Man in the middle

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I broke into my duffel bag, shaved, and changed into fresh battle dress. When I emerged from the stately bedroom, Bian had returned to the lounge and had her nose tucked back inside TIME magazine.

It's always a little touchy dealing with somebody after you've been naked together, especially when the chemistry failed and it's your fault. I needed a moment to think through my approach.

Well, the proper course would be to sit down and have an honest heart-to-heart discussion about what happened, to expose my inner feelings, to achieve an emotional communion. Men aren't very good at this; we're emotionally awkward, disconnected, and shallow. I can do better than that, and I decided I would. So I told Bian, "Time to interrogate our prisoner. Let's go."

She ignored me and studied her magazine.

"Now, Bian. We need to have this done before Phyllis and Waterbury arrive."

"Fine." She continued reading.

"Also, presumably he knows bin Pacha. A little background will help when we interrogate bin Pacha later. Make sense?"

"Whatever you say."

"You try to untangle whatever he knows about future bombings, and who he was giving his explosives to. You understand that stuff better than I do."

"I imagine I do." Her nose was still inside her stupid magazine.

"Good cop, bad cop-you're the bad cop."

"Naturally."

I stepped toward her and bent forward until my face was two inches from hers. "Put the personal issues aside. Mission first, Major."

She calmly put down her magazine and stood. "I'm not mad at you-okay? I thought about it. You know what? You were right. It would've been a huge mistake."

Boy, was I ever glad we'd had this discussion and got that cleared up. I said, "Come with me."

We went to the guest suite, and as we entered, Nervous Nellie jolted upright and stared at us. I approached him and untied his gag.

He wanted to rub his dry lips, but his hands were manacled to the bedposts, and he had to settle with massaging his lips with his tongue.

He would always be Nervous Nellie to me, but I asked, "What's your name?"

"Please… sir… my leg, it hurts. Most badly."

I repeated my question.

"Please… maybe you have… I don't know, aspirin?"

Bian looked at him and said to me, "Dead men don't need aspirin."

This, of course, was not a threat of death, which would be a serious violation of the Geneva Conventions; it was a statement of fact. One could see, however, where it might be misinterpreted.

Apparently this guy misinterpreted Bian, because he said with some enthusiasm, "I am Abdul Almiri."

Bian asked, "From where?"

"Please… I am most hungry, sir. Today I have not eaten food. You are required by your laws to offer Abdul food. This is so, yes?"

I nodded at Bian, who left to see what she could scavenge from the galley. Starvation is another violation of the Geneva Conventions, of course, and Abdul clearly knew this. It was ironic that this guy came from a movement that ignores every law of humanity, until the scumbags are caught.

There was intelligence behind those frightened eyes, though, in addition to fear and anxiety, and Abdul was testing to see what the limits were.

I pulled over a chair and sat down beside him. I confided, "I'm going to offer you a little free advice. You need to be careful with the woman."

"Yes… I-"

"Abdul, listen-what I'm telling you might save your life. She's a little unhinged."

"I… I do not understand this word."

"Crazy, nuts, batty, wacko, sociopathic. The lady goes violent at the snap of a finger. You saw this last night in Falluja. Right? One second she seems perfectly sane and under control… and then…" I snapped my fingers, and he winced.

Abdul was now staring at me, a little wide-eyed. He said, "But you are soldiers, yes? I am seeing that you and she wear the uniform of the American crusader." True to form, he reminded me, "The Geneva Convention does not permit these things."

"Look around you, Abdul." He had shifty eyes anyway, but they slid around in their sockets a little. I asked him, "Does this look like a military aircraft? And these uniforms? They're not real."

"I… I do not understand, sir."

"I'm CIA. She's Mossad, Israeli intelligence. A Vietnamese Jew, actually." He looked confused, so I explained, "Even the other Mossad people are scared shitless of them. They have this big chip on their shoulder, always having to prove they're real Jews." While he tried to fit this exotic knowledge into his frame of reference, I added, "And need I really tell you about Mossad? They don't play by any rules. She'll whack you at the drop of a hat."

There is no law against lying to prisoners of war, of course, and in this case, the Arabs have created their own boogeyman. They tell one another so much scary crap about Mossad, they believe anything.

But Abdul was confused. "Whack? This word Abdul does not know, sir."

"Means killing, Abdul." He nodded and I continued, "For her, it's a sport. She has this sick game where she tries to see how many bullets she can pump into a man before he dies." I allowed him a moment to consider that intriguing hobby. I said, "Two hundred and eight."

"I… What is this number?"

"Her record. At least, she claims that's her record. Personally, I think she's a big fat liar. I once watched her pump seventy-two rounds into a guy, and he was tall and real heavy, and he died. Blood loss… too much pain for the heart… who knows? But two hundred and eight bullets? — I think that's just bullshit. What do you think?"

