by Brian Haig
And earlier, there was that moment in the dining facility when Bian had insisted on driving alone to Baghdad, and then, despite orders, chose to depart without me.
Right. She had to be alone to stage her own ambush and kidnapping, and then to disappear into the streets she knew so well. She was a military cop, and she knew how abandoned U.S. military vehicles are processed and handled. So she deliberately planted the necessary documents to lead the MPs to Camp Alpha, as well as a bloody clue on the dashboard that would lead Sean Drummond straight to Mahmoud Charabi.
I wondered if she had found a concealed spot to observe us as we entered Charabi’s office. Probably she did. I would.
But everything—her plan and her escape—depended on first creating, then sustaining and shielding the misbelief that she had been kidnapped. Which explained, I thought, what she had been doing during the days she supposedly was trysting with Mark in Baghdad— locating an AK-47 automatic rifle to shoot holes in her SUV, filling a medic’s bag with her own blood, which she could splatter around the cab of the SUV, and scoping out where she would leave the ambushed SUV—arranging both the pantomime of her disappearance and the logistics for her escape.
“Excuse me . . .” the airman said, “I asked, is there something else?”
“Uh . . . where will she land?”
“Went to—” she again examined the screen, “—Dover Air Force Base.”
“Thanks.” I picked up my bag and shoved off to Gate 6 for my flight.
Not only had Bian taken a military flight, she had even used her own name on the manifest. This was so in-your-face, I should’ve been amazed. I wasn’t, though—that’s why I had asked. She was confident that she had fooled us all, and she knew that nobody was going to cross-check the flight manifest for a soldier who only that morning was listed on Army rolls as MIA. But this suggested more than confidence, this suggested a lady in a hurry.
As the MP at the terminal gate checked my orders I checked my watch. My partner had a ten-hour head start on me. But she would land at Dover Air Force Base in Delaware, from where it would require two or, with luck and/or typical Washington traffic, possibly three more hours to drive to D.C. My flight would land at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland, only thirty minutes from D.C.
I would cut her lead by at least two hours. No longer would I mischaracterize Bian Tran, nor would I underestimate her. Still, I had only a dim idea what was going on here, and I wasn’t sure what she had planned next, or even if she had more plans.
I knew where to look, though.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
We arrived at Andrews Air Force Base without my plane experiencing a mysterious and unfortunate midair mishap. Nor did I see a CIA welcoming committee to help me find my way to Langley. Phyllis was slipping.
Getting a taxi, even with two hundred unruly and ambitious soldiers in competition, was faster than you can say abuse of rank.
The instant the first cab pulled up to the guest terminal, I stepped forward and bullied a poor private out of the back, leaving two hundred mutinous soldiers in my wake.
A helpful steward on the plane had kindly recharged my cell phone, and I made two quick calls, first to a person who confirmed what I had already guessed, and second to a person who answered a few simple questions regarding my hypothesis. Then I told the driver where to take me.
As soon as we were outside the air base gate, I rolled the windows all the way down on both my left and right sides and relaxed back into my seat. The wind and air were freezing and, dressed as I was in thin desert battle dress uniform, I might as well have been naked. The pleasure, though, was indescribable—to breathe fresh air, American air, air that didn’t smell like human dung, to be freezing rather than sweating, to drive without worrying about snipers or bombs. Have I mentioned yet that Iraq sucks?
The cabbie caught my eye in the rearview mirror. He mentioned, “Back from Iraq, huh?”
“What gave me away?”
“A lot of them do that,” he replied, referring, I guess, to my silliness with the windows.
I could observe only the rear of his head: an older gentleman, pockmarked neck, gray hair, my father’s age or thereabouts. “You fooled me . . . at first,” he continued. “Most guys head for the nearest bar.”
“Well, I’m stuck with pleasure before business.”
“How about a woman?” he charitably suggested. “Hey, I know a place, in Bethesda. Real patriotic ladies. They got welcome-home specials for vets that’ll turn your pecker red, white, and blue. Yeah?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I was there only a few days,” I informed him.
“That right?”
“I almost lost the war,” I explained, truthfully. “They sent me home.”
“Good for you. You still don’t look tan enough.”
“Office job. Lucky me.”
“No kidding?” he asked, sounding slightly disappointed.
“It wasn’t all milk and cookies. I picked up some nasty paper cuts and fell off my chair a few times. Want to see my scars?”
This got a chuckle out of him. He said, “Y’know, we really believe in what you boys are doing over there.”
“That’s why we do it.”
“Yeah, horseshit. Saw some action myself. ’Nam, ’68 through ’69.”
“Bad war.”
“Name a good war.”
“The one you make it home from.”
“Hey, that’s a good one.” He started a long riff about his war, which I didn’t really want to talk about. I interrupted and asked, “Which idiot are you voting for?”
“Neither guy. I’m a Nothingican. Like I said, I went to ’Nam. Politicians suck. All of ’em.” He laughed.
He went on a bit, while I tried my best not to hold up my end of the discussion. Unfortunately, he was a conversation in search of a passenger and he wouldn’t shut up. He eventually said, “Unbelievable about them Saudi princes. Know what I’m saying?”
