by Brian Haig
She held up a forefinger, squeezed the trigger, and laughed.
"They pulled out the rug from under our feet, Bian."
"Why do you sound so surprised? Did you actually believe they'd allow us to take this to full fruition?"
"For all the wrong reasons, yes, I did."
"Well… shame on you."
"What am I hearing here?"
"I mean, I'm upset. I'm disappointed. Of course I am. I just… Look, once we understood what was happening here, the full import, the total scope, the possibilities… I hope this doesn't sound cynical, but I didn't think we'd be allowed to find the full truth."
"Aren't we here because you insisted we had to do this?"
"Was there a choice? You learn that the primary justification behind this war might be a big lie, that the man we sent here to be the next king could be in the pocket of the bad guys, and maybe he exposed to our enemies an invaluable secret. So you have the opportunity to find out and maybe do something about it. Do you say no?" She squeezed my hand and added, "We never had a choice. From the instant we entered Cliff Daniels's apartment, because of who we are, we had to be here, we had to do what we've done, and we had to be told that's enough."
"And you're okay with this?"
"I'm Army. I follow orders."
"That's not what I asked. Are you okay with this?"
"All right… I'm depressed. I'm frustrated. I'm disgusted at my own government." After a moment, she confided, "But I'll deal with it. You'll have to find your own way to handle it."
This submissive babble was the last thing I expected from Ms. Gung-ho. Her stubbornness, after all, was what brought us here in the first place. Well, I had made lots of misjudgments during the past few days, nor, like the three billion other males on the planet, have I ever been particularly good at understanding women.
After a long, thoughtful pause, she asked, "What were Phyllis's instructions to you about Charabi?"
"There is no Charabi. Just a figment of my imagination. What did Waterbury say to you?"
"Yeah, like that. And the intelligence leak?"
"You can't get to one without the other. Besides, Phyllis kept all the relevant e-mail messages."
"Good point. Anything about closing out Cliff Daniels's murder investigation?"
I looked at her.
She looked back and observed with pretended innocence, "I ask only because Waterbury mentioned nothing about it to me."
We both sipped from our beers, and out of nowhere we heard the sound of a loud explosion. The chandelier above our heads actually swayed and shook-a little close to home. The highway from Baghdad to the airport was aptly and horribly nicknamed Suicide Alley, and it sounded like a suicide bomber had just nailed somebody. Maybe it was Waterbury; we should be so lucky.
Without speaking, Bian set up the speakerphone in the middle of the conference table. I dialed the Washington switch, gave the nice operator the number, and a few unanswered rings later heard Detective Barry Enders's voice growl, "Jesus H… Look what friggin' time it is. If this isn't about a murder, there's about to be one."
I identified myself and told Enders that Bian was beside me, listening on the speakerphone, then informed him, "We're calling for an update on the investigation."
There was silence for a moment. Enders then said, "What investigation?"
"Barry, it's me," replied Bian. Sounding slightly annoyed, she said, "Don't jerk us off."
"Who's jerkin' who off? A bunch of Feds came in yesterday. They took everything, jurisdiction, the crime scene log… my files… the lab specimens. They even ripped the pages out of my detective book. Don't even tell me this is a surprise to you."
Bian and I exchanged troubled looks. No wonder Phyllis and Waterbury felt no need to warn us off this venue. Bastards. But smart bastards.
Enders continued, "Now you're calling at this hour to rub it in. What is this, some kind've trap play to see if I'm-"
"Barry," I interrupted, "this is the first we've heard of this."
"Yeah… right."
"Who signed the order?"
"Justice Department. I was also ordered to develop a memory lapse. They were real assholes about it, too."
"Yet this is still an open case for you, is it not? A death in your jurisdiction-isn't it your responsibility to file cause of death?"
"That's not how it works, Drummond. The Feds give the judgment, I write it down, end of story."
I was, of course, familiar with the proper procedures, and we both knew I was testing the waters. The answer was, screw you.
