Man in the middle

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The sheik swept into the room. In his hand was a thin valise constructed of buttery leather, on his body the same ash-stained robe, and on his face his customary visage of complacent boredom.

What his expression did not convey was the slightest trace of regret, worry, guilt, or anxiety. Give the man credit, he had panache, which usually I admire; just not this time. I wanted to get my hands around his throat and throttle him.

Phyllis looked lost in thought for a moment, but finally she looked up and said, "Have a seat. We have something you need to hear."

His quick black eyes took us all in, and settled briefly on the receiver/recorder, which he then made a point of ignoring. I was sure he sensed that he had just entered the lion's den, that the animals were hungry, and that this mysterious device was part of the seasoning. He coolly lit a cigarette, set his valise on the table, and sat. Phyllis nodded at Doc Enzenauer, who nodded back and pushed play.

The sheik puffed on his cigarette and listened. To his professional credit, not when the princes were named, nor even when the shot exploded through the speakers, did he flinch or show the slightest emotional reaction.

Enzenauer wisely shut it down before Tirey launched into his CYA soliloquy.

So there it was.

We all sat quietly, uncertain who was supposed to make the next move. But for Bian, for Doc Enzenauer, and for me, there were no doubts; this was way over our heads. Whatever happened next was between the bosses.

The sheik suddenly clapped his hands together and erupted in a delighted belly laugh. "Ha-ha. Oh, Phyllis… you have, I think, outsmarted me. How did you… No, no-let me guess." He furrowed his brow and playfully stroked his goatee. "A transmitter, yes? Where was it? Sewn into his pants?"

"His body," Phyllis replied, playing the game.

He looked thoughtful. "Ah… yes." He offered a complimentary nod at Enzenauer. "Ingenious." He laughed. "Very excellent work, Doctor."

I had to admit, not only did this guy have balls he had charm. Phyllis, however, was neither warmed nor laughing. She said to Enzenauer, "Would you care to leave now?" which obviously wasn't a suggestion, and he dutifully stood and left.

"Who are the princes?" she asked al-Fayef.

"Why does it matter?"

"It matters. Tell me."

"Inconsequential men. Minor figures in the family. You know how our royals are. A big, horny rabbit farm."

Phyllis stared at him a long time, then asked, "But bin Pacha expected their protection-why?"

Until this moment, I think, al-Fayef had been testing the waters to see if Phyllis had put this together. Well, she had-obviously, we all had-and now the brain behind those clever black eyes was flailing for an angle, a ruse, a bluff. He tried to stall for time with another of those charming chuckles, and said, "Phyllis… Phyllis… how long have we known each other?"

Phyllis's left nostril flared and she hissed, "Be clear on this, Turki. You exploited my hospitality, and you humiliated me. You came into my facility and murdered my prisoner. You-"

"Please," he cut in. "I-"

"I speak, you listen, until I finish," she snapped. She drew a long breath, then continued, "The Director's at the White House as we speak, trying to explain this disaster. When I notify him that bin Pacha's dying words implicate the royal family, you will have problems you cannot begin to fathom. A nightmare for your country. A nightmare for you… for you, personally."

He stared at her, a little stunned. Until this moment, Phyllis and the sheik had been operating on spy-to-spy protocols, a sort of feint-and-parry interaction, almost like diplomacy, where the real meanings are cloaked behind tight smiles and evasive wording. The sand had suddenly shifted beneath his feet, now the topic was out in the open, and it was his personal health.

She leaned closer, a mere few inches from his face. "We are at war, fifteen hundred Americans are dead, an election is at stake, and the last thing you want or need is for us to misinterpret where your country stands." She added more menacingly, "The last thing you personally want is me as your enemy."

Phyllis had clipped about twenty degrees from the room's temperature. Even I-for once not the target of her anger, which was a relief-felt a shiver go down my spine. Her fury was real and red-hot, and were I the sheik, I would definitely consider the joys of life in Brazil under an assumed identity after a brief stop-off in Sweden for a sex change, because with Phyllis after you, there are no excessive precautions, only reasonable ones.

Al-Fayef tried his best to maintain his composure, but he lost it. He broke eye contact, he stared at the tabletop, and-perhaps I imagined this-he sucked half his cigarette with one draw.

Phyllis said, "You have one chance to explain what's on that tape. One brief shining moment. Don't miss it, Turki."

