Man in the middle

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The car was a red Toyota Corolla, and Bian and I sat, cheek to cheek, in the cramped backseat, Finder and the hulking muscle known as Ted in the front.

Virgin soldiers and virgin girls on the verge of first action tend to respond alike. For the soldier, there is a natural anxiety and a corresponding adrenaline rush, which tends to evoke displays of juvenile bravado, telling silly jokes and laughing too emphatically at the punch lines. A girl tends to react by asking silly questions, like, "Do you really love me?" Apparently there were no virgins in this car-so there were no bad jokes-but you could cut the fear and anxiety with a knife.

Now there was no traffic on the road, and Finder drove with his headlights off and his night-vision goggles on. This road was, for the most part, straight, and he drove briskly and confidently; with all the potholes, it made for a bumpy and uncomfortable ride.

After another ten minutes he began pumping the brakes when, directly to our front, four lights flashed on and illuminated our car. He came to a complete stop, and sat perfectly still.

About thirty meters to our front, I noted, two humvees blocked the middle of the road. A nervous voice in English yelled, "Driver… out of the car now. Hands up, and step out of the car."

Bian whispered for my benefit, "Nighttime roadblock. They're edgy. Don't even breathe."

I didn't move, but I did breathe.

Finder shifted the car into park, twisted around, and said to us, "Marines. I'll handle it." He opened his door, stepped out, and stood, frenetically windmilling his arms over his head.

An American voice yelled, "Do you speak English?"

Finder replied, "Isn't that a stupid fucking question? Would I be obeying your directions otherwise? Name's Finder. Get Captain Yuknis."

This was not the same as the old World War II drill where the Marine asks, "Who won the '42 World Series?" and the Jap is betrayed by his cultural ignorance and blown to smithereens. Without authorized passwords, however, you have to improvise, and a little colloquial profanity is as American as apple pie. A long moment passed without a response before a voice yelled back, "He's napping."

"Well, hell, boy, roust him. Tell him Finder's here."

I could overhear young American voices debating whether to trifle their captain with this. This appeared to be part of a Marine infantry company-about 180 short-haired hardcocks-and in units such as this, a captain is the commander, and he might not tell God what to do, though God pays close attention when he speaks.

After a moment, Finder yelled, "For Christsakes-would you hurry it up? Wake him up, or I'll have your asses."

A moment later I observed a gentleman, tall and lanky, striding through the trail of lights. As he drew closer, I observed the profile of a helmet and fatigues, which were Marine style, and overheard him inform Finder, "Dammit, Eric, I was having my first wet dream since I got in country. Got a woodie the size of Mount Everest. This better be good."

"Mount Everest? A white boy? Yeah… bullshit." Finder laughed. "Hey, better of been your wife in that dream."

"'Course it was." He laughed also. "Both her sisters, too. Especially that big-tittied one, Elizabeth."

Bian whispered to me, "Pigs."

"Nonsense. Boy talk."

Somebody punched me in the ribs.

Finder informed Captain Yuknis, "Got a job tonight. We'll be coming out between four and five. Appreciate it if you'd pass word to your Marines."

Instead of replying, Captain Yuknis yelled to his men by the humvees, "Sergeant Goins, if you'd be so kind, extinguish those damn headlights before Abdullah the sniper ventilates me."

The lights went out, and Captain Yuknis stepped closer to the car and bent forward at the waist. I observed him observing us through the windows. To Finder, he said, "Who are the Iraqi ladies?"

"You don't want to know."

He was carrying a flashlight. He turned the beam on our faces and examined us more closely. To Finder, he commented, "The one on the left's a looker. That other one… whoa, my boner just blew a flat."

They both laughed.

I mentioned to Bian, "You're right-pigs."

Now she laughed.

Yuknis turned around and faced Finder. "About tonight… you might want to reconsider."

"Can't. This one's not cancelable. Not even postponable."

"Rethink that, Eric. Trust me on this."

This sounded like an ominous yet unclear warning and Finder did spend a moment thinking about that. "Give me an idea of what you're talking about."

"I can't talk about it, okay? I've already-"

"Just give me an idea of the time, Chris."

"Early."

"How early? Help me out here."

Choosing his words carefully, Yuknis replied, "You didn't get this from me. Okay? By four, I wouldn't be inside Falluja." After a moment he amended that. "By three-thirty I wouldn't even want to try coming out of Falluja. Get my drift?" He then said, "It's big."

Finder glanced in our direction, then said, "Allow us a moment alone. Please."

Captain Yuknis stepped back a few paces. Bian rolled down her window, Finder stuck his head inside, and in a low voice he asked us, "You understand what he's saying?"

"I got it," I assured him. "An attack. The artillery barrage will start around three-thirty."

"Yeah. And by three the whole city will be surrounded and isolated. My guys have been reporting heavy military traffic all day. So now we know why, right? These Marines are royally pissed off about what happened to four contractors a few months back. I knew them. These were good guys. It really sucked what they did to them, and it's payback time."

I looked at Bian. Without hesitating she said, "But not until three-thirty. One and a half hours from now. Plenty of time."

Finder regarded her a moment, wondering, I'm sure, if she had a death wish. He thought about it for a while, then said, "The risk factor on this just jumped through the ceiling. So I'm going to ask you-why do you need to do this?"

Because we're halfwits. But I said, "We can't afford to lose this man."

"He's that important?"

"In a word, yes."

He looked at her. "We're private contractors. But we're also Americans, veterans, and we believe in what we do." He leaned in closer until his face was inches from hers. "I'm going to ask once more, and I'd better hear the truth. This guy is that important?"

"You can't imagine."

He looked at me. I nodded.

