Man in the Middle

by Brian Haig

I gave him our names, flashed my Agency ID, and informed him we were part of Ms. Carney’s party.

  He smiled. “Oh . . . right.” The floor did not drop, and he said, “She instructed me to tell you to wait here. She’ll be back up in a minute.”

  So Bian and I leaned our butts against the wall and cooled our heels. The room was hot and stale, with that pungent, unpleasant odor of damp earth. The young man behind the desk had said “back up”—ergo, there was a hidden stairwell or elevator that led to a subterranean facility, and probably there was a control device on his desk, and for sure there was a gun under the desk for unwelcome visitors. I smiled at him and tried to look welcome.

  It was all coming together—an underground jailhouse. Actually, it made sense. No visible footprint, the noise and activity would be muffled, belowground facilities are fairly secure from breakout, or from break-in, and better yet, are largely bombproof. Ironically, the prisoners here were probably in the safest place inside a country they had made incredibly unsafe. I mentioned to Bian, “I’ll bet there’s a camera inside that light fixture.”

  She pushed a lock of hair into place. She said, “Smile for the viewing audience.”

  Why not? I smiled. A by-product of this shadowy war against terrorism has been the emergence of these clandestine detention and interrogation facilities, about which my reaction can best be described as Jekyllish and Hydey. My lawyer side regards them as an abomination of all that the American legal establishment holds dear—transparency, rights of the accused, timely representation and trial, due process, and so forth. And in my soldier’s heart, I have absolutely no problem with them.

  The truth is, the people incarcerated in these hidden prisons aren’t ordinary criminals; in fact, they aren’t criminals at all. Nor, in my personal view, are they prisoners of war, because terrorism is not war, it is the incoherent slaughter of innocents. No, these perps are something else entirely, a conspiracy of assassins and mass murderers who obey no rules, who respect no boundaries, neither moral or geographic, in an age when technology affords them the ability to really bring down the house. New games, new stakes—new rules.

  I mean, nobody squawked when the tools of law enforcement were fudged and expanded to handle the Mafia, who, comparatively, are just a bunch of quaint fat guys who never got the message about gold chains and leisure suits. At least they have a code of behavior, and the awareness that they can whack themselves to their heart’s content, but when they kill cops or innocents, the gloves really come off. For the terrorist, innocence is the target, and deterrence is the need to look around for a softer target.

  No, the nature of this war wasn’t of our making; it was theirs, and in a conflict such as this, you win or you lose on intelligence. As Bian noted, this isn’t a battle for the enemy capital, or for the decisive terrain, or to capture enemy guidons, the traditional measures of victory in war as we knew it; it is a struggle to locate and get the worst assholes off the street, then climb inside their heads and learn who their friends are, and what nefarious schemes are afoot before you learn about it on the evening news.

  This doesn’t mean the wardens get carte blanche; however, a little isolation and secrecy and some imaginative mind-bending can be worth their weight in human lives.

  Anyway, reverting to my lawyer half, I stared into the light fixture and waved my middle finger. Bian laughed.

  “Excuse me,” I asked the nice young man, “Is there a bar in this compound?”

  He looked up and gave me the best news of the day. “Yep.”

  I smiled at Bian. She gave me the middle finger and said, “I’m shocked.”

  “And I like scotch.” I turned back to him and asked, “Where?”

  “Third building back.”

  After a moment, I mentioned to him, “I don’t drink myself. But the lady’s a lush.”

  His smile widened. “Well, it’s off-limits to military personnel. Tough luck, huh?”

  The nice young man in the white shirt wasn’t so nice after all. I asked, “Does your mom know you’re here?”

  He stared at me a moment. “I can let you go downstairs, but I don’t have to let you back up.” He laughed.

  Sometimes it pays to be polite, and I joined him.

  Bian asked him, “What’s downstairs?”

  “A state-of-the-art interrogation and detention center. Constructed right after the war. The prisoners call it the dungeon. We call it the toilet.” He laughed. “Get it? This is where we flush the biggest shits.”

