Man in the Middle

by Brian Haig

  Bian said, “There, you see. Now, will you please give him to me?”

  “No, wait . . .” I paused, then asked Abdul, “Have you ever heard of the witness protection program?”

  “Ah . . . yes, I believe I have seen about this subject in Hollywood movies.”

  “Same thing. We build you a fake identity and relocate you. Give you a whole new life. You’d probably prefer someplace warm. Am I right? Southern California, maybe Florida. Babes, beaches, and mosques.” I gave him a reassuring smile. “Buy you a nice big house on the shore, give you a million bucks, with a fat monthly payment for expenses. What’s not to like?”

  Abdul showed some enthusiasm and interest in this subject and asked a few questions, which I answered, though possibly I exaggerated a few details. Finally, I assured him, “The Mafia mooks love this program. They swear that if they knew about this, they never would’ve been crooks, just hidden witnesses. Have you ever been to America, Abdul?”

  “I have . . . yes. For one year. As a high school student. Michigan . . . but Abdul was not liking this place very much. Very cold, sir.”

  “Got it. Someplace warm. Now listen closely, because I only offer this deal once. Tell us the complete truth, that’s rule one. No lies, no fibs, no exaggerations. Rule two, answer everything. Understand? We’ll check everything you tell us, and later, we’ll probably hook you up to a lie detector. No lies, Abdul.”

  “Then you are telling me I am in this program?”

  I smiled at Mr. Abdul Almiri. “You have the word of the CIA.”

  He smiled back.

  Bian allowed Abdul a brief moment to bask in his good fortune, then asked, “Where were you before Iraq?”

  “Afghanistan. I was living at a camp. Teaching.”

  Bian looked at me. We both understood what this meant.

  “Teaching what?” I asked.

  “You must understand, sir, that I was . . . I was a simple teacher.”

  “I do understand.” And I did.

  “So I was—”

  “What? What were you teaching, Abdul?”

  “I was, uh . . . telling these students how to make . . . bombs.”

  “You’re an engineer?”

  “No . . . well, for two years in university I was studying this subject. In Jordan. But I was making the big mistake of hanging around with some wrong people. Crazy fundamentalists.” He looked fearfully at Bian, the bloodthirsty Mossad killer, and explained, “I myself am not very devout, you must understand. Nor do I have great hatred toward Israel. But the Jordanian police accused me . . . What is this American expression? . . . ” He paused, then asked, “Guilty by incorporation. Yes?”

  Close enough, and I nodded. He continued, “And so, because of this . . . I was made to leave my university.”

  Bian asked, “So you joined Al Qaeda?”

  “I was . . . very angry, you must understand. And—”

  “And you joined Al Qaeda?”

  “And I was . . . confused. You see, my family wanted—”

  I snapped, “Yes or no.”

  “Yes.”

  So we went on awhile, and after additional questions we learned how Abdul’s talents as a bomb maker were recognized, a little about his job teaching others to shred people into confetti, how he fled after his camp was overrun by the northern Afghan tribes, made his way to Iraq, linked up with some former Al Qaeda compatriots, and opened up shop here.

  It was interesting, and at the same time disappointing, trivial, and also dispiriting. What converted this guy into a terrorist was nothing dramatic, no galvanizing grievance, no pulsing psychic need, certainly not the grind of poverty or any particular social injustice. He was an unpopular, slightly brainy kid from a middle-class background, befriended some religious zealots, this led to trouble with the authorities, and the next thing Abdul knew, he was manufacturing explosive devices for an association called Al Qaeda.

  I detected undercurrents of self-loathing, mixed with social alienation, boredom, and a bit of an identity crisis. But in fact, his reasoning and his path to terrorism sounded no different from and was no more mysterious than a confused American kid who, out of peer pressure, the need to belong, and because it seems cool, becomes a druggie. But there was a difference, a big one: Abdul didn’t blow his own mind, he blew up people. I asked, “How long have you known Ali bin Pacha?”