"Okay. At three, we're booking, whether we have him or not. This will not be subject to negotiation. Understand? If you want to stay, that's up to you."

He spun around, walked back to Captain Yuknis, and they held a quick whispered conversation, probably him telling Yuknis what a couple of idiots we were, which corresponded nicely with my own view.

Finder jumped back into the car, saying not a word to us. To be fair, this was more than he bargained for, financially and figuratively. In truth, it was more than I bargained for-or more accurately, it was more than I'd been told I bargained for. No good deed goes unpunished.

He jammed his night-vision goggles down onto his head and his foot down on the accelerator. As he drove, he spoke into his microphone and updated his team on this newest twist. I could overhear only his side of these conversations, and it did not sound like he got any guff from his team. Then he informed us, "Two cars are three minutes behind us. Yuknis promised to let them through without any delay or bullshit."

Ten minutes later, I observed through the moon's illumination the looming silhouette of a city, presumably Falluja. I checked my watch-2:00 a.m.-and reminded Bian, "Come three, we're out of here also. That's an order, Major."

She patted my arm. A nice gesture, but it was not a reply.

I recalled from Eric's briefing that we were entering the city on the western side, known on local maps as the industrial section. And indeed, we soon were driving through narrow streets between large warehouses and desolate factories. It had the appearance of a forlorn ghost town-appearances can be deceiving, though, and here was a case in point; the intelligence estimates predicted between five to ten thousand armed beings living within these streets, the world's largest gathering of terrorists. Added to this overall aura of spookiness, no lights were on, though here and there I caught glimpses of flickering illumination from candles or warming fires. From my CIA reports I recalled that both the electricity and the sewage had long been on the fritz.

Well, in a few hours, illumination would be provided free of charge, courtesy of the USMC and United States Army Artillery Corps, and on the subject of sewage, the shit was going to fly.

The technical term for this is indirect fire, because the ordnance flung by mortars and artillery arcs through the air, as distinct from ordinary bullets that fly straight from point A to point B. Artillerymen cannot actually observe their targets; they impersonally adjust a few knobs and levers to set the elevation and deflection of their tubes and barrels, and let loose.

The result tends to be indiscriminate and amoral; a 155mm artillery round, for instance, has a killing radius of nearly a hundred yards, and it matters not whether within that circle are enemy soldiers or innocent infants-or gullible idiots sent by their CIA bosses.

Eric turned around in his seat and warned us, "One minute to the dismount point." I wondered if Phyllis had known about the timing of this attack before she dispatched us. You never know what she knows, which is part of her charm, and the vicarious thrill of working under her. I spent a satisfying moment dreaming I had my hands around her throat, she was gasping for breath, begging forgiveness, and…

"Sean," Bian interrupted. "I said it's time to put on your goggles."

"Oh…" I pulled my night-vision goggles over my eyes and the world turned varying shades of green. I looked at Bian, who also wore her goggles. Combined with the veil and chador, she looked spooky. As did I, apparently, because she said, "Haven't we met in a horror movie?"

I laughed. "I'm the creature from the black lagoon. You're from War of the Worlds."

Eric glanced back and said, "You two are scaring the shit out of me. Put your magazines in your weapons, but don't chamber a round. And remember-they stay on safe."

He took a sharp left and turned in to a long alleyway between two large warehouses, turned off the ignition, and said, "Let's go."

Bian and I followed him back down the same alleyway we had just come down to the street, which thankfully looked empty of pedestrians. Ted remained beside the car, and I realized his job was to guard our getaway transportation, which showed good attention to detail.

We began to jog, and Eric seemed to know where he was going. Somebody better, because I didn't have a clue. I had studied the city maps, but at night everything looks different, plus the jihadis had taken down the street signs, an indication they knew the Marines were coming and didn't want to make it easy on them.

We jogged about a quarter of a mile, which is not as easy as you'd think in a long black robe that I kept tripping over. How do women survive? The streets were empty, but I had the odd sensation that we were being watched. Actually, I was sure we were being watched. But by whom?

Eric suddenly made a sharp right turn into the entrance of a large, two-story warehouse. This was the back side of the building, and Eric had already informed us that the front side faced the target building. The door we entered was garagelike-presumably this was a loading dock-and we raced through a dark, cavernous empty space and then up a narrow metal stairway that led to the second floor.

As we entered, I scanned the room through my goggles and noted, by a far window, two large green men walking toward us. Eric said to us, "My guys. Relax."

The two men drew closer, and Eric gave them our names and introduced them to us as Jack and Larry.

We were all whispering, which was totally unnecessary. But I have noticed that in moments such as this, everybody lowers their voice a few octaves. Even badasses.

We exchanged pleasantries, and the one named Larry, who had a distinctive Queens accent, said, "Follow me."

We did, walking over to a window that had been punched out, offering an unobstructed view of the street below and the target building across the street. On the floor directly beneath the window, I observed empty cans of pears, a large pile of balled-up candy wrappers, six empty soda bottles, and assorted other nutritional debris. Presumably this was the observation team Carl told me about, and from the evidence, they had been here all day, possibly the preceding night, and were now experiencing severe sugar overload.

Larry seemed to be in charge and he pointed a finger out the window. Speaking to Eric, he said, "Right there-your target building."

We all looked at the two-story rectangular warehouse on a street corner. The narrower side faced us, while the wider side fronted the intersecting road.

He continued, "One goombah on the roof… right"-his hand shifted slightly to the left-"there. See 'im? Okay, another slimeball's hiding inside the front entrance. We wouldn't know, right? Only this hump sometimes steps outside to burn one." He chuckled. "Smoking truly can be hazardous for the health. He's mine."

