Man in the Middle

by Brian Haig

  Bian looked at me. “Well?”

  “We’ll move him first. We don’t want an ambulance coming and linking him and this airplane.”

  “I hadn’t considered that.”

  Enzenauer and I lifted up the cot and hauled bin Pacha out of the hangar while Bian trotted off to look for an MP with a radio to request the services of the nearest medevac facility.

  I mentioned to Enzenauer, “I’ll accompany you. After he’s admitted, however, you’re on your own. Long night. I need sleep.”

  “Well . . . that’s why I’m here.” He then asked me a good question. “How do we explain the victim? I assume you don’t want him recuperating in an American military hospital. So, something that justifies a release as soon as he’s ambulatory.”

  An idea was forming inside my head, and I said, “Tell them he’s a member of the Saudi royal family. Shot by a terrorist, right? Stress his connection to the Saudi king and he’ll get first-class treatment.” I craned my neck around and looked back at Enzenauer. “How do we explain you?”

  “That’s easy. Lots of rich Saudis retain their own personal Western physicians.”

  I nearly told him I have my own proctologist, named Phyllis. He didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor, though.

  He added, “I have a friend who does it. Lives in a monstrous mansion out in Great Falls. The pay is incredible.” He chuckled and said, “My wife’s always badgering me to get my own royal.”

  “Now you have one. Your client, Ali al-Saud, was here on a business trip. He didn’t explain the purpose to you, because it was none of your business. Right? But he brought you here and asked if you wanted to accompany him to see the local sights. He was walking down the street, a stranger in dark clothing stepped in front of him, and bang. Completely arbitrary. Keep it simple. If they ask about you or your background, tell the truth. Just not the CIA part. The best lies stretch truth.”

  He nodded.

  “So you put your patient in a taxi, rushed him here to the American air base, and asked for help. You ran into me by the front gate . . . I located a medic—somebody from a unit at the airfield—he provided the IV and blood. Right?”

  “Exactly how I remember it.”

  “Don’t mess this up, Doc. Getting him out will be Phyllis’s problem.”

  We set down the bed, and about three minutes later, Bian jogged up. She said, “An air medevac’s en route. Shouldn’t take long. They’re only three miles away as the crow flies.”

  I explained our intentions and she agreed it sounded workable. I told her to remain in the airplane and babysit Nellie Nervous and reminded her not to kill him. I promised I’d be back in two hours and instructed her to call Phyllis from the plane and update her.

  We heard the whack-whack of helicopter blades.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Good news/bad news.

  A suicide bomber struck near the city center, and our arrival coincided with the victims, a mass of broken, traumatized people streaming into the field hospital. Some walked or limped in; the majority were hauled in on stretchers. The admitting nurses were overwhelmed and rushing from patient to patient, sorting the horribly wounded from the merely wounded from the too far gone to save, a triage situation.

  I had never seen anything like this. I had seen dead and wounded soldiers, but here the wounded were all civilians, for the most part women and children, looking bloodied and dazed as they cried out for attention and help. I saw tearful fathers carrying wounded little children, and little children standing with desperate expressions beside horribly mangled parents.

  What did the terrorists hope to accomplish by this indiscriminate massacre? Worse, I overheard somebody mention that this was only half the casualties; the rest had been rushed to civilian hospitals, which eventually were overwhelmed and began diverting the overflow to the care of the U.S. military.

  At one point, Enzenauer and I exchanged eye contact. The ugly irony of us bringing bin Pacha, here, at this moment in time, caught us both off guard and feeling guilty.

  In this cauldron of misery and confusion, the admitting nurse asked only a few cursory questions and showed no curiosity or dubiousness about our responses before Ali bin Pacha was admitted for emergency surgery. In Iraq, it seemed, everybody has the inalienable right to get hurt without explaining why.