He asked me, "Why do you care? You insisted it was suicide. And you know what? I have a feeling that's what the Feds will conclude: suicide." He laughed.
Bian recognized I had a credibility problem here and said, "I changed his mind. So did you. Now he… actually, we both believe it was something else. Murder."
"Look, I think we're done-"
"What if I offered you insights about why Cliff Daniels was murdered?" I asked.
"Great. I'll give you the number to Special Agent Barney Stanowitz. Big ugly asshole with bad manners. His card's in my office. In fact," he confided, "he warned me that if anybody asked about this case I should call him."
Going on instinct about Barry Enders, I said, "Give me a minute, Barry. One minute. Then make up your own mind about what you're going to do."
He hesitated. Not a good sign.
I nodded at Bian, who is much nicer than me, and she said, "Barry, you're a smart guy. I think you know what's going down. A cover-up. Conspiracy. You don't know why, and maybe you don't care. But I suspect you do care."
Bian and I looked at each other. No reply.
Bian said, "Barry, please."
"Okay… one minute. Drummond, make your case."
This was less than a commitment but more than the phone slamming down.
So I confessed, "Maybe I misled you about the trouble Daniels was in."
"Wow, no shit. Didn't they teach you at law school that it's a crime to lie to the cops?"
"Cut the crap, Barry. One minute. You promised."
"If you want the full minute, speak more clearly."
"Okay. Possibly Cliff Daniels betrayed this country. Possibly he gave enormously sensitive information to the wrong people in Iraq and compromised a very important operation. You wondered why a CIA person and a military policewoman were sent to his apartment. Now you know-espionage."
There was a long, contemplative pause. He said, "My oldest boy-Elton-he's a Marine. First Marine Division. Already been to Iraq once." After another moment he mentioned, "Did my own four years as a Jarhead before I became a cop. Semper Fi."
"Couldn't get into the Army?"
"Hey, I tried. Only the Army recruiter, he said I possessed two irreconcilable issues: My parents were married, and I don't look sufficiently stupid."
"Really? You look stupid enough to me."
We both laughed. He said, "All right, I'll give you more than a minute. Go ahead, blow some more smoke up my ass."
So I gave him part of the story, essentially that Daniels got in over his head and gave a foreign agent some information, though we didn't yet have a clue what that information was, because it was in code, and the code was a ballbuster. Nor did I clarify how we learned about this.
He was a smart guy, though. He knew that when dealing with a federal government official, he was not hearing one-third of the story, another third was sprinkled with fairy dust, and the final third was total bullshit. But I fed him enough truth and his cop brain was filling in some of the blanks. I wrapped it up, saying, "Here's the big piece you were missing-motive-why somebody wanted to murder Cliff Daniels. In fact, the list of people who didn't want Daniels dead would fill a matchbox. There are people in Washington, and here in Baghdad, who would benefit greatly from his death. We're sure his killer was a woman, and possibly she was hired help, but don't exclude the possibility she was working on her own."
For a moment, Barry said nothing. He nee
ded time to process these clues and revelations, and he eventually asked the right and proper question. "What do you want me to do about this?"
Bian had done some thinking on this topic, because she immediately responded, "Now you know there was a murder. That simplifies your problem. Focus on the killer."
When he made no reply, Bian added, "Colonel Drummond has a theory that all murderers make mistakes. Is that your theory as well?"
"Yeah, most do. We also have a thick file of cold cases that dates back to 1969. See if you can talk him into examining it. We'd love to know what mistakes they made."
"But this killer may have left trails," Bian insisted. "That high-priced wig. Probably hers. Wigs are no longer fashionable for women-how many stores in the D.C. area sell expensive hairpieces these days? And that triple-X video… we assumed it was his and maybe we assumed wrong. Likewise, how many stores in the area sell porn?" I gave Bian a look and she asked Barry, "Am I overstating the obvious?"
"Yeah, I do this stuff for a living. And you're overlooking that people purchase wigs and porno on the Internet these days. I'll check around, though."