Eric spent a moment visually surveying the building and then, addressing his whole team, said into his microphone, "Target building's two floors in height. Standard construction. Stucco over cinderblock, probably steel girders for the skeleton…" And so forth. He had an impressive mastery of architectural detail, and I wondered if he had been a builder before he became a destroyer. He turned to Larry and asked, "Other entrances?"

"Yeah… a regular doorway on the far side. Donny can grease whoever comes out that one."

"Okay." Into his microphone, Eric said, "There's an exit-a door- on the far side. That's yours, Donny. Anybody comes out, shoot for the legs." After a moment, Eric instructed Carl, my old driver, "A three-story building's due east of the target. You get up on that roof. When I give the go, take out the roof guard. Repeat that to me."

Eric listened a moment before he said, "Uh-huh." He then said, "This goes down in two minutes. Synchronize with me. Time is two-fifteen."

He glanced at Bian and me for a moment, and seemed to recall that we were extraneous; I can do nothing without being instructed.

Larry, the New Yorker, dragged over a tripod I had not previously noticed from out of the shadows. The three-legged device was a sniper's stand, and on the swivel on top was mounted a wood-stocked specialist European rifle I didn't recognize, with a screw-on silencer and a high-end night-vision scope. These guys had all the bells and whistles. Somebody was deep into the Agency's pocketbook.

Eric checked his watch and said to Jack, "Time to move." He looked at Larry and said, "Don't let these two out of your sight till I give you the signal."

Larry nodded. Eric and Jack disappeared back down the stairs.

Larry turned to us and said, "Wanna watch?"

We did, so we morbidly edged closer to the window as Larry hunched over his weapon and began adjusting a knob I assumed was a brightener for his nightscope.

A moment later, a four-door sedan, silver in color, came rolling down the street, no faster than fifteen miles an hour. It pulled to a stop directly in front of the entrance, a man stepped out, and for a brief moment he looked around and observed his surroundings. The car windows were darkened, making it impossible to tell whether there were other passengers.

Larry concentrated on his task and whispered, "Tommy Barzani. He's Kurdish-American and speaks the local patois. 'Cause of that, he always gets the shit jobs."

The man appeared to be an Arab, and was dressed in Iraqi casual, tan slacks with an open-collared dark shirt with what looked like an AK-47 in his right hand. He moved confidently to the doorway and knocked, yelling loudly in Arabic.

Bian translated, "He says he is carrying an important message and please open the door."

Larry, staring through his nightscope, mentioned, "The jihadis stopped using cell phones and radios months ago. They know we're listening, they know we track the source, and they know it attracts missiles. Now they're low-tech. Mail by messenger." He drew a long breath and held it.

After a pause, the door opened and a head stuck out. I heard Larry's rifle spit, and I saw the head explode, then the body connected to that head tumbled out of the doorway and into the arms of Tommy Barzani.

Almost instantaneously, two men, one carrying what looked like an Uzi, the other hauling what looked like a SWAT battering ram, jumped out of the car, lifted the feet of the corpse, heaved it through the doorway, and barreled inside.

Larry directed a finger at his earpiece and said, "Just got a confirmation from Carl. Rooftop guard's out of the picture."

My goodness-these guys were good.

Next, I observed two figures, Eric and Jack, sprinting willy-nilly across the street, then through the now unguarded doorway, into which they disappeared.

"What are they doing?" asked Bian.

"The initial entry team," I told her, "should be clearing the ground floor. Eric and Jack will rush straight upstairs and begin securing rooms." I said to Larry, "Right?"

"Yeah… like that. But likely, I just nailed the only goombah on the ground floor. All five should be upstairs by now."

I asked, "The NYPD teach you to shoot like that?"

"I taught them to shoot like that. SWAT instructor. Ten years."

"What takes you from the NYPD to here?"

Larry looked at us and replied, very slowly and very simply, "They fucked with my city. Now I'll fuck with theirs."

Interesting perspective. Interesting guy.

He cupped his hand to an ear. "What? Yeah, yeah… okay."

He looked at me. "Eric says you should get over there right away. I stay here, covering the block."

A minute later, Bian and I were crossing the street, and then we were at the entrance to the warehouse. I stopped and stood with my back to the wall by one side of the door; Bian stood by the other side. I whispered to Bian, "Weapons off safe."

"Eric said-"

"Who cares?"

"Right."

I said, "Cover me." She took a crouch, and I announced, "Entering now."

I went in, rolling on the ground, and then, coming to my knees, began scanning the ground floor through my goggles. I noted a lot of heavy machinery. This seemed to be a factory rather than a warehouse, and the nature of the equipment suggested the purpose of this building had once been tool die work. I also observed a line of thirty to forty large artillery shells standing on their bases in neat, orderly rows. These were not an ingredient normally associated with automobiles, unless they are being outfitted for one-way trips.

I continued my sweep. Supposedly this entire floor had been cleared by Eric's men and thus was hypothetically safe. But I'd known guys who walked into "cleared" rooms and were carried out.

Aside from the heavy machinery, the artillery rounds, and a gory corpse with only half a head, I saw no living beings. I made my way to the base of the stairs and whispered to Bian, "All clear."

In two beats she was directly behind me and we went up the stairs, stepping lightly, with our weapons pointed up.

A voice at the top of the stairs challenged, "You're Drummond, right?" I sensed that a weapon was pointed at me.

I had this weird impulse to scream "Allahu Akbar," which was not a good idea, and probably was not really funny anyway. I asked instead, "Where's Eric?"

"Follow me."

We took a left at the top of the stairs and ended up moving swiftly down a narrow, unlit hallway lined with four or five doors on each side. The doors were all open, and several were splintered, presumably the handiwork of the SWAT ram I had watched one man haul inside. At the end of the hallway was the final office, which we entered.

