Man in the Middle

by Brian Haig

  She laughed. She took a long sip from her beer. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those relationship-phobic types. The instant the M-word comes up, you put in a request for reassignment.”

  “Time for my shower.”

  I got up and walked back to the bedroom at the rear of the plane. Right beside it was another door, which I opened and peeked inside. It was a large stall, basically a green faux-marble cage with six or ten shower heads designed by a sadist and passed off as a yuppie must-have luxury item. There was nowhere to change, so I stripped down to my undies in the hallway and stepped inside.

  I turned on the water, slipped off my undershorts, sipped from my beer, and leaned back against the wall. The water was as cold as the beer, and it didn’t feel good, though after a moment of acclimation it was refreshing and awakening. The soap was French and smelled like a lady’s boudoir—personally, I prefer the odor of stale sweat—and I scrubbed off the dirt, washed my scalp, and was rinsing my hair when I heard a hard knock on the door.

  I heard Bian’s voice, but it was muffled and I couldn’t make out what she was saying. Two thick fluffy white towels hung from a hook and I wrapped one around my waist and opened the door.

  Bian, also wrapped in a towel, her hair wet and bedraggled, said, “I turned on the water, and it’s . . . it’s frigid.”

  “Maybe the plane has to be turned on for the water heater to operate. Do you have the key to this thing?”

  “Then . . . yours is cold also?”

  “Yes, it’s—” And before I knew it, her towel dropped to the floor and she stepped lightly into my stall. In one fluid motion, she released the towel from my waist, pulled me around by my shoulder, and closed the door as she passed. Wow, she was nimble.

  And then . . . well, there we were, a man and a woman, nose to nose in our birthday suits; actually, nipple to nipple. Bian laughed and asked, “Are you shocked?”

  I drew upon my legendary self-restraint and averted my eyes.

  Well . . . I peeked, of course. And hers was a lovely body indeed, built for comfort and for speed, lean and muscular, broad-shouldered, without an ounce of flab that I could detect. Her skin was a wonderful mocha hue, and all the appropriate plumbing and female esoterica seemed to be present and accounted for.

  “Bian . . . what are you doing?”

  “Don’t you mean what are we doing?” She had grabbed the soap bar and began scrubbing my chest. “Hypothermia prevention, straight from the Army cold-weather manual.” She laughed. “The doc’s gone, the crew’s doing their mandatory bed rest and . . . and well . . . the manual stresses that any warm body will do.”

  Her hand had moved down to my stomach and was heading south. I didn’t recall that particular technique from the manual, but it was an effective improvisation, because I was warming up. I informed her, “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

  She observed, rightfully, “Your little friend seems to feel differently.”

  “Little?”

  “Well . . . bless my stars . . . From an acorn to a mighty oak . . . you’re— Oh my . . . Water him and look what happens.”

  I laughed. I’m a sucker for precoital silliness.

  She grabbed my arm, spun me around, and began soaping my back. It felt good. She began kneading and massaging my muscles; that felt even better. After a few moments of this, she mentioned, “You have a lot of scars.”

  “Well . . . I had an unpopular childhood.”

  “These look more recent.”

  “Exactly.”

  She laughed.

  I reminded her, “Hey, aren’t you a little engaged?”

  She invoked those magical words—“Why don’t you let me worry about that?”—and she spun me back around, handed me the bar of soap, and said, “Now do me.”

  Well, what could I say? No was an option—except reciprocity is the mark of a gentleman, so I spun her around and soaped and scrubbed her back. She arched up like a cat. Her skin was wonderfully smooth. And buttery.

  For the next few moments neither of us spoke. The only sounds were water pelting off our bodies, and somebody seemed to be breathing heavily.

  She turned around and stepped into me. “Now do my front.”

  I looked at the soap and then into her dark eyes. There’s a big difference between the back and the front, and once we started this, well . . .

  Actually, we already were well past the start line, and part of me was urging, very insistently, “Come on, Drummond. Bedwetting wimps quit. Look at that finish line—do this, Drummond. You can—you know you can . . .”