I thought of all the times Phyllis had lectured me about tact and diplomacy. I might have mentioned her hypocrisy, but I survived the night in Falluja and wasn't going to push my luck.

For his part, Turki no longer looked bored, flip, or charming, just seriously introspective. The man was obviously weighing the trade-off between exposing a sensitive intelligence operation and pissing off his royals, or keeping his mouth shut and pissing off Phyllis.

This seemed like a ripe moment for a little lawyerly advice, and I interrupted the sheik's troubled thoughts to inform him, "Seven members of your intelligence service are now in custody. They are charged with murder and conspiracy to commit murder. Eventually, there will be more charges-espionage, obstruction of justice, probably others."

"You must turn them over to me," he responded. "They are Saudi. They must face Saudi justice."

"No… I'm afraid this crime occurred in a U.S. facility, they lack diplomatic credentials, and we must follow our laws and try them in our own courts. So, they have the right to a public trial, and I promise you, it will be… an unusually public trial."

Spymasters are allergic to public scrutiny, of course, and the idea of having this murder explicitly exposed and detailed to the American public would cause a world of damage. I was sure he now regretted his abdication from rendition, and it was dawning on him as well that murdering bin Pacha here, in an American facility, was a huge mistake-a public relations mistake, a legal mistake, and a professional misjudgment his bosses would never forgive.

He started to object and I cut him off. "We will, of course, indict you as a coconspirator and an accessory."

"You cannot arrest me. I do have a diplomatic passport."

"I know. And certainly, it is your right not to submit yourself to voluntary custody. So, later, you'll be subpoenaed and we'll request extradition. Should you refuse to appear in an American court, you'll be tried in absentia, and on the front pages of every newspaper in America. If convicted, the next time you set foot outside Saudia Arabia, we'll be waiting." We locked eyes and I noted, "If we don't get you today, we'll get you tomorrow. I think you know this."

"You do not want to do this."

"Can I recommend a good lawyer? You really should consider my cousin. She's expensive and bitchy, and worth every penny."

"This is… You would seriously damage… you would destroy the friendship between our countries."

"I think not," I replied. "Our people need to buy oil and your people need to sell oil. Adam Smith's hidden hand-anybody in the way gets splattered on the windshield of greed and commerce." Again we locked eyes. "Do you really believe the Saud clan will trade their summers at St. Moritz and all those glitzy palaces to protect you? I don't."

To make sure he was clear on this point, I added, "We're expendable, you and me. Says so in our contracts."

This point struck home and he looked away. When he focused again, it was on Phyllis, and he said, "Surely, you know better. This is not professional, Phyllis. It would be… a grave mistake."

She brushed some lint off her shoulder and replied, "I think you should get the name of Drummond's cousin."

A guy with his background and experience, you would think he'd understand this little duet. And on some level, I was sure he did understand it. When it's you on the hot seat, however, counterintuitive thinking is the first thing to go. Between Phyllis's threat to his personal health, my threat to his country's reputation, and his own understanding of the royal family, his inhibitions had just turned very heavy. He growled, "You will not like the truth."

"Perhaps," replied Phyllis. "And if it's not the truth, you won't like the consequences."

The sheik ground out his cigarette on the floor, then announced, "What has happened here… today… this is all America's fault."

I decided to treat al-Fayef as a hostile witness-I mean, he was a hostile witness-and I replied, "Our only fault was trusting you. Why did you order his execution?"

"To the contrary, our mistake was trusting you. By that, I mean America." He looked at me. "Do you know who our main enemy is?"

"Yourselves?"

In spite of the tension, he regained a little of his charm and laughed. He said, "This is not entirely untrue." But this effort did not find a welcome audience, and he stopped smiling. "I will tell you then-the Shia. For thirteen hundred years, the Shia. You in the West believe this is some quaint and irrational quarrel. A shadow of history that will disappear once exposed to the sunlight of democracy. It is not. The Shia are apostates, desecrators of the true faith. How many Americans even know the difference between a Shia and a Sunni? Am I right?"

He looked at our faces to gauge our reactions, and apparently decided to start at the beginning. "You come here, into our region, thinking you can rearrange everything. Fix everything. Mix everything up, make a big happy Arab omelet."

"We brought an invitation this time." I looked him in the eye and said, "Three thousand Americans are dead. Fifteen of the murderers were Saudis. Your unhappiness has become our unhappiness."

He did not want to be reminded of this inconvenient truth. "You know," he continued, "I attended George Washington University. Undergrad and master's. Many Saudis attend school in your country." He looked pointedly at me. "Perhaps you attended a Saudi school?"