Inside, Eric was seated on the corner of a desk, swinging his legs back and forth, the picture of casual intensity. Two of his men stood behind him with Uzis directed at six Arab gentlemen who were lined up against the wall.

Judging by their states of dress or undress, the prisoners had been caught by surprise, probably asleep. One was completely naked, one wore underpants-boxers with little red roses, actually-and the other four wore trousers and T-shirts. None wore shoes, which was either a weird coincidence or, as I suspected, Eric's people had taken them away to discourage attempts at running away.

I removed my Arab headpiece and night-vision goggles, and withdrew the flashlight from my pocket.

Eric informed us, without apparent regret, "Aside from the two exterior guards, we had to kill one. He made it to his weapon… and… well…" After a brief pause, he gave us a verbal fifty-cent tour, saying, "They all had weapons in their rooms, if you're interested. So they may not look like it at the moment, but these are bad hombres. And maybe you didn't notice the artillery shells downstairs. Also, we collected two laptop computers. I thought you might want us to hold on to them."

"Good thinking."

He pointed at the corner of the room, where I observed a corpse lying on his back, with both hands folded neatly across his chest. His two forefingers were contorted into a small cross. Somebody had a sense of humor.

I moved closer and then examined the corpse. There was a small hole in the center of his forehead, and blood was spreading outward from the back of his skull, creating a small pond. Eric informed me, "He was rooming with that guy," and pointed at an older man at the end of the line of living prisoners.

The dead man's eyes were frozen open with that look of somebody without a care in the world-at least, not this world. If this was Ali bin Pacha, we had a big problem.

Checking the next block, I asked Eric, "You're sure nobody escaped out the other entrance?"

"This is all of them."

I next walked down the line of six prisoners, pausing briefly in front of each one, and as I did, I directed the beam of my flashlight at their faces. The reaction of freshly detained prisoners can be very revealing. Here we had six men who probably went to sleep feeling completely secure in a city populated by their fellow jihadists, and were rudely awakened by strange American men pointing guns in their faces.

What should follow are a few moments of disorientation, confusion, and fear. At least this is what you hope, because it is also axiomatic that, during this brief period, prisoners are most likely to talk, to divulge valuable information, or to do something incredibly desperate, and often stupid.

And indeed, four of the faces revealed exactly the range of emotions an optimist would hope for. Fright, anxiety, confusion, even hopelessness.

This was definitely not the case, however, with the second guy from the end, who was heavyset and muscular, about six foot two, with a broad face that glared back at me with an expression of anger and scorn. Hardy Hardass. Also, there was a fanatical glow in his eyes, which is never a good sign. So here was one guy to keep an eye on.

The last man in the line was a little older than the others, who all looked to be in their early to mid-twenties. His face was long and thin, and I held the light on it for a long moment, and noted it was crisscrossed with scars, and that one of his eyeballs was milky white. A fairly handsome man, though the scars and eyeball, in this light, looked eerie, and you knew he was no stranger to violence.

He was grinning at me the same way a pretty girl smiles at the cop who has just pulled her over for speeding, confident she is smarter, wilier, and should all else fail, has big enough boobs to fix the problem. I studied his face, and he studied me back with a lurid nonchalance. Joe T. Cool, and here, I thought, was the guy to keep a close eye on.

But these were not trained soldiers, nor did they have a code of conduct for these situations, or even a modicum of training regarding how to handle themselves. If we were lucky, this was bin Pacha and his bodyguards; with less luck, here were six suicide bombers who didn't give a rat's ass whether they lived or died; only whether we lived or died.

As I moved down the line, Bian was looking over my shoulder and also studying their faces. I had the sense she was processing their deportment and making snap assessments, which, in these situations, you have to do. To Eric, I said, "You and your men take a break downstairs."

He mentioned, "You know we can't transport six prisoners out of here."

"How many?"

"One."

I regarded him a moment. "Two," he said. "That's it."

In any interrogation, it always helps to have a few prisoners to play off each other. Two was fine.

He pointed a finger at his watch. "Ten minutes. I hope you have a magic key to find your guy."

"And you're using up precious time."

He said, "Well… one other thing. They were searched. But you'd better keep a weapon on them, unless you'd rather we slap cuffs on them first."

Bian shook her head. I wasn't sure why, nor did I particularly agree, but this wasn't the time or situation to argue. Prisoners look for weaknesses or division in their captors, and this was not the occasion to encourage silly misjudgments.

Besides, this interrogation was her gig, and as she had assured me several times, she had considerable experience with this. A little late, I realized that I had failed to ask whether those were successful experiences.

Anyway, the six prisoners were following our exchange with considerable care and attentiveness, their eyes moving between our faces as we exchanged words. Standard behavior.

I was sure that three questions were going through their minds at that moment: One, who are these mysterious people who arrived in the night costumed as they are, as Arabs, shoving guns in our faces? Two, why us? And three, since they aren't dressed in American military uniforms, what rules, if any, do they play by?

Eric and his men stepped out of the room, and the door closed behind them. Bian turned to me, pointed at several candles, and ordered, "Light those. Now."

Her tone was authoritative, even harsh, though I knew it wasn't directed at me; she was now playacting for the audience against the wall.

And what you could see was how very surprised and displeased these men were to hear a woman's voice, and worse, that she appeared to have their collective balls in her hands. They weren't used to what American males had to put up with.

I lit the candles, and Bian removed her veil and then her abaya, and shook out her hair. As the English gentleman said, a rose remains a rose by any other name, and a beautiful woman is still mesmerizing even when holding a loaded gun to your face. Maybe especially then.