"I… sir, Abdul does not know."

I thought he did know, but decided to help him reach a clearer understanding. "I mean, you saw her last night. Think back. Everybody got one in the left leg, right? Take yourself-she nicked you. She calls that her chip shot. Don't even ask about her hole in one… but it's… Well, hey, for a guy, let's just say it's the worst thing that can happen."

Abdul licked his lips and stared at me. "Yes, but you are the good and honorable man. I remember… you would not permit her to do this horrible thing to us." He tried a gap-toothed smile and revealed an unpopular childhood. "I am very much thanking you for this, sir."

"Oh, well…" I looked into his eyes. "Time was short, Abdul. I could care less, but once she gets started…" I leaned back in my chair and coolly informed him, "You're a bomb maker. We've already confirmed this."

"No… I am not even knowing these men… these men you captured…"

"No?"

"No. I was… How do I say? I was merely seeking a place to sleep. It is our custom… I am of Islam. The Koran requires such hospitality between believers."

Bian reentered the room carrying a plate upon which was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and four or five small bags of trail mix.

Abdul eyed the plate before his shifty eyes returned to my face, trying to gauge if I was a big enough idiot to buy this. I informed him, "Mr. Almiri… there are two insurmountable problems. One, we found the artillery shells on the ground floor. Two, that isn't what Ali bin Pacha informed us about you during the ride to the hospital."

"But that is not the truth. I… I do not know why that man would make lies about Abdul."

"He told us you're a maestro at manufacturing bombs from artillery shells."

"I do not know this man."

"He knew you."

"Abdul does not know how to do these things, this… this making of bombs. I am swearing to you this."

Bian understood where I was going with this, and said to me, "The tools we found at the factory are being checked for fingerprints. The results will arrive any minute. I'll take his prints, and if they match, he's mine."

Coming from a third world background, Abdul had not anticipated this twist, and his face registered what an unhappy surprise this was. Where he came from, forensic science entails cops bouncing your nuts off the floor until you squeal.

I gave Bian a pissed-off look. "Hey… maybe that's how you Mossad people handle these things. The CIA likes to keep them alive… at least, long enough to talk. You can't just keep executing them."

She affected a bored posture. "The other ones never bothered you."

"They were different. He might have something valuable to tell us."

"Him? Look at him. A stupid mensch. Catch a minnow, and what do you do? I'm tired, and I need a nap. Let's get this over with."

"Well… at least give the guy a chance to prove you wrong. Maybe he knows something, maybe not. It's a pain in the ass to dispose of bodies."

"Oh, spare me. Stash him with the other corpses in the city dump. They'll blame it on the terrorists. They always do."

Abdul did not seem to enjoy the way this conversation was progressing, and he decided to join in. "Jordan," he informed us, "Amman, Jordan. Abdul comes from this city."

"How long has Abdul… have you been here, in Iraq?" I asked, imitating his third-person usage.

"One year. Perhaps a little more, sir."

"Before that?" Bian demanded.

"I was…" He hesitated in midsentence and looked at me. "Sir, please… I… if I tell you these things… I- These people, they will hunt down Abdul. The things they do to traitors, you cannot imagine."

Bian said, "There, you see. Now, will you please give him to me?"

"No, wait…" I paused, then asked Abdul, "Have you ever heard of the witness protection program?"

"Ah… yes, I believe I have seen about this subject in Hollywood movies."

"Same thing. We build you a fake identity and relocate you. Give you a whole new life. You'd probably prefer someplace warm. Am I right? Southern California, maybe Florida. Babes, beaches, and mosques." I gave him a reassuring smile. "Buy you a nice big house on the shore, give you a million bucks, with a fat monthly payment for expenses. What's not to like?"

Abdul showed some enthusiasm and interest in this subject and asked a few questions, which I answered, though possibly I exaggerated a few details. Finally, I assured him, "The Mafia mooks love this program. They swear that if they knew about this, they never would've been crooks, just hidden witnesses. Have you ever been to America, Abdul?"

"I have… yes. For one year. As a high school student. Michigan… but Abdul was not liking this place very much. Very cold, sir."

"Got it. Someplace warm. Now listen closely, because I only offer this deal once. Tell us the complete truth, that's rule one. No lies, no fibs, no exaggerations. Rule two, answer everything. Understand? We'll check everything you tell us, and later, we'll probably hook you up to a lie detector. No lies, Abdul."

"Then you are telling me I am in this program?"

I smiled at Mr. Abdul Almiri. "You have the word of the CIA."

He smiled back.

Bian allowed Abdul a brief moment to bask in his good fortune, then asked, "Where were you before Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. I was living at a camp. Teaching."

Bian looked at me. We both understood what this meant.

"Teaching what?" I asked.