"I have not."

"Has your President, the grand architect of our Arab future?"

That required no answer.

He continued, "How many Americans attend Saudi universities?" He paused theatrically, as though we should consider this a serious question, where obviously it was not. "You do not know our culture, our people, our ways. You do not care to know. You prefer your Hollywood stereotypes to true knowledge. Yet you believe you possess the cures to our problems, how to shape our futures."

Bian mentioned, accurately, "If a Christian wears a cross in your country, it's a crime. If a woman drives a car or fails to hide her face, or flashes a little bare leg, she's arrested by your religious Nazis. Your schools and universities are known for nothing but teaching religious intolerance and chauvinism. If you want Americans at your universities, accommodate us."

"When I was in your country, I wore your clothes, I ate your foods, and I sent my children to your schools."

I mentioned, "And probably also, you drank like a virtuoso, screwed lots of American ladies, and engaged in all the other fun and liberating activities you don't dare do at home. Acting like an American is a blast. You had the time of your life."

He wisely chose not to confess his sins and indulgences, and instead insisted, "If you want to live among us, live like us. To understand our ways, walk in our shoes. Did not Jesus Christ say something like this?"

"He said sandals. What's your point?"

"My point. You have started this war and made it into an unholy mess. Saddam was a bad man… yes, yes, we all knew this-I admit we do not mind seeing him gone. A barbarian. A stain to our Arab reputation. There is a thing, however, worse than Saddam. A Shiite-ruled Iraq, a puppet, or an ally of Iran."

"Go on."

"Who brought the Shia to power in Iran in the first place?"

"The Shiites?"

"No, your President Jimmy Carter caused this. In 1979 he drove Shah Pahlavi from power in Iran, and he opened the door for Khomeini, his ayatollahs, and their Shia revolution. An act of principled moralism, your President called it. America no longer would soil itself by aligning with a despot, he swore. For his moral convenience and ignorant naivete, he destabilized our entire region."

"Maybe he thought he couldn't screw it up worse than you screwed it up yourselves," I replied.

"Instability of our own making is one thing. Instability from foreign meddling is another."

While I tried to think through this piece of Arab reasoning, he continued, "Afterward came the eight-year Iran-Iraqi war, the Shiite terrorism in Lebanon, and the Iranian threat to carry their revolution into all our countries. Millions of deaths, because of your President, because of America."

He sort of smiled at me and said, "In your vernacular, this sucked." The smile was nasty and short-lived, and he continued, "Now the Iranians are developing a nuclear bomb, and if their Shia allies in Iraq win power, you will have left a mortal threat on our doorstep. Do you not understand this?"

I recalled what we had learned about Cliff Daniels and Mahmoud Charabi, and a light flashed on. I glanced at Phyllis. If this guy became privy to our suspicions about Charabi's flimflammery vis-a-vis America and Iran, the result would be a geopolitical earthquake. I glanced at Bian. She glanced back with silent understanding. I replied noncommittally, "Explain it better."

"Why? You Americans never listen. You are the most insensitive, self-indulgent, self-righteous people on earth."

"Well… it is hard being great."

This pissed him off, as it was meant to. He said, "You think the world is your big playground. Your ignorance is awesome. There is an Arab saying that translates something like this-the big man can never see through the eyes of the small man."

"Maybe the big man has a better view."

He stared at me a long time, then he turned to Bian. "I am sure you understand. Look what American power and arrogance did for your homeland, your people."

Bian replied, very wisely, "Stick to the here and now."

"Yes… as you wish. Here-we Saudis opened our soil for your military bases, we gave you our diplomatic support, and for decades we have fed your insatiable worship of big cars and big homes with cheap oil. Which brings us to now-how does your President repay our gifts, our generosity, our friendship?"

I suspected he would tell us, and in fact he said, "Now he openly declares the inferiority of our government. Now he preaches about spreading democracy to our kingdom. Because you have found no nuclear or chemical weapons in Iraq, now he shifts his reason for this war, and now it is about spreading democracy. Who does this fool think his democracy would replace? Is he so blind and stupid he does not know he is threatening our royal family?"

Phyllis was visibly tiring of this sidetrack into political dialectics. She interrupted and said, "Come to the point, Turki."