  “Ah, well, I am not . . . not so long, sir. He was not in Afghanistan. Not of Al Qaeda. Also, his duties to the movement cause him to . . . to very often leave Iraq. He must go to meet the people who give us the money.”

  I repeated my question.

  “Maybe . . . I think maybe two or three months. Please, you must understand, sir, we all move about. Even in Falluja, there are people . . . people such as yourselves who . . . who hunt us . . .”

  He had no clue that the hunt to end all hunts was under way in Falluja, nor did I see any advantage from informing him.

  Bian ordered, “Tell us about him.”

  He paused to think for a moment. Again he looked at me and said, “Ali bin Pacha is a tough, very fanatical man. You have looked at him in his eyes, yes? He is . . . I would not want Ali to think of me as his enemy. He has no fear . . . no remorse. This is proper saying, yes?”

  “Is he married? Does he have children?” Bian asked.

  “This I would not know about. We are not supposed to share these things. Some men do. Ali does not.”

  “How did he lose his leg?”

  “I believe in Mogadishu, ten years before. One of your big helicopters fired a missile. Ali now has great hatred to America.”

  As I mentioned, I also served in Mogadishu, and it was interesting to learn that bin Pacha and I were there together. I recalled intelligence reports at the time describing Arab fighters—including one asshole named Osama bin Laden—who were supporting, advising, and in some cases, fighting alongside Mohammed Aideed, the Somali warlord who had helped manufacture the famine that killed millions of his own people, and who by then had turned his attention to killing our peacekeepers—and me.

  Ali bin Pacha, by extrapolation, was one of those men, and by extension, we were dealing here with a man who had spent his entire adulthood trying to kill Americans. “He’s Saudi, right?” I asked.

  “This is correct, sir. His family is wealthy. And . . . uh . . .” He turned to Bian and enunciated something in Arabic.

  “Very connected,” Bian translated. “Financially influential.”

  Abdul nodded, then he then spent a moment thinking about what else he had to offer. He said, “Ali is very educated . . . I do not know his education, but it is said he was once a student at Oxford. He spends much time reading books.”

  “So he speaks English?”

  “Yes, this is so. Better even than Abdul.”

  “What kind of books?”

  “He has many of your American military manuals. He is very smart and he studies these books with great diligence. And he reads thick books about finance.”

  “The Koran?” Bian asked.

  “Ah . . . no. But Ali is, I think, not like me, very devout. But he . . . I believe for him the jihad is political.” He reconsidered his words, then corrected himself. “Maybe it is a personal jihad of hate.”

  I turned to Bian and said, “He wants to talk to you about bombs. Get me when you’re finished.” I paused, then added, “It would be nice if he was still alive and in one piece.”

  “No promises.”

  Ali looked very chagrined by the prospect of being left alone with a homicidal Israeli maniac, but I was hungry. I went to the galley, where I found jars of crunchy peanut butter and strawberry jam, a loaf of Wonder Bread, and a cold Coke. I made four sandwiches, heavy on the jam, and I sat and ate.

  From my experience, once a witness steps over the line and becomes a squeal, usually they go from telling you nothing to reciting the entire Yellow Pages, trying to impress you with their newfound good citizenship. Anyway, I heard no howls or slaps and assumed Abdu
l was behaving and letting it all hang out. Neither did I hear any shots, so Bian also was behaving.

  As I ate, I thought about what we were doing, and where this was going.

  I had been involved in legal cases that became more and more complicated, one thing leading to another, some related, some not. It is an article of faith in law enforcement that those who commit one serious crime usually exercise a disdain for all laws. So as you investigate deeper, you frequently stumble into a briar patch of criminal behavior, additional crimes, and coconspirators. In those instances you keep plodding forward, putting one foot in front of another, and—if you keep your head screwed on straight—eventually it all makes sense, or it makes absolutely no sense, which can be a revelation in itself.

  But this case had turned into one of those Russian Matryoshka dolls, where one thing always leads to another, and you become trapped by never-ending disclosures. So were all these things connected? Were they even related?