Now the six men all had their eyes locked on Bian. Two actually smoothed their hair and stood a little straighter, and the naked man immediately slapped his hands over his groin. Modesty was the least of their problems, all things considered, but it's funny how some people think, their reflexive responses at times of peak stress.

Bian repositioned herself directly front and center of the group, spread her boots about two feet apart, placed her hands on her waist, thrust forward her hips, and elevated her chin. This sudden metamorphosis from demure female to haughty dominatrix was a little theatrical, but also it was very persuasive-even I did a double take. But as with other forms of social interaction, an effective interrogation has to take into account local customs, belief systems, and communal fears. Clearly Bian knew this.

Here we had six Arab gentlemen raised in a culture where women are devalued, obscured behind veils, unable to drive, literally speaking only after being spoken to. And now, on top of the indignity of capture, it turns out an American woman-an infidel slut-would be conducting the interrogation. Bian understood their shame and disorientation, and now she was heating up their humiliation.

She allowed a few tense seconds to pass, long enough for it to sink in that this truly was her show. Eventually, in a very harsh tone, in English, she asked, "Who speaks English?"

No response.

She scanned their faces and announced, "I demand an answer," and she asked again.

Again no response.

"At least one of you speaks English. We know this. Step forward… now."

It took a moment for me to realize why she was so confident somebody spoke English, much less why it mattered. The artillery shells downstairs meant bombs, either the car-borne or the roadside variety; ergo, somebody inside this room had the engineering faculty to construct such devices. That meant a high level of education, probably at a foreign university, and probably he spoke English. In the pecking order of terrorists, bomb technologists are just below financiers, so taking one off the streets was like winning second prize in the lotto.

Again, though, no response.

Bian glanced at me. She pointed at Sammy Naked and Captain Underpants, and very coolly said, "Separate these two."

I looked at her a moment. She barked, "You heard me. Now!"

I stepped forward and, covering me, Bian elevated her weapon at the prisoners. I grabbed the poor naked man by his arm and flung him forward, then followed suit with the man in undershorts.

The two men now stood in the middle of the room, looking even more dazed, unfortunate, and confused, wondering what made them special and regretting whatever it was.

Bian ordered me, "Take them downstairs. Tell Finder to execute them."

She looked and sounded completely serious.

I stared at her back a moment, and she sensed my hesitance, because, keeping her weapon on the men against the wall, she glanced backward and winked.

She turned back to the prisoners and began speaking in Arabic, probably apprising them that their fellow jihadists were about to become compost.

I used my M16 to prod both men out of the room, through the doorway, and then down the long dark hallway to the stairwell. You aren't supposed to threaten prisoners with death or bodily harm, of course; but neither are you supposed to send human bombers into the streets to murder civilians. And on a more Zen-like note, if they did not speak English, they did not understand the threat, and it's not a threat. I hoped that circuitous logic would sound as good in court as it sounded to me at that moment. We had reached the top of the stairwell and as a precautionary measure, I called out, "Drummond coming down with two prisoners."

I had the prisoners lead the way down the stairs. They moved like sheep, passive, completely clueless. Neither of these clowns had the slightest idea what was going on.

Finder was standing at the base of the stairs and he asked, "Who are these guys?"

"Object lessons."

He looked at me closely. "Meaning what?"

"She's using the shock treatment. Divide and conquer. We culled these two out to be shot."

"For real?"

"No… not for real."

"You're sure? No extra charge."

I stared at him.

He laughed. "That's a joke, Drummond. Lighten up."

I left him with the two prisoners and returned back upstairs. When I reentered the room, Bian was still loudly haranguing the prisoners in Arabic. They were paying rapt attention to her and ignored me.

She halted her monologue and glanced at me.

I told her, "That second guy, the naked one, took three slugs. Boy, was he hard to kill." After a moment, I added, "He kept screaming in Arabic, begging to be put out of his misery."

A bit subtle, maybe, but I could see from her expression that she picked up the message-neither man spoke English.

She glanced again at her prisoners and commented to me, "I'll give you one or two more in a second."

"No hurry." I leaned casually against the wall. "Finder's guys are busy castrating them, and finding a place where their bodies face west. A good hidey place where nobody will ever find their corpses." I laughed.

Bian also laughed.

This coarse allusion referred, of course, to the dual Muslim and extremists' beliefs that a corpse must be cleansed and buried, facing east, soon after death for a suitable entrance to heaven; and those who enter as martyrs are met and pleasured by a flock of beautiful virgins, which, without your equipment, falls into the category of an empty blessing.

And, through the corner of my eye, I noted that the second prisoner from the left registered an expression of mild outrage. He heard, and more important, he clearly understood, what we were saying.

Bian picked up on it as well. She pointed at the man. "You… step forward."

He stared straight ahead, as if she was talking to somebody else.

Bian stepped directly to his front and positioned herself maybe two feet from his face. Joe Cool stood to the man's right, and the relative complacency and indifference on his face made this man's anxiety all the more palpable: Nervous Nellie.

Bian stared into Nellie's eyes and said, "Well…?"

He shrugged like he was clueless. Then, out of the blue, Bian's weapon went off. In such a confined space, the loud bang sounded like a cannon, and we were all, I think, surprised and stunned.

I took a step toward Bian, but she turned to me and said, "Oh, shit. It was an accident."

"Accident?"

"My weapon… it was off safe, and… I… well, I guess my finger… Oh, shit."

Nellie Nervous had crumbled to the floor, and he lay there gripping his left knee, writhing, bleeding, and moaning something in Arabic.

I took a step toward the wounded man, but Bian said, "Sean, please, what's done is done-let me handle this."