He stared at her a moment. "This is the point. There are factions in the royal family-growing factions-who believe we have made a terrible blunder befriending America. And they believe America is manufacturing an astounding disaster in Iraq, a mistake that will be our ruin. The Shiites are coming to power, and already you are tired of this war, and you cannot wait for your soldiers to pull out, to depart. Who do you think the Iraqi Shiites will turn to for protection from the Sunnis?"

He was on a roll, relishing this chance to lecture ignorant Americans, and once again he answered his own question. "The Persians. Iran. All of the Gulf States-all of the great oil-producing states-we all will face destruction. Imagine over half the world's oil in the hands of the mullahs in Tehran. America is committing economic suicide." He paused then added, more ominously, "You are committing suicide for all of us."

Phyllis had had enough of his commentary and asked, "These two princes, Ali and Faud, were they giving money and aid to Zarqawi?"

He drew a few breaths and said, "This… I cannot say this for sure."

"What can you say?"

"It is possible, maybe, that they, and maybe others… maybe they have decided that the Shiites cannot be allowed to rule Iraq."

Arabs rarely answer a question directly, especially an embarrassing one. You have to listen closely, cut through the elliptical bullshit, and apply the rule of opposites; no means yes, yes means maybe, and maybe can mean maybe, or it might mean none of your business. Phyllis asked, "Others?"

"Maybe."

"Who are these others?"

"I have no idea." Translation-for him to know, and us not to find out.

"Who are these two princes?"

Here was a question he didn't want to hear and he couldn't evade. But since we already knew their names, we could, and obviously, we would, find out through our own sources. So for once he answered directly and unequivocally. "Prince Faud is the third son of the defense minister. Prince Ali is the second son of the oil minister."

He watched our faces, studying our reactions. He had previously asserted that the princes were themselves insignificant figures- which might or might not be true-but their daddies were two of the most powerful and influential men in the kingdom, and in a land where lucky sperm is the ticket, this made their kids very important indeed.

In response to our silence, he assured us, "I can handle this. And I will handle this."

I was about to ask what he meant by that when Bian leaned across the table. She said, "You had an intelligence file on bin Pacha. Why? Why was bin Pacha under an intelligence watch?"

He treated her question as irrelevant. "We observe all returning mujahideen. Nothing is suspicious about this. These men who have come back from Afghanistan, Somalia, Bosnia, and Chechnya, they pick up… strange ideas."

In other words, the Saudis had no problem exporting jihadis, but big issues when jihadis came home.

"How long were you watching bin Pacha?" asked Bian.

"It began, I believe, after his return from jihad in Somalia."

Bian's fingers were tapping the table, and she said sarcastically, "You believe?"

"My bureau handles external security, not internal… and so I cannot say this for sure. As I said, it was routine."

"Ten years?"

"Perhaps. Not continuously, though, or even very thoroughly. He was merely one of thousands of our returned mujahideen." The irony of this statement eluded him, and after a moment he added, "You saw his file. He raised no particular concerns or alarms."

This statement was so blatantly disingenuous I had to laugh.

He did not like this and gave me a nasty look.

"Yet," Bian noted, "when you learned he was about to be apprehended, your ambassador rushed to the White House and intervened. If this… if Ali bin Pacha was beneath your radar, why go to such extraordinary trouble?"

Another question he didn't want to hear. In fact, I had not put this piece together, and Bian's analysis caught me by surprise-not the fact that the Saudis wanted to hide bin Pacha's secrets, per se; something else. It caught him by surprise as well, and he simply stared at her.

Since he was no longer answering, Bian answered for him. "You were aware bin Pacha was part of a terrorist cell and you knew rich Saudis were giving him money. Until he was about to be captured, you didn't care, or… you did care, and approved of his activities."

"This is speculation. Completely absurd."

She kept her eyes on his face.

I also was studying al-Fayef's face. He was too much the veteran professional to do something stupid, like look guilty, or even more stupidly, confess. But he did lick his lips a few times, and with a shaky hand he fumbled out a fresh cigarette and lit it.

He turned to Phyllis and insisted, "I have nothing more to say. Now you must tell me what you intend to do."

Actually, he'd told us as minimal truth he could get away with: a careful mixture of what we could learn on our own, what was intuitively obvious, and what any intelligent regional expert could divine from the facts. The problem for us, and the bigger problem for him, was what he didn't tell us, but that Bian had just surmised.

