Man in the middle

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The remainder of the drive to the airport took forty minutes, during which bin Pacha lapsed into unconsciousness and his breathing turned unsteady. We passed through only one more checkpoint at the entrance to the airport, manned by a squad of anxious-looking civilian contractors, who allowed us through without a hitch.

Bian then guided Eric to a covered hangar, inside of which was a large, gleaming Boeing Business Jet. The ramp was down and the door was open, so presumably somebody was inside. I walked up the stairs and stepped inside to begin my search for the doctor. The interior of the aircraft was hot and stuffy, and the crew seemed to be off on crew rest, because they weren't present.

To the right, I entered what appeared to be a large lounge area with walls of burled wood, lush blue carpet, a large video screen, a glass conference table, and a combination of lounge and office chairs, with an oversize plush circular sofa. I continued to work my way to the rear and next entered a dining room that was equally extravagant with a long mahogany table, coordinated mahogany chairs, and an impressive chandelier that looked like crystal but was actually plastic. Then there was a private office, a sort of cubicle with a large desk loaded with all the electronic marvels and goodies.

I could not imagine why the Agency needed this flying Queen Mary, much less how it convinced Congress to foot the bill. Well, I guess I had an idea: a sotto voce arrangement with certain members of the Intelligence Oversight Subcommittee who might need to borrow this aircraft for long overseas trips, in the interest of national security, of course.

Anyway, the plane seemed empty, and there were only two doors I hadn't yet opened, both at the rear of the aircraft.

So I opened the first one on the right and stepped into what appeared to be the master suite, a gaudy cage with rococo wallpaper, a mirrored wall, and a small bar, which I absently and unhappily noted was unstocked. Also, on the queen-size bed I saw a gentleman asleep in his underwear. I gave his leg a shake.

He opened his eyes and looked at me, blinking.

He looked fairly intelligent: thick glasses, thoughtful eyes, and all that. I asked, "Are you the doc in the house?"

"It's a plane."

That gift for pedantry nailed it. "And yes…" he confirmed as he rubbed his eyes and stuck out a hand. "Bob Enzenauer."

"What kind of doc are you?"

"Well… what kind of patient do you have?"

"A gut-shot one."

"Always bad." He sat up. "Allow me a moment. I'll be right out."

I left him and returned through the maze of aeronautic lushness to the hangar.

Bin Pacha now lay prostrate on the cement, and Eric and Bian hovered over him. Also, the silver sedan had arrived and Nervous Nellie was seated on the cement, looking more miserable and emotionally conflicted than ever with Eric's big gun aimed at his head.

Bian had knelt down and was taking bin Pacha's pulse. From Madame de Sade to Ma Barker to Florence Nightingale-this lady changed roles faster than I change underwear.

She looked up at me and said in a concerned tone, "His pulse has dropped. This isn't good. There has to be internal bleeding."

Eric looked at her, then at me, and said, "Sounds like we better conclude this deal quickly."

"The requirement was alive." I handed him the two M16s, and I noted two laptop computers and my legal briefcase and duffel bag piled neatly on the floor beside bin Pacha.

He glanced down at bin Pacha. "This is the very definition of close enough for government work. Works for me. How about you?"

Considering the ugly alternative-a perfectly healthy bin Pacha and a wall in Falluja decorated with my brains-I didn't want to sound ungrateful to the man who saved my life. "Deal." I looked at him and said, "Please pass my compliments to your people."

"I will."

"You do remarkable work." And I meant it.

He stuck out his hand, and we shook. I told him, "I'm doubling your pay."

"You can do that?"

Phyllis was going to go nuts. "I just did."

He smiled and patted my arm.

I mentioned, "About Phyllis, incidentally… are you aware she has an unlimited budget?"

"No… I-"

"Black money. Totally unaccountable. She can spend like a drunken sailor."

"For real?"

"I only mention this, because… well, before I arrived she was telling me… bragging, actually… all the other contractors get twice what she pays you."

"You're serious?"

"FYI. For next time."

For a moment we stared at each other. He looked like he wanted to say something. Finally I said, "Eric, as soon as you have enough, go home."

"Good advice." He turned around, and he and his people climbed into their cars and departed.

Doc Enzenauer now was hunched over bin Pacha, pinning an IV into his arm. He looked up at me and said, "What about that other man?" He pointed at Nervous Nellie.

"Just knee-shot." I pointed at bin Pacha. "He's your priority. Don't let him die. Do whatever it takes."