  Got it. And I’ll bet this wasn’t the line he used with visiting Red Cross delegations. His phone rang and he answered it. “What? . . . Yeah . . . okay, they’re here.” Pause. “Sure, I’ll tell them.” He then pressed his left forefinger on a pad on his desk and, after a long moment, a plate in the wall slid open and revealed a cargo elevator. Unbelievable.

  He looked at me and said, “Pretty cool, huh? Ms. Carney says to come down. I’ll tell your people to bring in the detainee.”

  Bian and I walked to and then entered the elevator. He pressed another button, the door closed, and we were flushed downstairs. After about ten seconds it reopened and we stepped out into a small operations center, a warren of interlocked cubes where thirty or so people were performing activities that ranged from sitting on their asses, to resting their derrieres, to loafing on their butts, all functions they could as easily do back in the good ol’ USA.

  A middle-aged gent in civilian khakis was waiting for us, and he introduced himself as Jim Tirey. He had clean-cut, all-American good looks, serious eyes, and he offered me a firm, businesslike handshake and said, “That will be your last obscene gesture into our cameras.

  Understand?”

  “You must be FBI,” I concluded.

  “I must be,” he replied coolly. “The Special Agent in Charge in country. Follow me.”

  So we did, down a short hallway, where we hooked a left, and then down a far longer hallway, at the end of which was a conference room that we entered. The air down here was damp and cool, with yellow fluorescent lighting that was intermittently spaced, as though the contractor had overlooked certain sections—but probably generators powered everything and energy conservation was at a premium. The prevailing ambiance, however, was a little spooky, as were our hosts, if you’ll pardon the pun.

  The conference room itself was small and stuffy, about ten by twelve, with a scarred, worn mahogany dining room table, unupholstered metal chairs, and hanging on the wall, a huge plasma-screen television with wires running octopus-like to a wall-mounted surround sound system. The room smelled of cigarettes and stale sweat, frustration and desperation. Actually I’m making that up; it smelled like lemon Pledge. But on the screen was a top-down view of a cramped prison cell containing only a metal bunk, no blanket, no sheets, and the proverbial pot to piss in.

  My CIA friends call this a surveillance room, and my naval friends an observation deck. Same thing, though there’s a world of difference in the mind-set.

  Phyllis and the sheik stood in front of the plasma screen, slurping coffee from foam cups. Waterbury leaned against a wall on the far side of the room, and at the moment we entered he was regaling them with a tale about his time as an MP, something about how he singlehandedly cleaned up the nastiest post in the Army.

  Retired soldiers manufacture more bullshit than cows, but considering the source, it sounded about right.

  Phyllis had endured this guy on the drive down and her face now had the fixed look she gets in the presence of insufferable assholes, so I cut in by pointing at the screen. “Nice room. Is it mine?”

  She smiled at me. “Don’t give me ideas.”

  Tirey took that as a cue and said, “What you’re seeing is a one-way cable feed from bin Pacha’s cell. Agents from Turki’s service are already there and set up.” He went on for our benefit, “The only people in this facility with knowledge of the detainee’s identity are inside this room or inside that cellblock. That’s it. Hermetic containment. We employed identic
al arrangements when Saddam was our guest.”

  He paused to see if we had any questions. We did not, and he pointed a finger at the screen and continued, “That entire cellblock is isolated, and the interrogation room we’ll use is on the same wing. The two cells next to bin Pacha’s contain Saudi intelligence agents who will impersonate prisoners, attempt to befriend him, and coax him into sharing confidences. Old trick, but a reliable one. It works more than you would believe. The guards in the wing are all Saudi intelligence.”

  He looked at Sheik al-Fayef and added, “Due to the sensitivity of this investigation, the video feed from this cell—in fact from the entire cellblock to the main control room down the hall—has been rerouted to this room. Only from here can you observe or overhear the interrogations.”

  He went on awhile with this nickel tour, about how the prisoner would be fed, given medical care, showers, and so forth.

  It sounded like these people really had their stuff together—a foolproof charade, supertight security, all the electronic bells and whistles, and the object of this drill was about to be put into play. What was there not to like?