I looked at her, and she did appear surprised and shocked that she had shot the man. She looked down at him and pronounced something in Arabic. But her tone sounded a bit harsh for an apology; in fact it sounded like a threat, and he quickly muttered something in reply that resembled a wounded animal mewling.

I said to Bian, "Whatever you're doing… stop now."

She ignored me and prodded the man on the ground with her boot. She said something with a harsh undertone in Arabic.

He said, "Okay… yes, yes… I speak English. Not good, though. Do not shoot me again, please."

Bian stepped back from him and asked, "Which of these men is Ali bin Pacha?"

"Uh, oooh, you have ruined my knee… Ow, I am in great pain… I-"

"Answer me. Which one?"

"Who… who is this name?"

"Ali bin Pacha. Point him out."

The man rocked around a bit, holding his knee and contemplating his pain, which appeared to be considerable. Finally he said to her,

"Me. I am this man you search for… this Ali bin Pacha."

"Liar."

"No, American lady. This is truth. Please, not to shoot me again. Please-"

"You're not bin Pacha. If you don't point him out, I'll blow your brains across the floor."

On the one hand, I should yank her out of the room; on the other hand, I wanted to hear this guy's response. Possibly, his shooting was an accident, and while that act was unfortunate, sometimes good comes from bad. On the other hand, what if it wasn't an accident? Was she really ready to blow this guy's brains out?

She jammed the barrel of her weapon down hard on the man's wounded knee. He cringed and howled with pain.

That answered it. I quickly stepped toward her, intending to take the weapon out of her hands.

But Hardy Hardass had the same idea, and he was closer. He lunged at Bian, who was ignoring him, and had carelessly allowed herself to get too close to the prisoners.

Before I could take a step, his arms were wrapped around Bian, and he had her M16 across her throat.

He was pulling it upward, screaming, "Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar." Bian's feet were off the ground. She was struggling and kicking, but he was large and strong, and she looked a rag doll being shaken in a mad dog's mouth.

I drew back my M16, then shoved it forward, buttstroking the center of his forehead. There was a nasty cracking sound and his head jerked backward, but he did not loosen his grip. Now ugly gurgling sounds were erupting from Bian's mouth.

I once again drew back my weapon, buttstroked him harder, and I knew I had hit the sweet spot, because a loud "Ooof" popped out of his throat. He released Bian and sank to his knees, groaning.

Bian also collapsed to her knees, heaving and coughing.

Now Sean Drummond also had stopped paying attention to the threat in the wings, and I swung around and directed my weapon at the two men against the wall who were edging toward me. "Don't." They seemed to understand, if not my words then Mr. Automatic Rifle, because both froze.

Eventually, Bian pushed herself off the floor, stood, and straightened up. She picked up her weapon and turned her gaze to Hardy Hardass, who was transfixed by his own problems, such as the torrent of blood flowing down his forehead. She said something short and sharp in Arabic. Slowly he stumbled to his feet and moved back against the wall. I asked Bian, "Are you okay?"

"I'm…" That answer stopped in midsentence, and she stared off into space.

"Are you-"

"Yes. I'm fine. A little dazed… out of breath…"

Before I could say another word, she swung to her right and- bang, bang, bang-first one, then another prisoner crumpled to the floor. I looked at her, and I looked at them. Two of the prisoners, like Nervous Nellie, now lay on the floor holding their hands on their left knees, writhing and howling from pain. The other, Joe Cool, sort of sank to the floor, staring at Bian, in no apparent pain, just mildly surprised.

I, also, stared at Bian. She avoided my eyes.

"What did you just do?"

After a moment without a reply, I told her what she had done. "You just shot unarmed prisoners."

She glanced at me, and for a moment I wondered if I was next.

"Hand me your weapon, Bian."

She did not hand me her weapon but did say, "I didn't kill them."

"Your weapon-now."

"I did what was needed. And it worked."

She straightened up and for a moment seemed to contemplate what she had done. I examined her face, and did not like what I saw; she should have looked shocked, or enraged, but instead she struck me as completely in control of her emotions and senses. Aloof, actually. Finally, she said in a surprisingly calm tone, "Sean, please. Go downstairs. Tell Eric we need him and his men up here right away."

"You go downstairs. I'm not leaving you alone with these men."

Instead of addressing that thought, she said, "Give me your chador, please."

I thought she was going to use it to sponge or stem the flow of blood from one of the men she had just shot. So I handed it to her, keeping a spring in my step and an eye on her weapon. Instead she bent over and used it to gag Nervous Nellie, who was making whiny noises and looked ready to empty his bowels into his pants.

Then the door burst open and the argument was settled about either of us going downstairs. Eric and two of his men came barging through the doorway, weapons directed at us.

"It's safe," I yelled before anyone made a nervous mistake. "We're in control."

Eric lowered his weapon and examined the bodies on the floor. He said, "What the fuck?"

He was not expecting a reply, and continued, in a furious tone, "Didn't I tell you two to keep your weapons on safe? Holy shit-those shots were heard for ten blocks around."

I looked at him, then at Bian, and suddenly I understood what- and more to the point, why-she had done what she'd done. The message from Charabi to Daniels had described Ali bin Pacha as having lost his left leg, and therefore Bian had fired into their knees, a field expedient method for determining whose legs were real and whose were not.

I faced Eric and said, "Dress their wounds, and cuff and gag all of them."

"The hell with that. Those shots alerted every jihadi in this sector. Time to leave-now."

"Do it." I pointed at Nervous Nellie, and then at Joe Cool-aka Ali bin Pacha-who was observing me with a look of calculation from the floor. "They're the lucky two getting the all-expenses-paid trip."