  Another part of me was halfheartedly pumping the brakes.

  Maybe casually tapping the pedal.

  Bian sensed my reluctance and she stepped forward, rubbing her body against mine. “It’s okay. Really.”

  I smiled, and she smiled back. She rubbed a little more.

  So . . . here we were, headed toward no return.

  And then . . . Well, then I did what no man should ever do. I asked myself the entirely irrelevant question: Why?

  I knew a shrink would say this was a visceral, even predictable response to a mission that had been tense and dangerous. The human psyche gets wound up, and death and violence breed thoughts of procreation, which has something to do with sex. It’s Freudian, or maybe French—inner peace through orgasm.

  Also, aside from a few obviously minor idiosyncrasies—my occasional chauvinism, my pigheadedness, my faltering career—I am fairly irresistible. Women, after all, are willing to overlook a lot. Even my brother, who’s a selfish, overbearing prick, always has a babe on his arm. I mean, I love the guy. I’m just not sure why.

  Of course, he is stinking rich, with a huge house on a glorious bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. With women, that helps.

  Bian rubbed a little more and said, “Excuse me, but I think I’ve made my intentions clear. It’s your move.”

  Or was this plain and uncomplicated horniness? Maybe. But such impulsiveness seemed incongruous for a lady whose life and career were the embodiment of self-discipline. No . . . that just didn’t wash, if you’ll pardon the bad pun.

  So, two possibilities. She was using her body to manipulate me, or she was making a huge emotional mistake, which was about to become my mistake.

  Sex, in my experience, comes either at the start of a relationship, when intercourse is no more or less meaningful than a handshake—except nobody wakes up in the morning regretting a handshake. Or it is part of a ripening relationship, an acknowledgment of deepening affection, love, and commitment. Bian and I were more than acquaintances, and less than in love. In love and in battle, timing is everything; when the timing is off, what follows usually sucks.

  I took a few deep breaths, stepped back, picked up the towel, and carefully draped it around her body. She looked surprised. “This is a joke, right?”

  We stared into each other’s eyes for a moment. I said, “Would you buy it if I told you I’d keep going if I didn’t care about you?”

  “That’s . . . the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Right.”

  She looked away for a moment. “This is really humiliating. I’m throwing myself at you. I think you owe me a better explanation.”

  “Okay. I do owe you a better explanation,” I agreed, trying to think up that explanation.

  “I’m listening.”

  “This doesn’t feel right. Not here, not now. You’re engaged, and I particularly don’t like the idea of sleeping with a soldier’s girl. I think you’re emotionally confused, and I’m not the key to resolving it; I’m part of the problem.”

  “Maybe you’re overthinking this.”

  There was a new one; usually, I underthink these things. “Maybe.”

  “I—”

  I put my finger on her lips. “Bian, don’t talk, listen. We’re both confused right now. You’re beautiful and sexy, I’m very attracted to you, and . . .” I paused, then said, “When this is over, you need to have a word with your fiancé. We
’ll see where we stand. Sound right?” In keeping with the watery theme, I added, “This is either a rain check or maybe, in a saner moment, it will be rained out.”

  She threw a towel at me. “Being a noble prick doesn’t become you.”

  “I’m regretting it already.”

  She was quiet for a moment, then said, “I have to rinse off.

  Since you’re such a gentleman, why don’t you get out?” “If you hear a gunshot, it will be me blowing my brains out.” She smiled. “Oh, please don’t.” I smiled back. She stopped smiling. “Let me pull the trigger.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I broke into my duffel bag, shaved, and changed into fresh battle dress. When I emerged from the stately bedroom, Bian had returned to the lounge and had her nose tucked back inside TIME magazine.

  It’s always a little touchy dealing with somebody after you’ve been naked together, especially when the chemistry failed and it’s your fault. I needed a moment to think through my approach.