Regarding Phyllis, as usual her eyes conveyed one emotion, her lips another, and neither betrayed what probably was in her heart, or in her head. I was sure she was angry, frustrated, and worried. But for Phyllis, emotion and logic were never at war; it just never occurred to her that reason has a peer, or that emotion should incubate action. She announced unequivocally and, I thought, predictably, "What's done is done. We move forward."

Bian asked, "What does that mean?"

"It means what it means."

"What about justice?"

"For who?" Phyllis asked.

"For the soldiers who are fighting. For those who are dead. For their families, for their loved ones. For America."

"There is no justice for dead soldiers," Phyllis replied with typically chilling logic. "They are not murder victims-they're casualties of war."

"The Saudis have been feeding money, people, and who knows what to their killers. We now have the names of two princes." Bian looked in al-Fayef's direction and added, "It sounds like there are more names, and possibly the Saudi government's implicated as well. You can't ignore or paste over that."

Wrong, because Phyllis turned to al-Fayef and said, "It's not in our interest to expose the royal family to… embarrassment."

He smiled, though I saw no hint of pleasure or even contentment in his eyes; I saw relief. He said, "Good choice. It would be, you know, a disaster for both our countries." He looked around the room, at each of our faces, then added agreeably, "A war is going on, after all. We must remain friends. Good allies."

After all he had just said, about America, about our arrogance, about our incompetence, I was amazed that a bolt of lightning didn't strike. Apparently, while Bian and I missed the cues, the sheik and Phyllis had moved to a new song, this one titled "Row, row, row the boat gently down the stream."

And, in fact, Phyllis gave a cool nod to her sheik friend.

He said, "I recognize, however, that we have caused you certain difficulties." He waved his cigarette in small circles through the air. "Embarrassments. Inconveniences."

"Your sensitivity is greatly appreciated."

He leaned back into his chair and exhaled a long stream of smoke. "Two names, Phyllis. This is all I have been authorized to offer."

Phyllis shuffled her hands and replied noncommittally, "If they're the right names."

"Yes, yes… of course." He watched her face. "There is a man in Syria, a man who arranges the shipment of weapons and jihadists into Iraq. A smuggler of considerable talent and cleverness." Phyllis looked unimpressed, and he quickly emphasized, "He is big. Very big. Perhaps a third of the mujahideen entering Iraq flow through his channels."

Phyllis stared at him, then nodded. "We're halfway there."

"And I have heard of another man, a Saudi expatriate, who recruits jihadists in Jordan. He-"

Phyllis interrupted. "Forget about him. Recruiters are too easily replaced."

"Ah…" A pained expression came to the sheik's face, and he hesitated before he said, "There is another man, in Iraq, who decides the targets the mujahideen strike in the city of Karbala."

Phyllis bent forward with intensified interest.

"Alas, he also is Saudi, from a prominent family-his father is a dear friend of many years-and it… I am greatly pained to betray him."

This guy was a real craftsman, and probably he threw that in to make us all feel better. After a moment, Phyllis observed, "You know, of course, that names without addresses are of no use."

"And you know, of course, that my guards will depart with me. Also that infernal machine," he said, pointing at the recorder, with its incriminating recording. He quickly added, "And I'll give you the man in Jordan for free. We have no use for him."

"The recorder and guards are yours. I have no use for them."

As I said, Bian and I were not clued in to the rules here, but the flesh trading was apparently over, because the sheik rose from his seat and began casually brushing ashes off his white robes, even as he nonchalantly took a final pull from his stinky cigarette and crushed it beneath his foot. After about three seconds, he opened his valise, rummaged inside, fished out three manila folders, and slid them inelegantly across the table. He said to Phyllis, "Their names and where they can be found. Also background information that I am sure will be helpful when you interrogate them."

Phyllis grabbed the folders and, one by one, opened them and inspected the contents while the sheik picked up the recorder and inspected it to be sure the damning tape was still inside. They had just sold their souls to each other, and still did not trust each other.

The sheik said to Phyllis, "My sincerest apologies to the Director." There was an awkward pause, and then with a pained expression he confided, "I had no option, Phyllis. It was this, or my job."

She nodded.

"If not me, it would have been somebody else."

"I'm sure."

He looked at Bian and said, "It was a pleasure meeting you." He turned to me and could not help smiling. "Better luck next time, Colonel."

I smiled back. "Count on it."

I knew what Bian was going to say, and she said it. "Go to hell." My sentiments exactly.

The sheik shrugged his robes and left, gently closing the door behind him.