“Sure do,” I replied absently. If I had a gun, I would’ve shot him, or myself.
“We should form our own charities and send terrorists to kill Saudis. What’s good for the goose, make it suck for the gander.” He added, “Lord Limbaugh said that. Good one, ain’t it?”
“Good one,” I said agreeably. I had an important call to make and it really was time to pull the plug on this guy. I said, “Excuse me, but—”
He cut me off. “I mean . . . do those Saudi assholes really expect us to believe that coincidence crap?”
“Coincidence?”
“Yeah . . . them supposed accidents.”
“Accidents?”
“You didn’t hear? That first guy, Prince Faud, having a car wreck. And that other guy—Ali? . . . Abdul? . . . whoever—the same day skiing off a cliff in Switzerland. My ass. That jerkoff got an involuntary flying lesson.”
Goodness. I leaned back in the seat. “Where did you hear this?”
“Radio. The Saudi day-night massacre—that’s what the shock jocks are calling it.” He asked, “Hey, you don’t think our government finally got some balls and whacked them two?”
“Balls? Our government?”
“Yeah . . . what was I thinking?” He laughed.
“Both dead?” I asked.
“Well, when a sixteen wheeler head-ons your ass, or you forget to pack a parachute for your skiing lesson, dead is the usual result. Ha-ha. Those lousy Saudis, though . . . claiming it was just a coincidence. Bullshit. That’s what it is—bullshit.”
I needed to mull this over, so I sat back, flipped open my cell phone, and pretended to speak into it.
The first thing that struck me was how far behind the power curve I still was. I had spent a lot of time on the plane trying to piece together what Bian had done, and why, and I should’ve seen this coming. Obviously, I hadn’t.
Said otherwise, I was closing in on Bian geographically, and yet mentally we weren’t even on the same planet.
It occurred to me, too, that Bian’s fingerprints were all over another leak. I recalled the moment on the plane in Baghdad, back when Phyllis, Waterbury, and the sheik had first shown up, and Bian and I were informed that somebody had tipped off the Saudis about our impending capture of Ali bin Pacha.
It was interesting that everybody, including Sean Drummond, assumed that that disclosure was the handiwork of some anonymous person back in D.C. And why wouldn’t we? That is where the disclosures and intelligence compromises usually occur. Bian’s camouflage, in other words, was our own cynical preconception regarding Washington and its appalling laxity with secrets, about which nobody was more brutally conscious than she. A sweet irony, if you think about it. I’m sure she did think about it.
But was this Saudi angle part of her plan from the beginning, from point A? No, I thought not. I was sure that Bian was genuinely surprised, as were we all, to learn what Charabi and his Iranian pals had offered Cliff Daniels in exchange for his betrayal: Ali bin Pacha. But, experienced as she was in the shadowy politics of Arab terrorism, Bian was very quick to understand the opportunities bin Pacha posed, for us and for her.
Ultimately, Daniels and Charabi were her real targets, but chance had thrown this promising new opportunity into her lap and she went with it. So while we all sat in Phyllis’s office trying to unravel and understand Daniels’s betrayal, Bian’s mind was on other matters, spontaneously devising a plan to exploit our own worst impulses. And the plan she devised was both brilliant and corrupting, because what she set in motion rested on two possibilities of dishonorable conduct.
One, she strongly suspected that Saudi intelligence was well aware that Ali bin Pacha, himself a Saudi national—and thereby his boss, al-Zarqawi—were getting contributions and assistance from important Saudi citizens, and was desperately trying to keep it hidden. She was a veteran intelligence officer with regional experience, after all. Wherever there’s naughtiness in the world of Islam, Saudi money usually is involved. Usually, it’s the motor.
Also, I recalled the private conversation Bian and I shared on the plane after Phyllis and Waterbury had delivered the new directive from Washington; to wit, the Saudis were getting bin Pacha and we weren’t getting within a thousand yards of Charabi. I was hot as a pistol, and ready to rumble. Bian’s mood had been one of casual acceptance, a pessimistic surrender, and that had surprised me. I had expected anger and disillusionment from her, not resignation.
With the view of hindsight, I now understood, because Bian’s moment of disillusionment, her journey from idealism to cynicism, had happened long before, in a back alley in Sadr City.
For this play, however, there was no script. All the actors had a free choice because Bian designed it that way—do the right and honorable thing, pursue truth and justice. It was interesting that nobody did.
So even before she flew to Baghdad, she had thrown the dice and notified the Saudis about our impending capture of bin Pacha. Maybe her time in Iraq left her with some low-level contacts in the Saudi intelligence service, or maybe she just placed a direct call to the Saudi embassy in D.C. How she sent up the red flag to the Saudis about bin Pacha didn’t matter then, and it didn’t really matter now—it was merely the bait that lured the actors onto the stage.
Which led to assumption two: She was betting that Washington would succumb to Saudi pressure and join into what my Italian lawyer friends call insabbiatura—burying an inconvenient case in the sand. It was Bian who had suggested the joint interrogation of Ali bin Pacha, a solution that seemed to assuage everybody’s concerns.