  Doc Enzenauer dutifully emphasized the diplomatic importance of his patient to the admitting nurse, and a few minutes later repeated it word for word to an Army doctor, along with a few comments about his own credentials, which turned out to be fairly impressive—John Hopkins Med School, internship at Georgetown Hospital, specialties in psychiatry and the heart—and he was allowed to enter the surgery room as an attending physician.

  I found a cup of coffee and sat and waited two hours before I could hitch a ride on a military ambulance transporting patients to the airport for evacuation to the hospital in Landstuhl, Germany. Both patients lay on stretchers, one unconscious, the other floating in and out, so dulled by drugs the difference was negligible.

  An attractive nurse, who looked mildly Latina and seemed quite pleasant, rode with me in the rear of the ambulance. Her nametag read Foster, and I asked her, “What’s your first name?”

  “Claudia.”

  I didn’t see a wedding or engagement band, and I asked the question I ask all attractive women. “Married?”

  “Five years now. My husband’s in New York City. That’s where I’m from. The Big Apple, right?”

  “Isn’t that a suburb of New Jersey?” She did not seem to appreciate this comment, but she smiled a little dryly, and I asked, “Miss it?”

  “What I would do for a real tuna ceviche. You know this meal? A Honduran dish. Served in a coconut shell. Muy delicioso. There’s a restaurant in the city, Patria. Real Latin food.” She laughed. “I still got four months left on this tour. My crazy husband already made a reservation for the day I get back. Is he some kind of nut or what?”

  And so we passed the drive for a while; she loved her husband, she missed him, and couldn’t wait to get back and make babies by the bushel.

  Claudia was Army National Guard—a part-timer—and the last thing she or her husband had expected was a combat tour that interrupted their lives. I eventually asked her, “What happened to these men?”

  She pointed at the unconscious patient and said, “Sergeant Elby is a truck driver. National Guard. Like me.” She reached over and carefully adjusted his blanket, a gesture as unnecessary as it was telling.

  “A roadside bomb, about a month ago. Both legs are gone, his left hip, too. Also his kidneys aren’t functioning, so he needs dialysis twice a day. The damage from these bombs is . . .” She looked away for a moment. “He might lose an arm before we’re done.”

  Not they’re done, or he’s done; we’re done.

  I glanced at Sergeant Elby—he appeared young, about twenty-five, and his face was heavily bandaged except for his nose, which was bruised, scabbed, and apparently broken. His left hand, also covered with scabs, stuck out from beneath the blanket. I noted a thick gold wedding band. I could not imagine this level of damage inflicted on a human body. In fact, I did not want to.

  She stroked the hair of the other patient and commented, “Lieutenant Donnie Workman. He graduated from West Point only two years ago. Shot by a sniper during the assault on Karbala. The bullet entered his chest cavity and tumbled and ricocheted around, ripping up a heart valve and perforating a lung and his stomach. He’s touch and go.”

  I watched her face as she stared down at these battered and broken men. I said, “You care deeply about them. I see that. Will you travel to Germany with them?”

  “No . . . I . . .” She hesitated. “I’ll hand them off . . . to the flight crew. It’s a medical flight—good people, very competent, and . . . they don’t lose many passengers.”

  She swallowed heavily and regarded their battered bodies. “We’re not supposed to become attached to our patients. But you know what? You do. A
lot of them never speak to you. They can’t, right? But you learn so much about them. Always their friends stop by to check on them, and always they tell us this man is very special, and they tell us why, and these are the reasons we must save him . . . or her. Pretty soon, you know all about them.”

  She seemed to be experiencing separation anxiety, and she seemed to want to talk about them. So I asked, “Like what?”

  “Well . . . like Andy Elby . . . he has two children. Eloise and Elbert, six and seven. Wife’s name is Elma.” She smiled and said, “They’re from Arkansas, where funny names like that are common. You learn that stuff when you deal with a lot of patients. Anyway . . . Andy was a truck driver in civilian life, too. A simple guy. You know how that is, right? Poor guy, working full-time, doing the National Guard thing to pay for summer camp and braces for the kids. He never expected to be called up. Never expected this.”