  Well, the proper course would be to sit down and have an honest heart-to-heart discussion about what happened, to expose my inner feelings, to achieve an emotional communion. Men aren’t very good at this; we’re emotionally awkward, disconnected, and shallow. I can do better than that, and I decided I would. So I told Bian, “Time to interrogate our prisoner. Let’s go.”

  She ignored me and studied her magazine.

  “Now, Bian. We need to have this done before Phyllis and Waterbury arrive.”

  “Fine.” She continued reading.

  “Also, presumably he knows bin Pacha. A little background will help when we interrogate bin Pacha later. Make sense?”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “You try to untangle whatever he knows about future bombings, and who he was giving his explosives to. You understand that stuff better than I do.”

  “I imagine I do.” Her nose was still inside her stupid magazine.

  “Good cop, bad cop—you’re the bad cop.”

  “Naturally.”

  I stepped toward her and bent forward until my face was two inches from hers. “Put the personal issues aside. Mission first, Major.”

  She calmly put down her magazine and stood. “I’m not mad at you—okay? I thought about it. You know what? You were right. It would’ve been a huge mistake.”

  Boy, was I ever glad we’d had this discussion and got that cleared up. I said, “Come with me.”

  We went to the guest suite, and as we entered, Nervous Nellie jolted upright and stared at us. I approached him and untied his gag.

  He wanted to rub his dry lips, but his hands were manacled to the bedposts, and he had to settle with massaging his lips with his tongue.

  He would always be Nervous Nellie to me, but I asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Please . . . sir . . . my leg, it hurts. Most badly.”

  I repeated my question.

  “Please . . . maybe you have . . . I don’t know, aspirin?”

  Bian looked at him and said to me, “Dead men don’t need aspirin.”

  This, of course, was not a threat of death, which would be a serious violation of the Geneva Conventions; it was a statement of fact. One could see, however, where it might be misinterpreted.

  Apparently this guy misinterpreted Bian, because he said with some enthusiasm, “I am Abdul Almiri.”

  Bian asked, “From where?”

  “Please . . . I am most hungry, sir. Today I have not eaten food. You are required by your laws to offer Abdul food. This is so, yes?”

  I nodded at Bian, who left to see what she could scavenge from the galley. Starvation is another violation of the Geneva Conventions, of course, and Abdul clearly knew this. It was ironic that this guy came from a movement that ignores every law of humanity, until the scumbags are caught.

  There was intelligence behind those frightened eyes, though, in addition to fear and anxiety, and Abdul was testing to see what the limits were.

  I pulled over a chair and sat down beside him. I confided, “I’m going to offer you a little free advice. You need to be careful with the woman.”

  “Yes . . . I—”

  “Abdul, listen—what I’m telling you might save your life. She’s a little unhinged.”

  “I . . . I do not understand this word.”

  “Crazy, nuts, batty, wacko, sociopathic. The lady goes violent at the snap of a finger. You saw this last night in Falluja. Right? One second she seems perfectly sane and under control . . . and then . . .” I snapped my fingers, and he winced.

  Abdul was now staring at me, a little wide-eyed. He said, “But you are soldiers, yes? I am seeing that you and she wear the uniform of the American crusader.” True to form, he reminded me, “The Geneva Convention does not permit these things.”

  “Look around you, Abdul.” He had shifty eyes anyway, but they slid around in their sockets a little. I asked him, “Does this look like a military aircraft? And these uniforms? They’re not real.”

  “I . . . I do not understand, sir.”

  “I’m CIA. She’s Mossad, Israeli intelligence. A Vietnamese Jew, actually.” He looked confused, so I explained, “Even the other Mossad people are scared shitless of them. They have this big chip on their shoulder, always having to prove they’re real Jews.” While he tried to fit this exotic knowledge into his frame of reference, I added, “And need I really tell you about Mossad? They don’t play by any rules. She’ll whack you at the drop of a hat.”

  There is no law against lying to prisoners of war, of course, and in this case, the Arabs have created their own boogeyman. They tell one another so much scary crap about Mossad, they believe anything.

  But Abdul was confused. “Whack? This word Abdul does not know, sir.”