"You must understand, sir, that I was… I was a simple teacher."

"I do understand." And I did.

"So I was-"

"What? What were you teaching, Abdul?"

"I was, uh… telling these students how to make… bombs."

"You're an engineer?"

"No… well, for two years in university I was studying this subject. In Jordan. But I was making the big mistake of hanging around with some wrong people. Crazy fundamentalists." He looked fearfully at Bian, the bloodthirsty Mossad killer, and explained, "I myself am not very devout, you must understand. Nor do I have great hatred toward Israel. But the Jordanian police accused me… What is this American expression?… " He paused, then asked, "Guilty by incorporation. Yes?"

Close enough, and I nodded. He continued, "And so, because of this… I was made to leave my university."

Bian asked, "So you joined Al Qaeda?"

"I was… very angry, you must understand. And-"

"And you joined Al Qaeda?"

"And I was… confused. You see, my family wanted-"

I snapped, "Yes or no."

"Yes."

So we went on awhile, and after additional questions we learned how Abdul's talents as a bomb maker were recognized, a little about his job teaching others to shred people into confetti, how he fled after his camp was overrun by the northern Afghan tribes, made his way to Iraq, linked up with some former Al Qaeda compatriots, and opened up shop here.

It was interesting, and at the same time disappointing, trivial, and also dispiriting. What converted this guy into a terrorist was nothing dramatic, no galvanizing grievance, no pulsing psychic need, certainly not the grind of poverty or any particular social injustice. He was an unpopular, slightly brainy kid from a middle-class background, befriended some religious zealots, this led to trouble with the authorities, and the next thing Abdul knew, he was manufacturing explosive devices for an association called Al Qaeda.

I detected undercurrents of self-loathing, mixed with social alienation, boredom, and a bit of an identity crisis. But in fact, his reasoning and his path to terrorism sounded no different from and was no more mysterious than a confused American kid who, out of peer pressure, the need to belong, and because it seems cool, becomes a druggie. But there was a difference, a big one: Abdul didn't blow his own mind, he blew up people. I asked, "How long have you known Ali bin Pacha?"

"Ah, well, I am not… not so long, sir. He was not in Afghanistan. Not of Al Qaeda. Also, his duties to the movement cause him to… to very often leave Iraq. He must go to meet the people who give us the money."

I repeated my question.

"Maybe… I think maybe two or three months. Please, you must understand, sir, we all move about. Even in Falluja, there are people… people such as yourselves who… who hunt us…"

He had no clue that the hunt to end all hunts was under way in Falluja, nor did I see any advantage from informing him.

Bian ordered, "Tell us about him."

He paused to think for a moment. Again he looked at me and said, "Ali bin Pacha is a tough, very fanatical man. You have looked at him in his eyes, yes? He is… I would not want Ali to think of me as his enemy. He has no fear… no remorse. This is proper saying, yes?"

"Is he married? Does he have children?" Bian asked.

"This I would not know about. We are not supposed to share these things. Some men do. Ali does not."

"How did he lose his leg?"

"I believe in Mogadishu, ten years before. One of your big helicopters fired a missile. Ali now has great hatred to America."

As I mentioned, I also served in Mogadishu, and it was interesting to learn that bin Pacha and I were there together. I recalled intelligence reports at the time describing Arab fighters-including one asshole named Osama bin Laden-who were supporting, advising, and in some cases, fighting alongside Mohammed Aideed, the Somali warlord who had helped manufacture the famine that killed millions of his own people, and who by then had turned his attention to killing our peacekeepers-and me.

Ali bin Pacha, by extrapolation, was one of those men, and by extension, we were dealing here with a man who had spent his entire adulthood trying to kill Americans. "He's Saudi, right?" I asked.

"This is correct, sir. His family is wealthy. And… uh…" He turned to Bian and enunciated something in Arabic.

"Very connected," Bian translated. "Financially influential."

Abdul nodded, then he then spent a moment thinking about what else he had to offer. He said, "Ali is very educated… I do not know his education, but it is said he was once a student at Oxford. He spends much time reading books."

"So he speaks English?"

"Yes, this is so. Better even than Abdul."

"What kind of books?"

"He has many of your American military manuals. He is very smart and he studies these books with great diligence. And he reads thick books about finance."

"The Koran?" Bian asked.

"Ah… no. But Ali is, I think, not like me, very devout. But he… I believe for him the jihad is political." He reconsidered his words, then corrected himself. "Maybe it is a personal jihad of hate."

I turned to Bian and said, "He wants to talk to you about bombs. Get me when you're finished." I paused, then added, "It would be nice if he was still alive and in one piece."

"No promises."

Ali looked very chagrined by the prospect of being left alone with a homicidal Israeli maniac, but I was hungry. I went to the galley, where I found jars of crunchy peanut butter and strawberry jam, a loaf of Wonder Bread, and a cold Coke. I made four sandwiches, heavy on the jam, and I sat and ate.