"Are you nuts? Listen, in about two minutes the whole city is going to kick our asses."

I stared at him. He stared back.

He shook his head and turned to his two men. "All right. Hurry."

But Ali bin Pacha had other ideas. He suddenly pushed himself to his feet and launched himself at Bian, who was paying too much attention to our conversation and not enough to the guy her back was turned to.

He yanked the M16 from her hands and spun. It happened so suddenly that, before I could move, I was staring down a gun barrel.

I saw that it was pointed at my face, and in the brief instant I had to observe his eyes and face, I saw that his diffidence had disappeared; his lips were curled into a nasty smile, and his dark eyes were blazing with intense hatred.

I squeezed shut my eyes and heard a shot, amazed that I didn't feel my brains fly out the back of my skull.

When I opened my eyes, bin Pacha stood with his weapon pointed at the floor, and he was looking back at me with equal amazement. He sank to his knees and the M16 fell out of his hands.

I was yelling, "Don't shoot him. Shit… don't shoot him." Well, Eric had already shot him.

I walked over and kicked the M16 out of bin Pacha's reach. He was teetering on his knees, and he stared into my eyes, then down at his stomach at the dark blood leaking out of a small hole in his shirt. He looked a little surprised, and a lot annoyed.

I shoved him on his back and got down on my knees and pressed down hard with my right hand on his wound. I said to nobody and everybody, "Get me a field dressing. Now."

Bian handed me a dressing. She asked, "How bad is it?"

"I don't know. It's not pumping, right? So it's not arterial. That's good. But something vital inside might be punctured." I tore open his T-shirt and examined the location of the wound. He was going into shock, mumbling incoherently, perhaps curses, perhaps prayers.

The hole was about three inches to the left of his navel. I tried to recall from my high school biology days which internal organs were located in this region. Kidneys? Spleen? Intestines, probably, and that meant a high likelihood of infection. Also, I remembered from personal experience that, as wounds go, this one really hurt.

I reached a hand underneath him and felt around. No exit wound. So the good news was there was only one exterior wound through which he could bleed to death; the bad news was he almost certainly was bleeding to death, internally.

I placed the field dressing over the hole in his stomach and wrapped the tie-offs around his back, then knotted them tightly.

As I did, Eric and his men used green rags to gag the men, field-dressed their wounds, and attached police-style plastic cuffs to their wrists. In less than a minute, everybody was gagged and wrapped, and their bleeding was stemmed, which would put one point back on the board at a war crimes tribunal.

I glanced at Bian, who looked back and nodded. This was neither the time nor the place to discuss it, but we both knew our relationship had just changed.

Eric's men hoisted Nervous Nellie and Ali bin Pacha over their shoulders and hauled them out of the room. We departed directly behind them, leaving behind a corpse, two wounded men, and a bad memory.

Evidently, Eric had already alerted his people that it was time to egress, because two cars-the silver sedan and the cramped red Corolla-were idling curbside by the entrance.

Nervous Nellie was thrown roughly in the trunk of the silver car, and I helped place bin Pacha upright in the backseat of the Corolla, where I could keep a close eye on his vital signs.

We all piled into the cars, and Eric punched the pedal and burned rubber.

Eric had his night-vision goggles on and the car's headlights off. He was pushing at least forty through narrow streets with sharp turns that were unsafe at twenty. I couldn't tell which was the more imminent threat, a bunch of pissed-off jihadis or Eric's lead foot. Then I recalled how jihadis handle prisoners and said to Eric, "Faster."

Bian and I sat on both sides of Ali bin Pacha, and with all the sharp turns, he was being tossed between us like a broken rag doll.

In less than three minutes the buildings thinned out and we were back in the outskirts of the city. I'm usually good at remembering places I've been, and saw no recognizable landmarks, so this wasn't the same way we entered-presumably Eric was following good trade-craft and varying our route. I overheard him conversing with his team, and it sounded like one or two of the other teams were trailing us, guarding our back door to be sure we made it out with our cargo.

Bian said not a word. I felt no need to tell her how I felt. I was pissed; she knew it. Not only had she shot the prisoners, she had compounded her sins with inexcusable carelessness and twice allowed the bad guys to get the drop on her. The second time nearly got my head blown off; I take this personally. Also, our precious prisoner might not live long enough for an interrogation, this whole trip might be a waste of time, and Phyllis and I were going to have a long, one-way conversation.

Anyway, we now were out of the built-up area, bouncing along the same dusty road we took into the city, and I realized that Eric had somehow found a way to take us back through the lines of Captain Yuknis's company. I checked my watch: 3:20. I relaxed. Okay, Ali bin Pacha might expire before we got to Baghdad, but that aside, the worst was behind us. What more could go wrong?

Well, one shouldn't test the fates, because suddenly we were bathed in lights, and Eric hit the brakes hard enough that bin Pacha flew forward and slammed headfirst into a seat back.

The lights shut off nearly as quickly as they'd flashed on, and an American voice yelled, "Driver, out of the car. Hands above your head."

Eric stepped out again. This time, however, rather than the tall, lean silhouette of Captain Yuknis, the figure approaching through the darkness was short and squat, he moved with an affected John Waynish swagger, and he was accompanied by a pair of large Marines pointing M16s at Eric.

I rolled down my window and could overhear Eric and the officer speaking; arguing, actually. A minute passed, and things were not improving. Eric's voice was getting louder, and his interrogator's tone was turning nastier, and more imperious.

Great. I was here because my duplicitous boss outwitted me, my partner had just committed a war crime, my prisoner was probably bleeding to death, and-well, you get the picture.

I needed to vent, and this situation-and this guy-would do nicely.