  What we had here were Abdul Almiri and Ali bin Pacha, tangents, if you will—in Phyllis’s words, low-hanging fruit—that, for good and obvious reasons, had to be plucked and squeezed. But they were also a diversion from our original investigation and it was worth pondering whether that was by happenstance or design. I mean, you had to consider the possibility that Phyllis hadn’t been totally up-front about her motives for sending us here.

  Security and confidentiality, she had stressed. And, okay, yes, certainly I could understand and appreciate how Bian and I fit that bill; good soldiers, discreet, obedient, plus we offered the additional quality of plausible deniability, which people in Washington value a lot. We were also plausibly expendable, since nobody would question two more dead soldiers in Iraq.

  And then there was this: Were Phyllis and her boss the lone keepers of the Secret, they would have their own bedrooms at Kennebunkport and bandstand seats at the inaugural parade. Actually, they would pick who was being sworn in. Sounded about right. Were I in Phyllis’s shoes, Sean Drummond and Bian Tran would be my first choice.

  But considered from another angle, maybe Phyllis was jerking us off. And if so, why? Well, one reason would be to buy time. But time for what?

  Or was I being unfairly suspicious? When you work for people who are paid to be underhanded, sneaky, and devious, it does tend to make you paranoid. Suddenly, behind every door lurks a hungry tiger, every order disguises a lie, and the mission that appears perfectly innocent ends with a bullet through the back of your skull. Then again, maybe my imagination was overworking this. But Phyllis does think like that.

  After ten minutes, Bian joined me in the galley. She informed me, “His job was just logistics—no involvement in planning or execution of the hits. He just built bombs and provided them to others.”

  “It’s a relief to know he’s not such a bad guy.”

  “That was his argument, too. He insisted that he never personally killed or harmed anybody. You know?”

  “I know. Did he have anything useful?”

  “Not really. Turns out that the man Eric’s men shot, he was Abdul’s controller. He knew who got the bombs, the chain of supply, and so on.” She picked a sandwich off my plate and began eating. “We should turn Abdul over to the military, ASAP. He probably possesses knowledge the Army will find relevant. Technical details about his bombs, for instance. That knowledge is always useful to the disposal units. The sooner the better.”

  She had been here, and she would know, so I nodded. I put aside the plate, and she accompanied me back to the suite. When we entered, I noted that Bian had positioned Abdul’s sandwich about five inches beyond his reach. The man was contorted like a pretzel as he strained to reach it. He looked very annoyed.

  I said to Mr. Almiri, “The Central Intelligence Agency thanks you for your cooperation.”

  He ignored the stupid sandwich for a moment, looked up, and offered me a broad, ingratiating smile.

  I informed Mr. Almiri, “About that witness protection offer, after a lot of thought, I’ve decided on your final destination.”

  “Ah . . . well, sir, I am certain you will choose well. Abdul can be happy in even a cold place.”

  “I promised it will be warm. That promise I’ll keep.” He looked at me expectantly, and I let the shoe drop. “You’re going to Abu Ghraib, Mr. Almiri. We’re turning you over to the American military. You’ll cooperate with them, or we’ll tell the entire prison yard that you ratted out your fellow jihadis. Do you understand?”

  Abdul looked like a guy on the verge of an orgasm being told to pull it out. “But, sir . . . you were promising Abdul—”

  “I lied.”

  I thought he was going to cry.

  I looked him in the eyes. “An hour ago, Mr. Almiri, I was at the American medical facility. Dozens of horribly wounded women and children were being rushed in, the result of a bombing. This might’ve been from one of your devices, or the handiwork of one of your students. Fry in hell.”

  I walked out.

  Bian followed, and quietly closed the door behind her.

  I headed straight to the lounge, removed my boots, stretched out on the comfortable sofa, and within three seconds was deeply asleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The alarm went off at 2:30 p.m. and I awoke from my nap. I walked to the rear of the plane, back to the master suite, where Bian was asleep on the big bed, and I awoke her as well.