Phyllis quietly read the files and, more to the point, quietly ignored Bian and me. She did not want to have this discussion, and seemed to be silently hoping the problem-us-would go away.

But we did not go away, and she finally looked up at us and asked, "What did you expect?"

"We didn't expect anything," I replied. "Just definitely not this." I asked, "Was this little charade prearranged?"

"What does that mean?"

"It means he walked in here with those folders, and you just allowed him to walk out of here with everything he wanted."

"This is how our business works. Turki is a professional, and professionals come prepared." She looked at Bian. "You don't have to like it, but this is how you have to play it."

"I don't like it," Bian responded.

"No? Well… try thinking about what will save the most American lives, what will help win this war. Compromises are necessary evils."

"What else would I be thinking about?"

Phyllis studied her face, then said, "He told us who these two princes are. Whatever they did, they're gold-plated, and it doesn't matter-we weren't getting them." She added, "Nor is antagonizing the Saudis in our interest. For all the obvious reasons, we need them."

Bian said, "The calculus doesn't confuse me. But what you just did… it was no different than the pact Cliff Daniels made with Charabi, and we're doing nothing about that either. Guilty men walk, and everybody gets to avoid a scandal. That's what I question."

Phyllis's finger was tapping the table, a less than subtle warning that her patience was wearing thin. But Bian was beyond impatience; she was in a slow rage, and being scolded with cold reason not only failed to douse her inner fires it was an aphrodisiac.

Phyllis said, "Welcome to a world where every choice is flawed and you have to pick the one that least stinks. We lost bin Pacha. Nothing will change that. But at least we now have three new names, three fresh chances to pick up key figures, to find out what they know, and who they know."

I heard what Phyllis was saying, and on one level it made sense. I also understood that Bian, a military cop, was taught to reason and was trained to act on another level-good guys versus bad guys; do the crime, do the time. The mind of a police officer is not simple, but the job is morally not all that complex: guilt or innocence, black or white, without any ethical vagaries. But for the lawyer, guilt and innocence are parsed into many shades, crime is subjective, and punishment is merely a commodity you negotiate with a prosecutor, a judge, or a jury. We call this justice, and we say it is even-handed, and if you can afford a five-hundred-buck-an-hour attorney, you might even believe that. As lawyer friends of mine say, in America you get all the justice you can afford.

So I wasn't really shocked that this applies to espionage as well. And neither should Bian have been appalled, or even surprised. She was, though. And Phyllis, who usually exerts a more deft touch when she shoves around her subordinates, this time appeared surprisingly tone-deaf and clumsy.

I knew it would do no good, but I advised Bian, "I don't like it either. It is, though, the best deal we're going to get."

She replied, "That man ordered an assassination to keep us from knowledge that was invaluable to us and embarrassing to him. That same man just bartered his country's way out of a black eye it has definitely earned. That's wrong-we all know it's wrong. Pretend otherwise and you're as bad as her." She stood and left the room.

Phyllis watched her leave and drew a long breath, then turned her eyes to me and said, "You need to get her under control."

I stood and moved toward the door, but then I stopped and turned around. I said, "I understand your decision. I really do, Phyllis. And, you know what? Were I in your shoes, I might've made the same deal."

"Thank you."

For a moment I stood quietly. I then said, "But that doesn't make it any more morally excusable, or even right. So she's disgusted and disillusioned. Frankly, if you and I had souls, we would be, too."

Phyllis started to say something, and I kept talking. "And that's the problem. At the beginning of this case, we had lots of chances to do the right thing. The chance to find out about and expose Charabi. The chance to expose Daniels and his bosses, to expose the truth about the cooked intelligence, about a possible betrayal, and along the way, we stumble into a money scheme that implicates a government that is a titular ally. Instead, we settle for a few garden-variety terrorists. I think you can see where that might turn the stomach of a good soldier."

"She's obsessed with justice and honor. We're doing what's best for the country."

"I won't argue what's best or not. I really don't know anymore, and that bothers me more than anything." I added after a long moment, "Fire me or transfer me; I really don't care. I'm through with this job."

Phyllis did not look surprised but neither did she look ready to fire me. She picked up another folder. "I'll consider this as a sentiment expressed in a moment of haste, anger, and frustration. You have nothing to feel guilty or ashamed about. Nor do I. We handled the cards we were dealt as best we could. If there are moral shortcomings, they lie with others."

I said nothing.

"Sleep on it." She stuck her nose inside the folder. "Make your decision later, with a clear head."

She read. I walked out.