Man in the middle sd-6

by Brian Haig

  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 counter interrogation. 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-heart 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 st
opped 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."

  "This must be a career-enhancing assignment."

  He forced a tight smile. "Sure is. If you survive." He added, "But the Bureau does look kindly on overseas hardship assignments. If you're interested, we're all volunteers here. This is where the action is-great training, great experience, and great tax benefits."

  This sounded like the standard recruiting spiel, and as with Army recruiters, one thing was not emphasized, and that was the great odds of a premature funeral.

  But frankly I was having trouble picturing boys and girls in blue suits and starched white shirts running around Baghdad. Tirey apparently read my thoughts, because he remarked, frowning, "It takes a little adjustment. The hours suck. And the working conditions are almost indescribable." He said, "Also, the cops here are a joke. They're lazy, crooked, corrupt, on the take, infiltrated, or scared shitless of the insurgents."

  "Maybe the fact that the insurgents are targeting them has something to do with it."

  "Tell me about it. It's just that you can't trust them. They destroy evidence, pollute crime scenes, and feed us false leads. I used to think the stateside cops are a pain in the ass… You know what? I actually look forward to working with the NYPD."

  I could've told him that a lot of foreign armies we work with are worse; instead, I nodded.

  He continued, "The Bureau has opened a lot of these overseas stations in the past ten years. In the old days, if you wanted fast track, the New York office was the place to be. Now it's pissholes like this." He shook his head.

  Truly it was a new world, and the FBI, like the Army, was struggling to find its footing, and its people, trained and bred as they were to fight American crime in American cities, were having to learn new tricks and new angles, with different rules. He mentioned, "You might be interested to know that we flew in a team of financial forensics specialists. Assuming bin Pacha spills, they'll follow the money."

  Bian was just responding to that statement when, out of the blue, our conversation was drowned out by an earsplitting noise, the sound of people shrieking and howling, that was really awful. The surround sound system was set at full blast and it sounded like a live concert from Dante's Inferno. I nearly jumped out of my shorts, and Bian actually did jump out of her chair and grabbed and squeezed my arm.

  Jim mouthed the word "Relax." He got up, walked to the video screen, grabbed the remote, and pushed the mute button, which brought instant silence. He smiled at us in an amused way. "I tried to warn you. And don't get your pants on fire. It's a tape. Speakers are mounted outside of bin Pacha's cell. A little mood music to put new detainees in the right frame of mind."

  And indeed, on the screen you could see bin Pacha's eyes pop open, and then he bolted upright and made a swift visual survey of his new environment. Doc Enzenauer had cautioned us that the after-effects of the drugs and anesthetics would leave him groggy and possibly would impair his judgment for a day or two. But on his face I saw no sign of confusion or disorientation-he knew he was in the shithole of the universe.

  Jim had apparently seen this movie before, and wasn't interested in the rerun. He lit another cigarette and, through the billows of smoke, studied Bian and me. He said, "How did you know bin Pacha was in Falluja? And where to find him?"

  I mean, it was hard not to admire the sneaky way he'd worked up to this question-this guy was smooth. It was none of his business, of course. But when you say that to a cop they make your business their business. Without pausing, Bian replied, "An informer. A member of his own network, if you can believe it."

  "An inside informer? Wow."

  "I know. Almost unheard of." After a moment, she added, "You'll enjoy this delicious irony. Zarqawi's people accidently blew up their own man's family with a car bomb. It's about revenge."

  Sounded good to me.

  But Tirey replied, "What are the odds of that, huh?"

  My eyes were intermittently weaving between Tirey, Bian, and the video screen. I saw bin Pacha push off the cot and get to his feet. For a moment he swayed back and forth like an unsteady, one-legged drunk, but eventually he achieved his sea legs and steadied himself. His head turned sharply toward the door, then he stumbled, sort of dragging his fake leg, across the small cell.

  Bian was telling Tirey, "When I took prob and stats at West Point, we had case studies like this. You know… assume a country of twenty-three million people, with ten thousand terrorists, who have fifty thousand direct family members, and who detonate two thousand bombs indiscriminately… what's the probability they'll blow up their own families?"

  Bian was elaborating too much, which, with a cop or a lawyer, is like slicing your wrist in a shark-filled tank.

  "Interesting way to look at it," remarked Tirey, but not all that sincerely. He pulled a drag on his cigarette and said, "Well, here's another curious thing. I was told you two flew into the country for this operation. Why? What's wrong with the local talent?"

  Not only was this guy smooth, he was sharp.

