Clearly, this was a man coming apart at the seams, a man with melting wings frantically flapping to stay aloft; betrayed, angry, overwhelmed by events, bitter, and lashing out.
I checked my watch. Ten p.m. I stood and stretched.
Phyllis, despite being twice my age, looked amazingly alert, without a wrinkle in her suit or a hair out of place, like she’d just had an Ovaltine fix.
Bian, also looking perfectly fresh, somehow remained intensely concentrated on her stack, plowing through the pages like a real trencherman. Maybe it was the fish. Maybe Phyllis also was a fish eater.
Phyllis saw me standing and asked, “What do you think?”
“Daniels writes like a man who just discovered his wife’s screwing his brother.”
She ignored my coarse analogy and asked, “Do you understand what you’re reading?”
“Do I want to understand?” I replied, half in jest, half not.
She stared at me for a long beat. “Explanations will come later. Break’s over. Sit and finish.”
Phyllis, incidentally, tends to have the patience and forbearance of Job. My own parents, the older they get the less self-restraint they exhibit. I don’t mean they wear diapers or drool or anything. But they tend to blurt the first thing that comes to mind. It can be fairly annoying; my mother, for instance, every time she calls, opens with the same tired question, “Do I have grandchildren yet?” To which I always reply, “Not with your last name.” Pop thinks this is a riot. Mom’s checking into whether it’s too late to arrange an adoption.
Anyway, Phyllis seemed uncharacteristically wound up, and maybe a little agitated, and for sure, her patience was wearing thin.
About five minutes later, I heard Bian murmur, “Holy shit.”
Phyllis replied with some relief, “Well . . . at last.”
Bian held a page in front of her face, staring at it with open amazement.
She slid the page across the table in my direction. It was from Charabi, and opened with one of his recurring themes, bitching about the ineptness of American soldiers as occupiers. Halfway down, I read,
So you will see that my situation has become most tenuous and dangerous. My Iraqi Shiite broth-ers do not trust me. I am being out-maneuvered by Sadr and Sistani for leadership of the Shia people, because I am seen as a cowardly expatriate who escaped the worst of Saddam’s years, and now works for the Americans, without proper loyalty to my country. In the streets, I am called an American puppet, a Pentagon lick-toadie, and other names too abominable to repeat. This is all so unfortunate and so terribly shameful. This is a big problem for me, and you must appreciate how this is also a big problem for you, my brother. America is the coun-try of my second love, and truly, I am your best hope for a leader for my country. You once saw this, and I pray you can still see this, yes? I know I am losing of your trust, but look into your heart and still you must see me as a good friend.
So I have met with my friends I have earlier de-scribed for you, these Persian people from Tehran who say they do not like Sistani or Sadr. They have friends in the Iranian intelligence service, and have promised me that possibly there can be a trade of information that would be most beneficial to me, to you, and to them. I want to have back your trust, and I am knowing I must provide you something that will put you back into loving embraces with Thomas and Albert.
I am sorry for this trouble I have caused you. Although you must remember, it was not me who resulted in these terrible embarrassments of false intelligence and promises that have not come true. It was people I trusted, some of who you equally met and just as well trusted.
But my friends in Tehran have information they can give me that they promise will prove of enor-mous value to you—valuable to your soldiers here, but also to you personally, and professionally, my dear friend of so many years.
Unfortunately, they insist I must give them something in return, something that in importance is equally great. Alas, this is the land of bazaars— always there must be something given for some-thing received. So I am leaving to you and your brilliant mind to decide what I can offer these Ira-nian friends. It is bad luck we cannot discuss this on the phone without the big ears of your govern-ment overhearing, but you must believe when I tell you what they are offering is bigger than you can imagine.
Bian handed me a few additional pages, essentially more back-and-forth stuff, as the two men argued about the conditions of this trade. Daniels’s messages were furious complaints about how Charabi had already screwed him, ruined his professional reputation, destroyed his career, and how his bosses, Tigerman and Hirschfield, were threatening to fire him unless he salvaged the situation. The sum of Daniels’s argument was this: Charabi had gotten him into this mess, and he now owed him a big favor, something dramatic, and in the spirit of dues owed, something unconditional.
I thought Daniels was exposing his desperation, and I thought further that Charabi recognized it, and shrewdly exploited it. With each message back, Charabi stubbornly insisted there had to be a trade, and he cleverly sank the hook a litt
le deeper. Essentially, he promised a piece of intelligence that would make Daniels a big hero, a golden bullet that would result in a huge intelligence coup and restore him to good graces.
I looked up and asked Bian, “You’re familiar with the conditions over there. When were these—”
“Written? Oh, I would guess”—she appeared thoughtful for a moment—“five . . . at most, six months back. Around the time the Shiite insurgency erupted last spring.”
Phyllis stood up and went to her desk, saying, “That’s about right.” Over her shoulder, she asked us, “Do you understand the full import of this message?” We indicated we did, and she lifted up a piece of paper and informed us, “This message won’t be found in either of your stacks.” She added, “Several other messages have been extracted as well. In one, Charabi disclosed to Daniels what he’s offering.” She paused, a little theatrically, then informed us, “He claimed Iranian intelligence had the name and possible location of the key moneyman behind the most lethal wing of the Sunni insurgency. That information would be provided to Daniels only after the Iranians heard what he had to offer. I’m about to show you Daniels’s eventual response.”
She handed the page to Bian, who read it, and then slid it across the table to me. It was a brief and unambiguous e-mail from Daniels to Charabi:
Be clear on this—fuck me, and you’re dead. This is not an empty threat. I’m going way out on a limb here. This works, or you’re fucking dead. Simple as that.
You insisted on something important, something the Iranians desperately want—so here it is. The National Security Agency has broken the Iranian intelligence code. From the beginning of the war, we’ve been reading their deepest secrets.
I’m sure you recognize how valuable this infor-mation is to them. And I’m sure you know what would happen to me, and to you, should anybody find out where this came from.
Somebody had taken a Magic Marker and blacked out, or in Agency terminology, redacted, the next ten or so lines. I wondered about those passages I wasn’t seeing. Sometimes that’s done when a vital source needs to be protected; more often it means the institution needs to be protected, by hiding an embarrassment or screwup. I wish I could do that with parts of my life.