Bian looked at me to see if I had anything to add. I suggested, "They had to have gone out together once or twice before. Dated, slept together, whatever. Check his charge-card records. See where he socialized lately. Maybe somebody will remember her."
"Long shot. We already know the guy had a lot of lady friends, right? Who knows which ones people will remember."
"There are no short shots here, Barry."
"You out of bright ideas?"
So I explained my new theory about how the murder was more stylistic than we initially surmised, including a few ideas about the possible symbolism in the staging of his death. On that topic I suggested, "You might spend a little time thinking about what that was intended to convey. If any profilers owe you a favor, call it in. If we get a better idea about how he was killed, maybe we'll get closer to why, and by whom."
"You realize I'll have to do this on my own time."
"You'd better do this on your own time." I added, "And watch your back."
"I figured out that part on my own." He asked, "Say I find something-how do I get in touch with you?"
"You don't. I'll check in with you."
"Got it. So what are you two doing in Baghdad?"
"Vacationing."
"Aw, come on. This has something to do with Daniels's murder. Right?"
"It's the hottest thing in adventure tourism. They advertise it as a safari, only you're the prey. Very exciting."
He laughed. "My boy, Elton, he said it sucks over there."
"Your boy has a good head on his shoulders."
"Let me tell you, he used to be a little asshole. Not all cops' kids are angels. The Corps straightened him out." He chuckled. "The first time he made his bed, his mama wanted to know who manufactured the robot that looks like her kid."
"Barry, listen. If you don't want Elton to spend the rest of his career over here, find something."
"Stay in contact." He hung up.
Bian lifted her beer can and we performed a quiet aerial toast. She said, "They failed to close the back door."
"But they didn't forget. These people aren't stupid, Bian. They won't ignore it."
"I know. What happens if he's caught?"
"He'll be okay. He's a big boy. He understands the risks."
"You're sure about that?"
"He's not a federal employee so they can't screw up his paycheck, or… say, reassign him here. You and I, on the other hand, might have a big problem."
"Screw them."
"Why are you doing this, Bian?" I popped that question out of the blue and watched her closely to see how she responded.
She did not bat an eye. "Duty, honor, country. It's that simple."
"Obeying orders is part of duty, and country can be interpreted many ways. You're not telling me something, Bian. I'd like to know what it is."
"Isn't it obvious?"
"With you, nothing is obvious."
"Is that a criticism?"
I took her hand and said, "No, it's not. You're a very exciting, unpredictable, and fun woman to be around. These past three days, despite everything, I've had a great time. I mean that. But from the moment I met you, I've sensed that you have your own agenda."
"This is the second time you've brought this up. It's getting old. What is it you think I'm doing?"
"Something more than truth, justice, and the American way. This is personal for you. I'm just not sure why."
She took a sip of her beer and examined me curiously. "That's hypocritical. You've been with me every step of the way. Has someone put a gun to your head?"
"Well… Ali bin Pacha, for one."
"Oh, screw off. Why are you bucking the system? Obviously not to get in my pants."
"Hey, that's below the belt."
To be polite, she smiled at my bad pun. She said, "I told you, I lost friends and soldiers here. I'd blow the whistle on these people in a heartbeat, but the scandal would destroy everything a lot of good soldiers have accomplished through blood and tears. That's something I'm not willing to do. I hope you're not either. But I'm more than willing to trade my career if I can force these people to make it right. Other people are giving their lives and limbs."
"Okay. I believe you."
"You better. And stop trying to psychoanalyze me. It makes me uncomfortable."
I sipped from my beer.
She said, "I know you're the cynical tough-guy type, and I know you'd never confess to doing anything altruistic. And I also know that it's a veneer, and that, underneath, you're maybe even a bigger sucker than I am, and maybe you're as compelled to find the truth here as I am."
Then, out of the blue, she added, "I'm going to take another shower. When I was here, we'd go weeks without them. I hated that almost more than I hated being shot at. It's so nice to feel clean in Iraq for a change."