  On the screen, I observed bin Pacha now gesticulating with his hands. Because our viewing angle was a top-down, you couldn't see his lips moving, though it sure looked like he was conversing with somebody. I really wished I'd paid more attention when Enzenauer explained the after-effects from the drugs and anesthetics. Maybe he mentioned hallucinations during the period when I tuned him out, meaning most of the conversation. I'm not paid enough for medical lectures.

  "Don't read anything into it," Bian was instructing Tirey. "Our source is still embedded in the insurgency. You know the mantra-extraordinary sources, extraordinary precautions."

  Bin Pacha had crossed the cell and was leaning against the cell door. Now I was sure he was conversing with somebody.

  I interrupted their conversation to mention, "Ali bin Pacha's awake. He seems to be talking. Maybe we should turn up the sound."

  But Tirey was preoccupied with his interrogation and I think he suspected I was trying to divert him, which I was. Clearly, Bian had underestimated this guy, and was digging herself deeper into what law schools call "the liar's grave."

  Also, I did want to know who bin Pacha was addressing, and about what. I mentioned it again, and Tirey answered, "In a minute." To Bian, he said, "I don't mean to get into your business." But of course he did, and he leaned closer to her face. "I'm used to being treated like a mushroom around here-fed shit and kept in the dark. But it helps to know the background before we begin an interrogation. Exactly how did you learn about his location?"

  She asked, "Why would I lie about this?"

  Now bin Pacha was waving his arms and gesturing emphatically with his hands. Whatever he was saying looked insistent and emotional, and he placed his head against the door, moving his ear against what must've been an opening.

  Tirey was saying, "That's what I'm asking myself. Why would-" when on the screen I saw a cloud of red mist suddenly materialize from the side of bin Pacha's skull. In the same instant, his head flew sharply sideways, followed by his body, which landed in a heap on the floor. I yelled, "Oh shit!"

  Tirey looked at me, then he turned to the screen, as did Bian, and their eyes shot wide open as they observed bin Pacha lying prostrate, and the arc of blood and gray stuff splattered across the floor. The TV had amazing picture quality, incidentally; you could even see where the tiniest dots of blood had stuck on the far wall.

  "Jesus!" Tirey yelled. "What the fuck…?"

  There wasn't time for an explanation. I stood and ran for the door, yelling at Tirey, "Where's his cell?"

  He followed behind me, his gun drawn, with Bian sprinting behind him. We made it down the long hallway in about ten seconds, and fortunately the elevator default setting was on the operations floor. We stepped inside, he pushed the proper button, the doors slid closed, and we began our descent.

  Tirey drew a few deep breaths then asked, "Now tell me-what the hell happen
ed down there?"

  "He was speaking with somebody. Through the cell door, I think. He moved his ear closer-there must be an opening, right? — and his brains blew out."

  "Shit."

  There was no way to improve on that sentiment and nobody tried. Clearly Special Agent Tirey now knew it had been a big mistake to leave the Saudis in control of the wing. I wasn't sure if he was in charge of this show or Phyllis. But if his name was on the blameline, the brief picture he had just observed on the video screen was his career flushing down the toilet.

  The door slid open and we rushed out, then hooked a left and sprinted down a long hallway. We took another left and ended up moving down a short, poorly lit wing with cell doors on each side.

  Five armed men in Saudi uniforms were gathered at the end of the hallway, standing casually, chatting, a few smoking cigarettes as if nothing had happened. Appropriately, Tirey raised his weapon and said, "Put down your weapons. Hands over your heads."

  About fifteen yards separated us; they had five guns, we had one. The space was narrow and enclosed, and if this was a shooting gallery, the Kewpie doll was theirs for the taking.

  None of the Saudis replied; but nobody made a threatening gesture either, which was a relief. Bian said, "Let me try." She unreeled something in rapid-fire Arabic and the five men stared back without responding. Bian repeated herself, louder, more slowly, and more emphatically. One of the Saudis replied, in Arabic, and what ensued was a conversation, brief and sharp, and nobody put down their weapons and nobody raised their hands.

  Bian informed us, "The man is telling us to relax. He says they're the good guys. He says we're on the same side."

  "We're not on the same side," I told her.

  "No shit."

  "Tell them they're under arrest."

  "Don't," said Tirey, who pointed out, "They're not American nationals. I don't have the legal authority to arrest them." He whispered, more ardently, "For Godsakes, don't put them in a corner. We're outnumbered."

  Good point. But I don't like impasses, unless I'm the source and it's to my advantage. The man who had spoken with Bian seemed to be in charge and I approached him with my palms extended. This was my prisoner they murdered. Bian and I had risked our lives to get this guy, now for nothing. I was pissed, but I wasn't armed, and as Tirey pointed out, there were more of them than us. Clearly, here was a situation that called for adroit diplomacy.