  Again I looked at Andy Elby. If he survived as far as Walter Reed hospital, Elba and the kids would join him there, staying in temporary lodgings, living hand to mouth. Having had several friends who lost limbs, I was aware of the aftermath—a numbing saga of operations as the doctors chase infections and try to cut off dead and infected tissue before it works its way up, like cancer, and destroys the body. Elba would be shocked when she saw him, and she and her kids would go through hell as the docs tried to coax and force Andy’s body back to a level where it could function on its own. As for what would come afterward, well . . . life would be different. Sad.

  Claudia continued, “Donnie—I know, I know—I’m supposed to call him Lieutenant Workman. Anyway, Donnie was this big lacrosse star at West Point. A few of his classmates stopped by to see him. They told me Donnie was one of the most popular cadets. And academically, top of the class. His classmates all believed he would be the first general officer. Isn’t that something? This is some talented guy.” She paused before confiding in a low whisper, “I don’t think Donnie’s going to make it.”

  I took her hand and held it. “You’re an angel. You’ve done everything you can.”

  Tears were now flowing freely down her cheeks, and Claudia Foster told me, or perhaps someone much higher than me, “I’m going to miss them. God, I hope they make it.”

  “Most do.”

  “And some don’t.”

  We sat in silence for the remainder of the drive, me holding Claudia’s hand as I thought about these fine, promising young men, and about the bombing victims at the field station, about Nervous Nellie, who constructed bombs that blew people to bits, about Ali bin Pacha, who gathered the money and wrote the checks that underwrote suicide bombings and street massacres, about Cliff Daniels, whose selfish ambition contributed to this, and about Tigerman and Hirschfield, who held open the door for the dogs of war.

  Claudia said nothing, just attentively watched her patients. Her mood had turned reflective, and I had the impression that her thoughts, like mine, had to do with the consequences of evil and incompetence, of stupidity and fanaticism. She had no idea of the precise causes, but every day she saw the result, and every day she and her patients lived, or died, with it. I had a very good idea, and I wanted revenge.

  The driver let me off after we had passed through the airport checkpoint, and I stepped out of the ambulance. I took two steps, then turned about and said to Claudia, “Were these men able to talk, they would tell you this: Thank you.”

  She offered me a faint smile and said, “Don’t take this wrong, okay? I hope I never see you again.”

  I blew her a kiss and walked away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Bian awaited me in the plane’s lounge. She looked up when I entered and asked, “How did it go?”

  “Don’t ask. Why aren’t you asleep?”

  “Look who’s asking. You look like hell.” She studied my face and said, “Is something wrong?”

  “No, I’m . . . Where’s our prisoner?”

  “In the guest suite, locked to the bed. I barely nicked his calf. A flesh wound. I soaked it with disinfectant and put on a fresh dressing.” She noted, “He doesn’t react well to pain.”

  “Did you interrogate him?”

  “I promised, didn’t I?” She added, “I’m being good.”

  “And did you call Phyllis with an update?”

  “I did. She sounded pleased. Incidentally, she’s flying here.”

  “On her broomstick?”

  Bian smiled and replied, “I’m serious. She’s in flight, and the Agency switch connected us.” She checked her watch. “Took off five hours ago. She’s scheduled to arrive in seven hours.”

  “Did she mention why?”

  “Well . . . no. But I asked. She said something that sounded evasive. She’s very cagey, isn’t she?” She made a sour face and added, “That was the good news, if you’re wondering.”

  I felt a headache coming on. “I don’t want to hear it.”

  She said it anyway. “Waterbury is accompanying her.”

  I collapsed into a comfortable lounge chair and thought about this a moment. Among the more agreeable aspects of working for Phyllis Carney—possibly the only agreeable thing—is that she tends to be old school. This is to say, she gives you jobs, she generally does not interfere, and if you succeed she treats it as par for the course, no big deal; if not, she fires you, and then goes the extra mile of ruining your career.