He gave me the Look.

I asked, "Am I overstating the obvious?"

"There's a folding bed in the crew's lounge. First door on the right. If you want to be helpful, get it."

Bian accompanied me, and as soon as we were inside the aircraft she pulled my arm and spun me around. She said, "We need to speak."

"Not now."

"You haven't said a word to me since the factory."

"Not true. I told you to shut up. That's a standing order until I rescind it." I looked her in the eye. "Right now, I'm not in the mood."

She was, though, and asked, "Aren't you going to ask me why?"

"You shot unarmed prisoners. Why would I ask or even care why? In fact, anything you say at this point can and probably will be used against you in a court of law."

"I deserve better than that from you."

"Do you?"

"I want you to know why. This is important to me, Sean. The truth-are you willing to listen?"

When I did not reply she said, "We were down to two minutes. I knew bin Pacha was missing his left leg, and I assumed he wore a prosthetic. You remember that from the message, don't you? So I… I shot them each in the left leg. It worked, didn't it?"

I had already figured that out. "Did it never strike you that all you had to do was lift up their pant legs?"

"Yes, but-"

"But it was just easier to shoot them."

"No, I… It was… one of the hardest things I've ever done."

"But you made it look so easy."

"Also I realized that if we left those men physically intact, they would be available to battle the Marines. These are dangerous men, hardened terrorists, murderers."

"Are you finished?"

"Not yet. I'm not saying what I did was legally right. It wasn't. I know that. Yet I still believe it was the proper thing. If it saves the life of a single U.S. Marine-"

"That's why the Army has its own court-martial system with boards composed of veteran officers."

"What are you talking about?"

"They appreciate the unique strains and stresses that accompany combat, the situational judgments, the rationalizations for questionable conduct, the extenuating matters." I opened a door, but it turned out to be a galley closet. "Save it for them."

"Sean, I'm telling the truth." After a moment she asked, "Why do you think I did it?"

"Maybe you snapped. Maybe you have bad memories of your time here, flashbacks, an illogical hatred of Arabs, or battle fatigue, or latent sociopathic tendencies, or PMS. Possibilities abound. I really don't know. I really don't care."

I moved toward the pilot's cabin and stopped at the first door on the right. I opened it and stepped inside.

"You know what I think?" Bian asked.

She doggedly followed me inside what appeared to be the crew's cabin. She said, "This isn't your war. How did you phrase it before? Correct me if I misquote you. It's just a news event, a tidbit tucked between the weather and the sports update. That wasn't only the great American public you were describing, it was you."

There were no fold-out beds, but I did see a door that I assumed led to a closet.

She said, "You're just passing through, an impartial observer, a reluctant tourist, emotionally disconnected. I'm not. Nor are the hundred and fifty thousand soldiers and Marines fighting here. It's life, and it's death, and that's how you have to play it."

"Bullshit."

"Is it? You didn't even want to come. You're here only because Phyllis and I shamed and pressured you into it."

True enough. And yes, maybe that did make it, not easy, but at least easier to pass judgment. I had my wars, my battles-Panama, the first Gulf War, and Mogadishu-and as my father likes to say about his wars, those were the last real wars. No, I had no emotional connection to this one-like empathy and sympathy; I understood, I just didn't emote. I avoided eye contact with her, opened the door, and inside was, in fact, a fold-up bed, which I reached for.

Bian said, "Look at me, Sean."

I looked at her.

"You weren't so judgmental tonight when we threatened those men with execution. That also is a violation of the laws of war. Going all high and mighty now doesn't look good on you."

There was no need to point out the difference between threatening and doing; she understood the distinction. And yes, I had crossed a line; she, on the other hand, had jumped galaxies.

She continued, "Had I been some burned-out, hyperventilating basket case, I would've killed those men. I couldn't… and I didn't. I deliberately wounded them. Explain that."

I couldn't explain it. Had it been battlefield rage or simmering racial hatred, those men wouldn't be crippled; they'd be worm meat.

But in the eyes of the law, it mattered not whether her motive was expediency-as she claimed, to separate the chaff from bin Pacha-or, as she further rationalized, to immobilize a future battlefield threat. Shooting unarmed prisoners is, at the very least, an excessive use of force; at worst, it is a method of torture.

"Don't be angry with me."

"I'm disappointed in you. There's a difference."