I threw open the car door. "Sean, don't…" Bian insisted. "Please, leave this to Eric."

"Shut up."

I stepped out of the car and began walking toward Eric. In the near distance I heard the sound of M16 charging handles being cocked, and a little late, I recalled my Arab clothing. I stopped, reached into my pocket, withdrew my little American flag, and began frantically waving it, even as I slowly and carefully pulled the abaya over my head and set it on the ground.

The officer was yelling in Eric's face, "I really don't give a shit who you say you are, or who you claim you coordinated this with. I'm-"

"Captain Yuknis. I told you."

"Yuknis was called to a meeting at the Tactical Operations Center. I'm in charge now, and I'm placing you and that car under military custody. And yes, it will be searched. Explain your story to an interrogator when one becomes available."

"The car can't be searched."

And so on.

I approached the officer and directed the beam of my flashlight first at his chest, then on his collar. His nametag read Berry, and he sported the black bar of a first lieutenant, indicating he was Captain Yuknis's second in command.

I then shifted the beam to the lieutenant's face and was surprised by how youthful, actually baby-faced, he was. The longer I've stayed in, the more I've noticed that lieutenants are becoming younger and younger. But the junior officer in the military is an interesting creature, endowed with powers and responsibilities that far outstrip his experience and wisdom level. Some respond to this gap with intelligent humility, some with a self-destructive insecurity, and others by the silly illusion that it is deserved. Had I not guessed where Lieutenant Berry fell on this spectrum, he barked, "Get that damned light out of my eyes."

I replied, good-naturedly, "Good morning, Lieutenant Berry. Fine day, don't you think?"

"Who are you?" he demanded in a nasty tone.

"You're the executive officer of this company, right?"

"Who the fuck are you?" he repeated.

"If it was your business, don't you think I would've answered the first time?"

"Oh… a wiseass," he said, showing surprising perceptiveness. After a moment, he ordered, "Put your hands over your head."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Because I'm ordering you to."

"Silly reason."

"Is it? I'll have you shot. Is that silly?"

When I did not raise my hands, he looked over his shoulder and said to his two Marines, "Search and cuff this asshole. If he resists, use force."

Before either Marine could move, I said to Lieutenant Berry, "Now would be a good time for you to slap your heels together."

"You… huh?"

"Heels. The little stumps at the back end of your feet. Assume the position of attention."

"I know what the hell heels are."

"Well, sometimes with Marines, you have to explain these things." I overheard one of his bodyguards chuckle, even as he stepped closer with his M16 pointed at my face. I directed the beam from the flashlight to my own left collar and said to Berry-and indirectly to his bodyguards-"Order that Jarhead to back off before I place you all under arrest for assaulting a superior officer."

I could see the confidence drain out of his face as he stared for a moment at the black leaf of a lieutenant colonel. He seemed unsettled and uncertain what to do next, then like the little martinet he obviously was, he fell back on military instinct, drew himself to attention, and popped off a smart salute.

I did not salute back. "Lieutenant, you have insulted and threatened the life of a senior officer." I turned to Eric. "You witnessed this, did you not?"

"Sure did. He cussed at you. Called you a bad name, too. He even threatened to kill you."

I observed, "Yes, a real snot. Any decent prosecutor will get him at least ten to fifteen in Leavenworth."

"Sir, I didn't know who you were… I didn't recognize-"

"I recognized you. We were a mere two feet apart. I see no reason why you couldn't recognize me." I allowed him the necessary few seconds to consider what an unreasonable prick I am, then concluded, "No, I'm afraid that doesn't excuse your behavior."

"Would a Marine apology do, sir?"

"Not even close."

"Well… I-"

"Lieutenant, how familiar are you with Article 834?"

He looked at me, then at Eric.

I explained, "To wit, interfering with, blocking, and/or jeopardizing the progress of a vital military operation. Just below treason in the Uniform Code of Military Justice and punishable up to life."

"But sir… I didn't know-"

"Ignorance is no excuse, Lieutenant."

"No, sir."

"The proper response is yes, sir."

"Uh… yes, sir. What I… well, what I meant-"

"If you'd be so kind, you'll speak when I tell you to." After a moment, I asked, "Do you have a radio?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where?"

"In the command vehicle, sir."

Now his voice was audibly quaking. Clearly, Lieutenant Berry was realizing that there are life-threatening dangers on the battlefield other than bullets. I said, "Call your unit. You will tell them that three civilian automobiles will be passing through. They will not be stopped, questioned, or in any way harassed." After I beat, I added, "I want each car saluted as they pass through."

"But, sir, I don't even know who you are."

"Son," I replied, using that awful expression, "I'm the guy who can ruin your life. Two seconds. Decide."

Lieutenant Berry used up his two seconds, then raced to his vehicle to radio his Marines while Eric and I walked back to the car and got inside. Eric slammed it into gear, and we quickly drove through the unit, where, I noted, the Marines were holding their weapons at the position of a military salute.

Eric chuckled and said to me, "And I thought he was an asshole."

"He's a bedwetting wimp."

"Are you really a lawyer?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Article 834? There is no friggin' Article 834."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm… Oh…" We both laughed.

After a few minutes, Bian urged Eric, "Hurry. The prisoner's breathing is getting shallow."

Just at that instant, to our rear, was a series of loud explosions, and the night sky lit up like a lightning storm sent by a very angry God, a God without pity, though this was just the opening omen, a foretaste of what was coming.

I turned around and peered through the rear window. Falluja had just entered the opening stage of the Marine Corps urban renewal project. Sometimes, as idiotic as it sounds, the old adage is tragically true: You have to destroy the village to save it.