  We both used the bathrooms to dash cold water on our faces and brush our teeth, and then we reconvened in the galley. We brewed a large pot of coffee, poured peanuts and trail mix into a large bowl, and then moved to the conference room, where we settled in to await the arrival of Phyllis and Adolf Waterbury.

  The few hours of sleep seemed to agree with Bian, and her mood had brightened—albiet still a little coolish toward moi. We chewed the fat awhile, the kind of shallow, aimless conversation people have who are just becoming acquainted—or who are working on becoming less acquainted—before she changed the subject and mentioned, “I liked the way you handled Abdul Almiri.”

  I nodded.

  She said, “So you saw the consequences of a street bombing at the field hospital?”

  “I did.”

  “What was your impression?”

  “What would anybody think?”

  “I don’t care about anybody. What do you think?”

  I put down my coffee and answered her. “These people are savages. They’re not making war, they’re mass-murdering innocents under the guise of a cause.”

  “That’s it? Nothing deeper?”

  “Tell me what I’m supposed to think.”

  She sipped from her coffee and stared at me a moment. She said, “You can’t imagine how many of those things I witnessed during my tour. As an MP, we were often the first responders. I have dreams about it still.”

  “Dreams or memories?”

  “They mix together.”

  “Tell me about one.”

  “It . . . it was my first. They all leave an impression, of course. But that first one . . .” She took a long sip from her coffee. “This was before bombings became the tactic du jour. I was in my humvee going to visit one of our roadblocks, and the ops center called on the radio and told me to divert immediately to a neighborhood in Sadr City, the big Shiite slum in the northeastern part of Baghdad. So I directed my driver to the street.”

  I nodded.

  “It was only ten minutes away . . . and we came around the corner, and we turned onto the street, and I . . . Understand, Sean, the ops center had given me no warning—and a blown-up car was there, burning, smoke billowing up . . . and in the street I saw this huge hole and a blackened blast scar. But all around, there were . . . well, body parts . . . scattered like confetti . . . like garbage. Hunks of human flesh and limbs, arms, heads . . . and a lot of them were really tiny, and I realized . . . they were . . . they were pieces of children.” She went silent for a moment. “About fifty people were just sitting there, wounded and mangled, waiting to be helped. T
he dead are dead . . . aren’t they? They feel no pain, no misery, but the wounded . . . their wounds are so . . . so horrible.” After a moment, she said, “You must’ve seen that this morning.”

  “I did see that.”

  “So . . . okay. How did it affect your view of this war?”

  “It pissed me off, Bian. Don’t ask me to think deeper or verbalize more than that. I really don’t know.”

  “I see.” She looked away and said, slightly dismissively, “At least that’s an honest answer.”

  I squeezed her hand across the table. “I don’t know what you want to hear. It’s an ugly impression, an image so horrible and contemptible it’s almost surreal. It was something ugly that should never have happened, but it did.” I looked her in the eye and went on, “You’ve had time for it to congeal into something else. It takes time. When combat veterans talk about having repressed memories and flashbacks, that’s what they mean. Nobody forgets. They just aren’t expecting the instant when the carnage rushes back to the surface with full import.”

  She seemed to understand and seemed disappointed. She said, “I was hoping you would see why we really can’t lose this war. Not to these people. Not after all they’ve done . . .”

  Clearly something had happened here, something that had strongly affected Bian’s view of this war. I had already suspected that, of course. But now that we were closer, geographically closer, and mentally closer, I was getting a stronger sense of how utterly obsessed she was.

  Also, I guess I knew what she was saying. The idea of losing any war is militarily and politically anathema—for soldiers, it is a mark of shame and dishonor; for a nation, a strategic setback; and for the nation’s citizenry, a mortifying scar on the psyche that never fully heals.

  Like Vietnam. Here we are, thirty years after that last helicopter wobbled off the U.S. embassy roof, and still we haven’t come to grips with it. And in the classic military sense that wasn’t even a defeat; it was a negotiated withdrawal, a wearied and bloodied boxer refusing to fight to the finish, regardless that the other guy had been stomped almost to death.