  I interrupted his spiel and asked, “Are there any Americans in the cellblock?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Why not?”

  Tirey chuckled like that was a dumb question, which annoyed me a little. He said, “A number of our staff speak Arabic—none, however, are from Saudi Arabia. I’m told the dialect is distinct to the ears of native speakers and . . . Look, don’t worry about it. Everything that occurs in that wing can be seen and can be heard from this room. If a fly bats its wings, we’ll hear it. Everything.”

  The sheik looked happy but not surprised to hear this, and nodded approvingly. One of his French cigarettes was already dangling between his lips and the ashes fell off and left a big mark on his white robe. He asked me, “You spoke with bin Pacha in the hospital?”

  “I did. Major Tran and I prepped him.”

  Bian chipped in, “He’ll believe he’s awakening in a Saudi prison.”

  “Yes, yes, this is important.” He studied my eyes a moment. Despite, or perhaps because of, our earlier unpleasantness, he seemed to regard me as interesting. He asked me, “And now that you have spoken together, what are your thoughts about him?”

  “A tough guy. He enjoys his work, he hates America, and has no fear of spending his life in jail.” After a moment, I noted, “I wouldn’t want my career hanging on whether he’ll talk.”

  “So you do not believe he will confess his sources?”

  “I do not.” We locked eyes and I couldn’t tell what he thought about this.

  Bian helpfully informed him, “I spent six months interrogating suspects and captured mujahideen. Typically, the higher-level ones are superbly trained and conditioned for counterinterrogation. Many proved very difficult to break. Some, impossible.”

  “Is this so?”

  “Well, there are the lucky few who immediately blurt everything. But there are others, prisoners at Guantanamo, for instance, who required over a year of exhaustive effort. Some of those we have broken, we suspect their testimony was planted disinformation.”

  He offered her a faint smile. “We have never experienced this problem.”

  Waterbury announced, “There he is,” and we all turned and observed the video screen. Doc Enzenauer led a pair of gentlemen in civilian khakis who carried bin Pacha on a stretcher into the cell. They gently hoisted him by his feet and shoulders off the stretcher and onto the metal cot. Enzenauer then bent down and efficiently withdrew the IV from the prisoner’s arm, a necessary precaution against suicide.

  Enzenauer straightened up and stared up into the camera, which, like the one on the top floor, was apparently planted in the light fixture. After a moment he asked uncertainly, “Can you hear me?”

  The sound was locked on full blast and it sounded like he was howling through a megaphone; it was a one-way feed, though, and there was no answer. After a long hesitation, he informed us, “He should remain unconscious for perhaps another hour.” He stared awkwardly into the camera, like a stagestruck actor wondering if the scene was over.

  Then he and the two men backed out of the room and closed and locked the cell door behind them. We all stared for a moment at the unconscious prisoner resting on the bed, and we shared the same unspoken thought—inside that skull was knowledge that could change the course of this war, that could lead us to the architect of countless killings, that could expose the names of people and groups who were funding the wholesale destruction of an entire society. Unlock those secrets and a world of invaluable knowledge would land in our laps.

  Bian whispered to me, “You realize the only thing you and I might’ve accomplished here depends on whether he talks.”

  I whispered back, “And it will be worth it.”

  She nodded and we shared an unspoken agreement: We were going home empty-handed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Phyllis and party left to grab dinner in the dining facility, leaving Bian and me to observe Ali bin Pacha.

  To kill the boredom, Bian and I made small talk for a while before I very suavely inched into what really interested me. I said, “So, how was Baghdad?”

  “You stayed in Baghdad also.”

  “Airports aren’t in countries. They’re all part of the Twilight Zone.”

  She smiled. “Baghdad was wonderful. The jihadis took a breather. Very few bombings and I heard gunshots only half the time.”

  I smiled back. “And did you see Mark?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Am I being too personal?”

  “It’s . . .” After a long pause, she informed me, “Yes.”

  “Yes, it’s too personal, or yes, you saw Mark?”

  “Yes . . . I saw Mark. We got a room at the Visiting Officers’ Quarters inside the Green Zone. We spent two wonderful days together.”