From my experience, once a witness steps over the line and becomes a squeal, usually they go from telling you nothing to reciting the entire Yellow Pages, trying to impress you with their newfound good citizenship. Anyway, I heard no howls or slaps and assumed Abdul was behaving and letting it all hang out. Neither did I hear any shots, so Bian also was behaving.

As I ate, I thought about what we were doing, and where this was going.

I had been involved in legal cases that became more and more complicated, one thing leading to another, some related, some not. It is an article of faith in law enforcement that those who commit one serious crime usually exercise a disdain for all laws. So as you investigate deeper, you frequently stumble into a briar patch of criminal behavior, additional crimes, and coconspirators. In those instances you keep plodding forward, putting one foot in front of another, and-if you keep your head screwed on straight-eventually it all makes sense, or it makes absolutely no sense, which can be a revelation in itself.

But this case had turned into one of those Russian Matryoshka dolls, where one thing always leads to another, and you become trapped by never-ending disclosures. So were all these things connected? Were they even related?

What we had here were Abdul Almiri and Ali bin Pacha, tangents, if you will-in Phyllis's words, low-hanging fruit-that, for good and obvious reasons, had to be plucked and squeezed. But they were also a diversion from our original investigation and it was worth pondering whether that was by happenstance or design. I mean, you had to consider the possibility that Phyllis hadn't been totally up-front about her motives for sending us here.

Security and confidentiality, she had stressed. And, okay, yes, certainly I could understand and appreciate how Bian and I fit that bill; good soldiers, discreet, obedient, plus we offered the additional quality of plausible deniability, which people in Washington value a lot. We were also plausibly expendable, since nobody would question two more dead soldiers in Iraq.

And then there was this: Were Phyllis and her boss the lone keepers of the Secret, they would have their own bedrooms at Kennebunkport and bandstand seats at the inaugural parade. Actually, they would pick who was being sworn in. Sounded about right. Were I in Phyllis's shoes, Sean Drummond and Bian Tran would be my first choice.

But considered from another angle, maybe Phyllis was jerking us off. And if so, why? Well, one reason would be to buy time. But time for what?

Or was I being unfairly suspicious? When you work for people who are paid to be underhanded, sneaky, and devious, it does tend to make you paranoid. Suddenly, behind every door lurks a hungry tiger, every order disguises a lie, and the mission that appears perfectly innocent ends with a bullet through the back of your skull. Then again, maybe my imagination was overworking this. But Phyllis does think like that.

After ten minutes, Bian joined me in the galley. She informed me, "His job was just logistics-no involvement in planning or execution of the hits. He just built bombs and provided them to others."

"It's a relief to know he's not such a bad guy."

"That was his argument, too. He insisted that he never personally killed or harmed anybody. You know?"

"I know. Did he have anything useful?"

"Not really. Turns out that the man Eric's men shot, he was Abdul's controller. He knew who got the bombs, the chain of supply, and so on." She picked a sandwich off my plate and began eating. "We should turn Abdul over to the military, ASAP. He probably possesses knowledge the Army will find relevant. Technical details about his bombs, for instance. That knowledge is always useful to the disposal units. The sooner the better."

She had been here, and she would know, so I nodded. I put aside the plate, and she accompanied me back to the suite. When we entered, I noted that Bian had positioned Abdul's sandwich about five inches beyond his reach. The man was contorted like a pretzel as he strained to reach it. He looked very annoyed.

I said to Mr. Almiri, "The Central Intelligence Agency thanks you for your cooperation."

He ignored the stupid sandwich for a moment, looked up, and offered me a broad, ingratiating smile.

I informed Mr. Almiri, "About that witness protection offer, after a lot of thought, I've decided on your final destination."

"Ah… well, sir, I am certain you will choose well. Abdul can be happy in even a cold place."

"I promised it will be warm. That promise I'll keep." He looked at me expectantly, and I let the shoe drop. "You're going to Abu Ghraib, Mr. Almiri. We're turning you over to the American military. You'll cooperate with them, or we'll tell the entire prison yard that you ratted out your fellow jihadis. Do you understand?"

Abdul looked like a guy on the verge of an orgasm being told to pull it out. "But, sir… you were promising Abdul-"

"I lied."

I thought he was going to cry.

I looked him in the eyes. "An hour ago, Mr. Almiri, I was at the American medical facility. Dozens of horribly wounded women and children were being rushed in, the result of a bombing. This might've been from one of your devices, or the handiwork of one of your students. Fry in hell."

I walked out.

Bian followed, and quietly closed the door behind her.

I headed straight to the lounge, removed my boots, stretched out on the comfortable sofa, and within three seconds was deeply asleep.