Man in the Middle

by Brian Haig

  “I see. And why would Charabi care about her?”

  “How would I know?”

  “For an accusation of this scale and repercussion, you had better know.” She thought for a moment, then asked, “Do you know what I think?”

  I was sure I did, but she told me anyway. “Guilt, Sean. She left without you and you feel responsible. That’s natural, and it’s wrong. She made a foolish, irresponsible choice, and probably a mortal one.

  It was not your fault.” She added, “To take it a step further, you’re obsessed with Charabi. I warned you about this several times, and that’s what worried me from the beginning. Now you’re seeing Charabi everywhere you look.”

  “Where I’m seeing his name is in blood on the dashboard of Bian’s car. That’s not obsession, that’s physical evidence. Were I to present it to any disinterested jury, I assure you they would be persuaded.”

  “Implying that I am not disinterested?”

  “You have to answer that yourself, Phyllis.”

  She did not reply to my innuendo, but stared at the Toyota with a thoughtful expression. Eventually, she asked, “Were you to take this to a judge, is there sufficient evidence for a search warrant?”

  “We’re in Iraq. The occupiers make the rules.”

  “Answer my question.”

  “It would depend on the judge, and on the lawyer making the argument.”

  She looked at me a moment and said, “Get Tirey.”

  I did, and a few moments later the three of us were huddled about a hundred yards from the nearest prying ears. Phyllis looked at him and said, “Jim, I’m about to tell you an explosive story. This is probably the most dangerous secret you’ve ever heard, and it must remain that way. It involves very powerful people, and if anybody finds out about it, I won’t have to destroy you. Because they will.”

  Jim did not look shocked by this preamble, though he did look concerned. Phyllis then launched into a quick-fire version of Clifford Daniels’s death, the relationship between him and Mahmoud Charabi, the investigation we had pursued, and she then made the possible connection to the disappearance of Bian Tran.

  When she finished, Tirey did look shocked, surprised, and a little frightened. Frightened for Bian, frightened about this case, and frightened for himself. He asked, “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I think you know why,” she replied.

  “Okay . . . maybe I do.” He looked at her, and then at me. He said, “You understand that Mahmoud Charabi stands a very good chance of becoming the next prime minister. At the very least, he’ll be a very senior government minister. This is not a man to mess with.”

  “Worry less about him,” I advised, “than the President of the United States. You now have his balls in your hands. If he finds out, he’ll want your balls in his pocket.”

  Phyllis looked at him and asked, “What do you think about Drummond’s assertion regarding Charabi?”

  “I think it’s an interesting story and a compelling suspicion. Were this the States, I would be talking to a federal judge instead of you.”

  “About what?”

  “About probable cause. About a search warrant. Of course that’s never a sure bet—but when the victim leaves such a strong lead . . .” He let that trail off.

  Phyllis looked at me and asked a lawyerly question. “Charabi’s office is located inside the Green Zone. It’s an international zone, but his office is on U.S. property. Who can authorize a search warrant?”

  I replied, “For an Army search, the commander. But the FBI doesn’t report to the military. I would guess Jim authorizes himself.”

  “That’s correct,” Jim said and then asked, “Shouldn’t we . . . Hey, look . . . maybe I should contact headquarters. Get a proper clearance. Or . . . at least notify the embassy. They’ll throw a conniption if we do what I think you’re asking.”

  Phyllis said, “Absolutely not. They’re not cleared to know.”

  I added, “This is an in extremis hostage situation, Jim. They could be torturing Bian as we speak. In such situations, as you and I know, the law allows you certain latitude for independent judgment.”

  “I understand . . . but . . .”

  “Speed, Jim. The diplomats will write a thousand position papers and hold a hundred meetings, and the answer—if there ever is one— will be yes, no, and maybe.”

  “Then Bureau headquarters. That can’t be—”

  “Wrong. In D.C. there are possible coconspirators, some of whom might be involved in the decision. We don’t know how far this goes, or how wide. If word leaks to Charabi, Bian’s body will be carried out with the morning garbage.”