  “Good . . . I’m glad . . . really . . . it’s . . . Hey, did you catch the Redskins game?”

  “Do you want to talk about this or not?”

  “I . . .” Not.

  She looked at me.

  I started to say something, but she beat me to it. She said, “I’ve made this awkward for both of us, haven’t I? Are you mad at me for leading you on? Don’t answer that. I know it’s my fault . . . and my . . . my responsibility to clear the air. So I’ll just say it—I do now, and I will always love Mark. I remembered that the instant I laid eyes on him. I’m sorry if I became confused.” She added, in a quiet voice, “I’m even sorrier if I confused you.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Because I don’t.” She gave me a sad smile.

  “Bian, what happened . . . This is a war zone, a lot of bad memories are flooding back for you, this case is tapping into your emotions, and—”

  “Okay, I’ve got it. What I did . . . in the shower . . . it was a careless lapse, an excusable stupidity.”

  “Well . . .”

  “I . . . That came out wrong, didn’t it? I didn’t mean it that way, Sean. Seriously . . . I’m incredibly fond of you.” She was struggling to find the right words, and eventually said, “If there was anybody in the world I would enjoy cheating on Mark with, it would be you.”

  “That’s—”

  “I know. I did it again. I’m a little tongue-tied here. I haven’t experienced this before.”

  “I hope not.” I looked at her and asked, “Did you tell Mark about us?”

  “I did not. What was there to tell? Nothing really happened, did it? I owe that to you. I doubt many men would’ve . . . you know.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  She smiled. “Believe it or not, I appreciate it.”

  Mercifully, our little Days of Our Lives episode came to an abrupt end, because the door opened and in stepped Jim Tirey, the FBI SAC. I mean, in my line of work, I can and do talk freely and intelligently with hardened killers, pissed-off judges, skeptical juries—but when it comes to heart-to-hea
rt discussions with women . . .

  Anyway, for about ten seconds Tirey casually watched bin Pacha on the screen, then he informed us, “We’re about to start the treatment. Our welcome concert for all new internees. Thought I’d better alert you.”

  He turned around, looked at us, and almost as an afterthought asked, “May I join you?”

  Bian said, “Please do . . . uh—”

  “Jim . . . please.” He moved to the table, sat across from us, and took a moment getting comfortable. He said, “I’m told you two went into Falluja and made the apprehension.”

  Bian nodded.

  He shook his head. “That was . . . incredibly brave. The same morning the attack started, right?”

  “Somebody forgot to warn us,” I informed him truthfully.

  “Glad you explained that.” He smiled. “I was worried that you’re complete idiots.”

  Bian pointed at me and commented, “He told me he was taking me to Vegas. So you can imagine my surprise when . . .”

  Jim chuckled. We all laughed. Ha-ha. Baghdad humor. He said, “Well, for the record, it was worth it. We get a lot of the old regime here, and their testimonies and confessions will be helpful when the Iraqis get around to prosecuting Saddam and the old guard. But their value is historical at this point. Old business. Current operational guys are more rare, and definitely more interesting.”

  I didn’t really want to talk about this, so to divert the conversation, I mentioned, “I didn’t even realize the FBI was here.”

  “The American public doesn’t know we’re here.”

  The publicity machine of the besainted Bureau makes Madison Avenue look like pikers, so I was surprised to hear this. “Why are you here?”

  He lit a cigarette and spent a moment considering his response. “A little of this, some of that. We give investigations training to the Iraqi police. For a high-value investigation—say, a particularly nasty bombing or VIP assassination—we handle the more demanding criminology work, forensic collection, residue analysis, technical analysis. Also, there are a lot of American firms here—sometimes we investigate them.” He smiled. “Believe it or not, there’s a lot of graft over here. Uncle Sam is spending over a billion bucks a month, and it brings out everybody’s best instincts. Bribery, overbilling, kickbacks, the usual funny business.” He stopped smiling. “My detachment’s not that big, so sometimes it’s just liaison work with the labs at Quantico or referral work with stateside offices.”