"That's worse." I looked at her again and noticed that tears were coursing down her cheeks. She said, "I think there's something between us… and… I…"

I grabbed the bed and tried to maneuver it out of the room. It was too large and unwieldy, and I said, "Give me a hand."

"Tell me what you intend to do."

"I'm going to report you."

"To whom?"

"When I decide, you'll be the first to know."

"Am I under arrest?"

"Not yet. But consider yourself under military custody."

"I want to finish this… I… I have to finish this."

"I can't trust you around prisoners, Bian. I'm sure I don't need to explain why."

"Then you're not thinking straight. You can't finish this without me. You know that."

"Do I?"

"Yes. If we can get bin Pacha to talk, how many lives might that save? You have… This is very important to me. Come on, we've come this far."

She had a point. She understood the operating environment and she could converse in Arabic, whereas I couldn't even ask, "Who's handing over the moolah, bin Pacha?"

On the other hand, I could not get past the memory of those men toppling over.

She sensed that I was conflicted and said, "Satisfy your conscience after we're done, okay? Mission first, right? What is it they say about babies and bathwater? What more damage can I accomplish?"

"Are you out of cliches yet?"

"You know I'm not."

I looked at her. Against my better judgment, I said, "Promise you won't shoot anybody."

She smiled and crossed her heart. "Promise."

"No mistreatment of the prisoners."

"I won't even squash a sandfly without your consent."

"You won't even pee without my permission."

"That's what I meant."

"Give me a hand with this bed."

She did and we carried it out to Doc Enzenauer, who in our absence had also hooked up Nervous Nellie to an IV. The doc was hovering over bin Pacha, and he looked up and said, "He's stabilized. But without opening him up, I can't diagnose how serious his wound is. He needs to be on an operating table right away."

We lifted bin Pacha by his arms and feet and gently set him down on the bed. Bian explained to Enzenauer, "This is Ali bin Pacha."

"I thought he might be."

"So you're aware of his importance, and the complications. There are several field hospitals nearby. But you understand the sensitivity of his identity becoming exposed?"

"I'll give him a sedative that will keep him under and shouldn't react badly to whatever the anesthesiologist pumps into him." He added, "But I can't guarantee he won't talk."

Bian looked at me. "Well?"

"We'll move him first. We don't want an ambulance coming and linking him and this airplane."

"I hadn't considered that."

Enzenauer and I lifted up the cot and hauled bin Pacha out of the hangar while Bian trotted off to look for an MP with a radio to request the services of the nearest medevac facility.

I mentioned to Enzenauer, "I'll accompany you. After he's admitted, however, you're on your own. Long night. I need sleep."

"Well… that's why I'm here." He then asked me a good question. "How do we explain the victim? I assume you don't want him recuperating in an American military hospital. So, something that justifies a release as soon as he's ambulatory."

An idea was forming inside my head, and I said, "Tell them he's a member of the Saudi royal family. Shot by a terrorist, right? Stress his connection to the Saudi king and he'll get first-class treatment." I craned my neck around and looked back at Enzenauer. "How do we explain you?"

"That's easy. Lots of rich Saudis retain their own personal Western physicians."

I nearly told him I have my own proctologist, named Phyllis. He didn't seem to have much of a sense of humor, though.

He added, "I have a friend who does it. Lives in a monstrous mansion out in Great Falls. The pay is incredible." He chuckled and said, "My wife's always badgering me to get my own royal."

"Now you have one. Your client, Ali al-Saud, was here on a business trip. He didn't explain the purpose to you, because it was none of your business. Right? But he brought you here and asked if you wanted to accompany him to see the local sights. He was walking down the street, a stranger in dark clothing stepped in front of him, and bang. Completely arbitrary. Keep it simple. If they ask about you or your background, tell the truth. Just not the CIA part. The best lies stretch truth."

He nodded.

"So you put your patient in a taxi, rushed him here to the American air base, and asked for help. You ran into me by the front gate… I located a medic-somebody from a unit at the airfield-he provided the IV and blood. Right?"

"Exactly how I remember it."

"Don't mess this up, Doc. Getting him out will be Phyllis's problem."

We set down the bed, and about three minutes later, Bian jogged up. She said, "An air medevac's en route. Shouldn't take long. They're only three miles away as the crow flies."

I explained our intentions and she agreed it sounded workable. I told her to remain in the airplane and babysit Nellie Nervous and reminded her not to kill him. I promised I'd be back in two hours and instructed her to call Phyllis from the plane and update her.

We heard the whack-whack of helicopter blades.