  Jim Tirey had suddenly become a visibly conflicted man. He wanted to do the right thing—save an American citizen in distress— and he wanted to do the right and proper bureaucratic thing—save his own ass.

  Phyllis took his arm and said, “Under no circumstances will this search leak out. That’s best for Charabi and that’s best for the U.S. government. Charabi will not be publicly embarrassed, and if offered the option, I am sure he’ll want this kept quiet. The embassy and Washington will never know about it.” She looked at him and emphasized, “I think that’s best for us.” She asked, “What do you think?”

  This arrangement seemed to assuage his professional and other concerns, and he and Phyllis began hatching a plan for a clandestine raid on Charabi’s office, which essentially involved Jim handpicking four or five trusted federal agents, then threatening professional castration if they whispered a word about this to anyone.

  I said, “One other condition. I get ten minutes with Charabi. Alone. I have more familiarity with the evidence against him, and thus I have the highest likelihood of convincing him to voluntarily answer a few questions.” I noted, “Also, my name will be the only one he remembers.”

  Jim liked this idea even better.

  But it wasn’t exactly accurate, since Phyllis probably knew more about Charabi than Charabi knew about himself. But she did not correct my misstatement; in fact she noted, “That makes good sense.” Then she said, very seriously, “Don’t leave any scars or bruises.”

  “Fine.” I would kill him without scars or bruises.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The receptionist was a gentleman of Arab descent, heavyset, wearing a black Western suit and a skinny black necktie, who looked up with a naive smile as Tirey and I entered the office.

  The smile evaporated after five more agents pushed through the doorway and began fanning out around his office—this seemed to clear up any misunderstanding that we were welcome guests. Sounding suddenly anxious, he asked, “How may I help you?”

  Tirey stopped about a foot from his desk and flashed a phony piece of paper and a real shield in his face. He identified himself and said very forcefully, “I have reason to suspect that somebody in this office is involved with a kidnapping. This warrant authorizes my agents to conduct a search.”

  The space we had entered was a large anteroom that was messy and disorganized, with about seven desks, behind each of which sat an Arab gentleman, dressed, as was the receptionist, in severe business attire. It smelled of stale cigarettes and old teabags, and looked like a cross between a ward politician’s back room and a busy mortuary. Tirey instructed the receptionist, “Tell your people to leave their desks and stand against that wall.” He pointed at a wall. “If anybody touches anything, they’ll be cuffed and arrested.”

  Apparently they all spoke English, or they knew the drill, because they began standing, hanging up phones, dropping pens, and stepping away from their desks.

  I asked the receptionist, “Is Mahmoud Charabi in?”

  We had checked beforehand and confirmed that indeed, he was at that moment in his office. Still, it was instructive to see the look on this poor man’s face. Unlike his boss, this guy must’ve hung around during Saddam’s reign, because the sudden appearance of armed men bearing legal papers and threats put a very worried expression on his face. He replied hesi
tantly, “I . . . I do not know this.”

  I pointed at the phone on the desk. “Tell him Colonel Drummond from the American Army wants a word with him. Now.”

  He lifted up the phone and punched a number. He spoke in Arabic, but whatever he said took a lot longer than what I said. For all I knew, Charabi’s office had a fire escape, and this guy was telling his boss to make tracks.

  It was time to make my move; there were two doors on the far side of the room and I walked swiftly toward them. I opened the first door, which turned out to be a toilet, and then I threw open the second door, which turned out to be the devil’s lair, and I entered. The door had a switch lock, and to ensure I wasn’t disturbed, I shut the door gently behind me, turned the switch, and then turned around and faced my enemy.

  A man sat behind a medium-size wooden desk in an office that was neither large nor even well-furnished—it contained only the aforementioned desk, a metal file cabinet, a badly stained wall-to-wall carpet, and Mahmoud Charabi sipping a cup of tea. This was hardly what he had schemed and plotted for decades to end up in, but that was the whole point; this room was a way station, and if things worked out, his next office would be palatial in size and decor, he would have an army at his beck and call, and a nation at his feet.