  She’s not vindictive; that would require a level of emotion she does not possess. What she is, is a throwback to an older era, a living time capsule of habits, instincts, and methods that reside now only in history books. And for my generation—the boomers—bred as we were to be unconditionally nurtured and blithely agnostic about personal responsibility, we are a little disoriented by a lady boss with such Calvinist impulses. Also, it strikes me that Phyllis is aware she has become a generational misfit; I actually think she gets a sadistic pleasure from this. Her nickname around the office is Dragon Lady, which I personally find insulting, disgusting, sexist, and dead-on.

  Her flying here, however, was a curious deviation from her normal modus operandi, and that Herr Waterbury was accompanying her suggested other problems, and other issues. But what? Well, for one thing, a higher authority, like the White House, finally got its act together and realized the kids at the Agency were playing with matches around political dynamite. Maybe they didn’t know everything, yet here we had a case where knowing very little could change the nameplate in the Oval Office.

  So Phyllis, or the Director, or both, had been dragged down Pennsylvania Avenue, put on the red carpet, and read the riot act.

  Which might explain, as well, her traveling companion. Either Mark Waterbury ratted her out or he was the watchdog dispatched to monitor or control her every move and report back. Those aren’t mutually exclusive suspicions.

  Or I could have this all wrong. The capture of Ali bin Pacha was a big victory in a war that badly needed a few notches on the success pole. So maybe they were flying here to make sure their mugs were in the victory photo. I could actually see Waterbury doing this, and it wouldn’t hurt Phyllis to score a few brownie points either.

  So, was it that simple and innocuous? Maybe. But maybe not.

  This case just kept getting deeper and more complicated, starting with a corpse in an apartment, and now we had a bomber in the bedroom, a terrorist paymaster in an operating room, and if one or both of them spilled the beans, who knows what else might land on our plate. You like to think of investigations as ordered, a sensible progression of steps guided by a start and headed toward a tangible finish, where the lodestar for the investigator is the illusion that things happen for a reason.

  But in truth, sometimes it’s day by day, a journey without a map or an exit ramp in sight. In a way, I thought, this case had become a microcosm of this war, having looked so simple at the start and now our troops were sinking deeper and deeper into the muck of every tribal and religious and political mess in the region.

  I looked at Bian, who was thumbing through
a TIME magazine. I asked her, “Did you mention anything to Waterbury?”

  “Sean, please.” She looked up. “I’m not stupid.”

  “I know that.” I bent forward, untied my combat boots, and kicked them off my feet. “Maybe he just misses you.”

  She commented, “I’ll bet he misses you more,” and went back to reading. “He doesn’t want you out of his sight.” Bian looked up from her magazine again. “Whew . . . what’s that poisonous smell?”

  “You’re no petunia yourself.”

  She laughed. “I do feel icky. Did you notice there are showers on this plane? Two of them.” She stood and began unbuttoning her battle dress blouse.

  “Is there anything this plane doesn’t have?”

  “Well . . . the bar’s not stocked. Maybe you noticed that.” She bent over and began untying her boots. “Speaking of which, why don’t I get you a cold beer?”

  She wasn’t expecting a reply, nor did she get one, and she disappeared in the direction of the forward galley. She reappeared after a few moments, down now to a tiny sports bra and camouflage pants. Part of me admired what a good soldier she was for staying so trim and fit, and another part—the more dominant part—noted that I was in the presence of the ninth wonder of the world, a half-naked woman hauling a six-pack.

  She tossed me a cold one, withdrew one for herself, and there was that inspiring symphony of two cans opening simultaneously.

  I took a long sip and said, “Ah . . .”

  She said, sort of out of the blue, “I hope I’m not being nosy. Why haven’t you ever married?”

  “Why buy the cow when you can buy milk?”

  “Stop being obnoxious. That was a serious question.” She leaned her back against the bulkhead and studied me with her curious black eyes. “You’re a handsome man. Rough around the edges, maybe, but a lot of women would find you attractive.”

  I decided I owed her an answer that was honest and forthright, and I gave her one. “Mind your own business.”