  “Means killing, Abdul.” He nodded and I continued, “For her, it’s a sport. She has this sick game where she tries to see how many bullets she can pump into a man before he dies.” I allowed him a moment to consider that intriguing hobby. I said, “Two hundred and eight.”

  “I . . . What is this number?”

  “Her record. At least, she claims that’s her record. Personally, I think she’s a big fat liar. I once watched her pump seventy-two rounds into a guy, and he was tall and real heavy, and he died. Blood loss . . . too much pain for the heart . . . who knows? But two hundred and eight bullets?—I think that’s just bullshit. What do you think?”

  “I . . . sir, Abdul does not know.”

  I thought he did know, but decided to help him reach a clearer understanding. “I mean, you saw her last night. Think back. Everybody got one in the left leg, right? Take yourself—she nicked you. She calls that her chip shot. Don’t even ask about her hole in one . . . but it’s . . . Well, hey, for a guy, let’s just say it’s the worst thing that can happen.”

  Abdul licked his lips and stared at me. “Yes, but you are the good and honorable man. I remember . . . you would not permit her to do this horrible thing to us.” He tried a gap-toothed smile and revealed an unpopular childhood. “I am very much thanking you for this, sir.”

  “Oh, well . . .” I looked into his eyes. “Time was short, Abdul. I could care less, but once she gets started . . .” I leaned back in my chair and coolly informed him, “You’re a bomb maker. We’ve already confirmed this.”

  “No . . . I am not even knowing these men . . . these men you captured . . .”

  “No?”

  “No. I was . . . How do I say? I was merely seeking a place to sleep. It is our custom . . . I am of Islam. The Koran requires such hospitality between believers.”

  Bian reentered the room carrying a plate upon which was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and four or five small bags of trail mix.

  Abdul eyed the plate before his shifty eyes returned to my face, trying to gauge if I was a big enough idiot to buy this. I informed him, “Mr. Almiri . . . there are two insurmountable problems. One, we found the artillery shells on the ground floor. Two, that isn’t what Ali bin Pacha informed us about
you during the ride to the hospital.”

  “But that is not the truth. I . . . I do not know why that man would make lies about Abdul.”

  “He told us you’re a maestro at manufacturing bombs from artillery shells.”

  “I do not know this man.”

  “He knew you.”

  “Abdul does not know how to do these things, this . . . this making of bombs. I am swearing to you this.”

  Bian understood where I was going with this, and said to me, “The tools we found at the factory are being checked for fingerprints. The results will arrive any minute. I’ll take his prints, and if they match, he’s mine.”

  Coming from a third world background, Abdul had not anticipated this twist, and his face registered what an unhappy surprise this was. Where he came from, forensic science entails cops bouncing your nuts off the floor until you squeal.

  I gave Bian a pissed-off look. “Hey . . . maybe that’s how you Mossad people handle these things. The CIA likes to keep them alive . . . at least, long enough to talk. You can’t just keep executing them.”

  She affected a bored posture. “The other ones never bothered you.”

  “They were different. He might have something valuable to tell us.”

  “Him? Look at him. A stupid mensch. Catch a minnow, and what do you do? I’m tired, and I need a nap. Let’s get this over with.”

  “Well . . . at least give the guy a chance to prove you wrong. Maybe he knows something, maybe not. It’s a pain in the ass to dispose of bodies.”

  “Oh, spare me. Stash him with the other corpses in the city dump. They’ll blame it on the terrorists. They always do.”

  Abdul did not seem to enjoy the way this conversation was progressing, and he decided to join in. “Jordan,” he informed us, “Amman, Jordan. Abdul comes from this city.”

  “How long has Abdul . . . have you been here, in Iraq?” I asked, imitating his third-person usage.

  “One year. Perhaps a little more, sir.”

  “Before that?” Bian demanded.

  “I was . . .” He hesitated in midsentence and looked at me. “Sir, please . . . I . . . if I tell you these things . . . I— These people, they will hunt down Abdul. The things they do to traitors, you cannot imagine.”