  He stared at me a moment, hung up the phone, started to stand, then changed his mind and fell back into his chair. That moment of indecision aside, he had enough presence of mind to demand, “Why do you wish to see me? You have no appointment.”

  I moved toward his desk. A rotating chair was positioned in the middle of the floor that looked like, and probably was, U.S. Army property, which I interpreted as permission to sit, and I did.

  He suggested, “I think you should leave.” After a moment in which I did not leave, he informed me, “Now I am calling the American ambassador to protest.” He lifted up the phone and began hitting numbers with angry little punches.

  There are two ways to approach a delicate situation such as this; diplomacy is the recommended course for all the obvious advantages that it avoids nasty confrontations, often gets results, and leaves no ugly feelings. And to be fair, the man to my front was perhaps weeks away from becoming the most powerful man in this country, and as such, he deserved my respect and courtesy, if not for himself, then for the office within his grasp. Also he had powerful friends in Washington who could screw up my paycheck, my career, or worse.

  That, however, has never been my way and I said, “Put down that phone.”

  He continued dialing.

  I said, “Go ahead, then. It’s your funeral.”

  He stopped dialing. I seemed to have his attention and he asked, “What are you talking about?”

  “Well . . . for starters, who murdered Clifford Daniels? Then, who told the Iranians that we broke their intelligence code? And finally, who shot and kidnapped an American Army major? There’s more, but I think that’s a good beginning. Don’t you?”

  Somewhere in there I struck a chord, or several chords. His face went white. He said, “I . . . I have no idea what you’re talking about. W-who are you . . . and w-who sent you?”

  I ignored his questions and said, “Ordinarily, at moments like this, I would read you your rights and advise you to get a lawyer. But today, I’m your lawyer. And today, you have no rights, only options.” I paused, then briefly explained why he should pay attention to these options. “I can destroy you with one phone call.”

  Mahmoud Charabi, incidentally, was in his late fifties, medium height, and a bit on the plump side—pampered and soft-looking, actually—which did not reinforce the tough-guy expression he was trying to give me. He had graying hair around a bald dome, waxy flesh around a formless face, thick lips around a tight mouth, and full cheeks around small brown eyes that were staring at me a little incredulously. The overall impression was a sort of roundness and flabbiness, which might be why people underestimated this man.

  Also he possessed excellent English and was fairly well-spoken, but with a discernible accent, and I detected a slight stutter, perhaps a nervous affliction. To tell the truth, nothing about him looked powerful, charismatic, or even slightly imposing. He looked more like an overweight insurance adjustor than the George Washington of this country. Probably this accounted for why he was trying to lie, scheme, and murder his way into power.

  Also he had the unfortunate Nixonian reflex of squeezing his hands together at moments of high stress—at that moment, he looked like he was pressing coal into diamonds.

  Lest he harbored any doubts, I informed him, “I have Clifford Daniels’s laptop computer.” His eyes widened, and to confirm his worst fears, I continued, “You’re Crusader Two. And yes—Clifford was both stupid and sloppy. Because, yes, he failed to eliminate the e-mail messages. And yes, Mr. Charabi, they were decoded, and they are very . . . incriminating. Message after message.”

  “But they—”

  Not allowing him to get a word in, I continued, “Imagine, if you will, how those messages will look on the front page of the New York Times.” He began contemplating the empty blotter on his desk, and in case he forgot, I reminded him what he had written, saying, “Those unflattering assessments of your fellow leaders here in Iraq. Your whiny complaints about the American Army and the American ambassador—‘dickhead’? . . . Do you think he’ll be flattered by that nickname? I don’t. And best for last: You and Cliff cooking up that deal to tell the Iranians we had broken their code.”

  When he made no response, I said, “Wow. I mean, wow. How is that going to look?”