Women are really into personal cleanliness. Men, on the other hand, think a month without showers and a shave is a cool vacation. But also, that sounded like an invitation. I wasn't sure if it was or not; it sounded like one, though. She stared at me a moment too long, then stood and walked out.
I popped the second can of beer and stared out the plane window. "To feel clean in Iraq for a change"-those words kept gnawing at me. She had meant for it to be taken at face value, and maybe it went no deeper than that. But from cross-examining thousands of criminals and witnesses, I also knew that through skill, luck, or chance, sometimes a Freudian slip lands in your lap, and you need to be receptive. Sometimes it's exactly as it sounded, and you end up spinning your wheels. Other times it's the switch that ends the darkness, or at least lights up a corner of a room.
So. "Clean in Iraq for a change"-what did that mean? Something had happened to her here, something traumatic she didn't want to talk about, but clearly something she felt remorse for, and maybe a deep sadness.
I didn't think Bian was dishonest; to the contrary, I was sure she was highly principled. But as I knew from personal experience, when two or more principles clash, something has to go.
It struck me, further, that she certainly wasn't the naive or overly gung-ho waif she occasionally came across as. With hindsight, what I had taken for gullibility, pliability, and excessive volunteering might have been something more.
Everybody involved in this thing had an agenda-nationalistic or institutional-and for each agenda there was a corresponding motive: passion, folly, obsession, anguish, intrigue, adventure, or, in a few cases, a less complicated matter of personal ambition and CYA. But for Bian-for whatever reason-this was personal. And when you mix personal with professional, you get big problems.
I heard the shower door open, and I heard it close.
This had not been my war, but it had been Bian's from long before we met. As all old soldiers know, what makes it personal for you isn't some galvanizing platitude or geostrategic imperative, or even being shot at. One attend
s a war because one is ordered to; one puts his heart and soul into it for a different reason. A bond to somebody, a comrade in arms, somebody with whom you share the risk of death, somebody you care about, and hopefully they care about you.
Joining Bian in the shower remained a bad idea, and I was sure she knew this as well; her quest, though, whatever it was, had become mine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Bian and I were seated in stiff-backed hospital chairs observing our Arab patient, who remained unconcious. Three days had passed since Doc Enzenauer recommended that we allow bin Pacha a period of recovery before we squeezed his brain like a blackhead. According to the doc, this had more to do with the drugs and anesthetics than the trauma of the operation, and he gave us a long, detailed tutorial explaining why. Don't ask.
Anyway, when Abdul Almiri was picked up by a squad of MPs for delivery to Abu Ghraib, Bian hitched a ride into Baghdad, where she stayed for two days.
She didn't talk about it, and I didn't ask.
I assumed, however, that she went to see her fiance, Marvelous Mark, which perhaps accounted for why she didn't invite me. I recalled Bian once telling me that Mark and I had a lot in common, the inference being that we'd end up buds, but I wasn't so sure. I mean, we had both seen Bian naked; among guys, that doesn't make for a pleasant bonding experience.
My own two days, if you're interested, were spent in the airplane, monitoring communications and observing the election coverage on cable news; i.e., becoming bored out of my wits.
As before, the polls indicated a dead heat, and an electorate experiencing its usual quadrennial meltdown into terrified indifference. As one pundit put it, the race boiled down to one guy too stupid to spell "principle," yet insisting he had plenty of it, against a guy who spoke a little too much French-if you know what I mean-who had never earned a private-sector buck and now was married to a billionaire with a strange accent, yet was offering himself as the champion of average Joes, underdogs, endangered species, and other people who weren't lucky enough to marry rich. Democracy is great. Iraq should have one, too. Seriously.
If you're still interested, I saw no coverage, or even mention, about the death of Clifford Daniels. A biographer friend of mine likes to say, "When a man dies, the story of his life is no longer his." Apparently the story of this sad little man belonged to people who were working overtime with a big eraser. Ironic, if you think about it. All his life, Cliff had wanted to touch the flame of power and fame; he finally got his wish, and even his ashes were disappearing.