But I did not believe she understood or even guessed that the Saudis would ultimately murder Ali bin Pacha. How could she? I don’t believe she minded, though.
And by eliminating Ali bin Pacha, the sheik and his royal masters thought they had taken care of the problem . . . except for one nasty detail—that hidden recording. This was big trouble for the Saudis, because it was incontrovertible physical evidence of murder and conspiracy. Phyllis saw it as troublesome as well, but she also saw it as an opportunity, a device to squeeze a few new terrorist names from our Saudi friends.
So Sheik Turki al-Fayef made his deal with Phyllis and walked smugly out of that conference room, pleased that he had purchased silence for his country, and pleased for himself, because the ruling family owed him a big favor for saving two royal asses.
And then there was Bian’s impassioned tantrum afterward—her display of anger, frustration, and disillusionment that in retrospect was as effective as it was affected. And I understood why. She was offering Phyllis one last chance, the chance to choose principle over practicality—the chance to do the right thing.
And Sean Drummond, too, had been offered that choice.
In fact, Bian was a brilliant seductress who preyed upon everybody’s worst instincts and impulses—the Saudi predilection for buying or burying their way out of trouble, and America’s susceptibility to make stupid deals in the name of diplomacy, oil, and political expediency. I have no idea how she kept a smile off her face. I could not have pulled it off. Nobody had the slightest clue what fools we were making of ourselves.
Then, later, probably with the same tip Bian had given her blonde reporter friend about Charabi, for good measure she threw in the tale about the two rotten princes. This time, Washington no longer had a choice; as it eventually did, it was forced to publicly request their extradition.
The Saudis had a choice, but they had already tried option A—buying off the problem—so they defaulted to option B—burying it.
For Mahmoud Charabi, public exposure of his lies and his treachery meant embarrassment, and big complications for his future ambitions; for the two princes, it meant death.
So I had worked my way from Z back to M. I knew enough now to speculate about Bian’s motive, MO, and intent. Yet, a key piece— maybe the key piece—was still missing. So I punched a number into my cell phone, and Barry Enders answered. After I identified myself, he replied sarcastically, “Drummond? . . . Drummond? Sorry . . . can’t seem to place you.”
“I was busy, Barry. Somebody had to win the war.”
“Oh . . . we won?” He laughed, not nicely. “Where are you?”
“Back. Any breakthroughs?”
“A few, yeah.” He said, “Hold on. I need to relocate.” A few seconds later, he said, “Where was I?” After a pause, he said, “Oh, yeah—Daniels’s phone records. Sprint handled his home service, so I got the numbers and names of his recent girlfriends and paid them a visit.”
“And . . . ?”
“Let me say first, two of those ladies won’t have sex lives without him. Know what I’m saying?”
“He was generous with his attentions.”
“Don’t you have a way with the words?” He said, “The third lady’s named Joan Carruthers. Said she suspected him of cheating on her. Said she was thinking of breaking it off.”
“Jealousy. Possible motive, right?”
“Well . . . here’s another thing. There was no cell phone in Daniels’s apartment. Right? And neither was there a cell phone account at his home carrier, Sprint, so we never considered he had one. You following this?”
“Okay.”
“I got to thinking, though—a guy who works in an important Pentagon office . . . this day and age, and no cell phone?” He said, “So I checked around, and turns out he used a different service. Cingular.”
“And what did that reveal?”
“More calls to the same three ladies, but, well . . . th
ere were calls to and from another lady.”
I knew where this was going, and to save him the trouble said, “Bian Tran.” And I knew, further, why the cell phone was missing from his apartment. Here again, the name was Bian Tran. Aware that she had made calls to that phone, probably minutes after Daniels died she had lifted it to throw us off an easy lead. Very slick.
He asked, “What’s going on here, Drummond?”
What was going on was that I neither needed nor wanted Barry and the police to pursue this investigation any further. For one thing, as I said, this had become personal, and I wanted to take care of it myself. But also, if everything I now suspected panned out, a thousand tons of shit was going to land on anybody involved with this. Though I knew he wouldn’t see it this way, I decided to do Barry a big favor.
“What’s going on is not what you think,” I lied. “Daniels was suspected of espionage—I told you that. And Bian was a lead investigator. So, yes, they were acquainted before his death. And yes, they spoke over the phone.”
“About something as sensitive as espionage? Over an insecure airwave? Do I look that stupid to you?”
Actually, Barry Enders was the farthest thing from stupid. Of all the people I had met in this case, he was the smartest, and he had come closest to uncovering the truth.
Well, on second thought, that made him the second smartest. Bian was the smartest. And Sean Drummond, who had looked over her shoulder every step of the way, was the biggest halfwit.
Because, here again, Bian had cynically gambled on the government’s worst instincts—the institutional infatuation with covering up failures and embarrassments. And, here again, the government came through with flying colors; the Feds were dispatched to quash Enders’s investigation and Bian got more of the one thing she desperately needed—time. Time to pursue more leads, time to get to Iraq, time to place the noose around the necks of her targets.