  If his face had looked white before, he now was on the verge of disappearing into thin air. He never imagined he would hear these words; he thought Daniels was dead, that his secrets went to the grave. He said, “Uh . . . w-who . . . please, who are you?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Major Bian Tran will be brought to this office immediately. You have ten minutes, or . . .” I allowed that thought to drag off.

  He looked up at me, very surprised. “I . . . I . . . w-what? I have never heard of this . . . major . . . what did you say is her name?”

  I stood up and leaned over his desk. “On your orders, her vehicle was ambushed yesterday evening. She was wounded and kidnapped.” We locked eyes. “If she’s dead, you’re dead. I’ll kill you myself.” I pointed at my watch. “Nine minutes.”

  “I have told you the truth. I do not know her . . . and d-definitely . . . I have not kidnapped her. Whoever told you this . . . It is a d-despicable l-lie.”

  I maintained eye contact and informed him, “Major Tran wrote your name in blood on the dashboard before she was dragged out of her car.”

  “Oh . . .” He glanced around his office, tried to compose himself, and a modicum of color returned to his face. He said with surprising coolness, “Why don’t you sit? Let us talk this over without further threats.”

  “Here’s a better idea. Why don’t you pick up the phone and order your people to get Tran over here. Chop-chop.”

  “Because I can’t. You are wrong.” He drew a few breaths, then said, “You come into my office—my office—accusing me of murder and kidnapping. You cannot blackmail me into confessing things that are such big, terrible lies.” He had found his voice, apparently, because he then ordered imperiously, “Sit down.”

  This guy needed a pop in the nose and I leaned forward to give him one, but he did something that slightly upset my plan. His right hand came up from underneath his desk and in it was a Glock with the barrel about six inches from my groin. He repeated himself, saying, “Sit down,” more emphatically and, given that the pistol was threatening man’s best friend, more persuasively.

  I did not sit, but I did back off a few steps. I said, “Half a dozen FBI agents are in your outer office. Listen . . .” We both took a moment, and you could hear through the walls Tirey’s Feds noisily trashing his outer office. “Hand me that pistol and I promise I won’t beat the crap out of you.”

  “I think not. You broke into my office, you threatene
d me, went crazy, and attacked me. Self-defense—I have justification to kill you.”

  At moments like this, you have to ask yourself, is he serious or is he bluffing? Well, I had just threatened everything he had schemed for decades to get, I knew he was ruthless, and I had no doubt he was capable of murder. Also he was right; when there are only two witnesses to a murder, the living one has a monopoly on the truth.

  But given all that, he hadn’t fired yet—that meant I had something he wanted. His curiosity was the only reason I was alive. As long I didn’t cure that problem, I had a chance.

  You should never take your focus from a man’s eyes at a moment like this, but I looked at his gun. “Hey, you know what?” I told him what. “Clifford Daniels died of a gunshot from an identical pistol. A Glock 17 Pro. Right?”

  “Is this so? Well . . . I had no idea.”

  “I just thought it was, you know, odd. A quirky coincidence.”

  “Perhaps not such a coincidence. I purchased one for me, and one for Cliff. Matching pistols. Brothers in arms.” He smiled at me. “A fitting gift—for all he was doing for my poor, miserable country.”

  “You give America phony intelligence, and now over a thousand of our soldiers are dead. You give Clifford a present and he dies by that gun. Does anybody ever get gifts from you and live?”

  He waved the pistol. “You will not be alive to hear me say this again. Sit down.”

  I saw that his trigger finger had turned white. I sat.

  He came right to the point and demanded, “Where is Cliff’s computer?”

  Clearly, this was part of what was keeping me alive—probably the only thing. I was sure that if I told him the computer was the property of the CIA, and that I alone did not hold the key to his political survival, I was dead. In summary, he needed me alive long enough to learn how to contain this thing, and I needed to stay alive long enough to get my hands around his throat. So I lied. “Hidden. Major Tran and I, well . . . once we saw what was on the hard drive . . . frankly, it was impossible to resist.”