Man in the Middle

by Brian Haig

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Bian rose to that challenge and replied, “Don is . . . No, he was the head of the exploitation cell for the Iranian transcripts.”

  Phyllis nodded. “Yes. On both counts.” She looked at me and said, somewhat crossly, “You shouldn’t have taunted and humiliated him that way.” She added, “We’ve put him through hell these past three months. The poor man has virtually walked around with a lie detector connected to his tail.”

  “I handled him as I would any witness who might be lying, quibbling, and withholding.” I added, “People without last names bother me.”

  “I know why you did it. That’s why I’m having doubts about you. This is not a criminal case, nor can it be treated in a legalistic manner. I really—”

  “Excuse me—it’s a murder case.”

  She gave me one of those looks that suggested I was dancing on thin ice. “Hear me out, Drummond. We are at war. In wars people do stupid things, even venal things, things that very often result in deaths. The lines between stupidity, ineptitude, gullibility, and criminal mischief become very fluid. Do you understand the distinctions?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe won’t do.” She examined me a moment, and I had the sense the ice was cracking. “You’re a soldier, and for various reasons I would prefer to keep you on this investigation. But for the same reasons I’m now experiencing reservations. Do you understand what I’m talking about?”

  “I don’t exactly . . .” Care.

  She turned to Bian, who apparently was guilty by association. “Do you understand, Major?”

  Bian replied noncommittally, “A fuller explanation might clear up any misunderstandings.”

  “All right.” Phyllis studied us both a moment. Her fingers, I noted, were clutched and looked fidgety, for her, the equivalent of a hysterical fit.

  I thought I knew why, and also I thought it best to hear her out. She informed us, “I’ve been in this agency or its predecessor through seven or eight wars. World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Grenada, Panama, two Gulf wars—fill in the blanks. Were you to closely scrutinize any of these wars, were you to look past the sepia-tinted memories and turn over all the rocks in this town, you would discover a dismaying array of bad decisions, mistakes, misimpressions, incompetence, and in a few cases, outright lunacy. Many tens of thousands of lives were wasted. The historians know barely a quarter of it. I was here, I saw it firsthand, and I doubt I know the half of it. But bad things happen in wars, and had those things become exposed to the public during those wars, our history books might . . . well, they would look quite different.”

  “I’m still confused.”

  “Nothing is black and white here.”

  “I’m a lawyer, Phyllis. We invented moral relativity. I don’t need this lecture.”

  “And I don’t need a legal gunslinger,” she snapped. “The mission of this agency is not law enforcement, it’s intelligence. I’m suggesting a little . . . moral patience.”

  “Don’t need that either.”

  “Well . . . what do you need?”

  I thought I now understood where this was going and replied, “Cliff Daniels committed a very heinous mistake, one that may have crossed over to a crime—possibly several crimes—including espionage and possibly treason. We have the paper trail of his misdeeds. Also, we have two high-level officials, Albert Tigerman and Thomas Hirschfield, who possibly knew about this crime, who possibly ordered or condoned it, and who possibly were coconspirators, or, at the very least, have embarked on a cover-up. Not to be overlooked, there has also been a murder and they are also suspects in that crime. I hope this is not news to you—each of these things have sections and titles dedicated to them in the federal statutes.”

  She smiled patiently, as if she was humoring me. “That’s a lot of possiblys. What would you have us do?”

  “What the law requires. Call in the FBI. Let them chat with a federal judge, and do what they do best—read people their rights, threaten, bust nuts, kick down doors, cut deals, until somebody squeals. It might surprise you, but regarding federal crimes, there actually are laws and tested procedures that usually get results.”

  My sarcasm apparently struck a nerve, because she replied, “I believe I have a little experience in these matters, having lived through it three or four dozen times.”

  “And may I say that this agency has a wonderful record of handling it right every time.”

  Her eyes narrowed. She took a long breath, then said, “Use your critical faculties as an attorney—how would you describe the evidence?”

  “I don’t understand the question.”

  “I think you do.”

  “Then why ask me?”

  “Weak and inconclusive, right?”

  “Well . . . yes, and—”

  “And to compensate for that lack of material evidence, I’m sure you have a long list of willing and credible witnesses.”

  “You know I—”

  “And you should know that the instant anybody calls the FBI, the administration will throw a shield of executive privilege over everything involved in this matter. Of course it will be challenged, and of course the courts—after all, we are at war—will uphold the administration’s claim. In twenty-five or fifty years, the classifications will expire and we’ll finally get to the bottom of this.”

  I said, “Maybe.”

  Phyllis looked annoyed. “Where are the maybes?”

  Bian, who had been sitting and listening to us bicker and debate these weighty issues of right versus wrong, of legal procedure versus seat-of-your-pants bullshit, chose this moment to observe, “I think she’s right.”

  This statement annoyed me a lot, coming as it did at such a pivotal moment; no less from a military police officer; no less from a comrade in arms; and last and not least, from my putative partner.

  Partners are supposed to back each other up. Right? I was really pissed and I looked at Bian. “I don’t remember asking what you think.”

  “Don’t use that tone with me,” she snapped. “I told you before, I don’t like to be condescended to.”

  I studied her a moment. Now she was really pissed. I could tell.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Try it again and you’ll be sorrier.”

  My goodness. But Phyllis quickly swooped down on her new ally and asked Bian, “Why am I right?”

  Bian looked at me and answered, “Even if you apply the most optimistic standard, there is only one person we could even hope to charge with a crime.” She added, “He’s dead. Beyond that we have only suspicions that would sound outrageous to any rational person.”

  Phyllis nodded at her prized pupil. “But do you believe these suspicions are . . . do they hold water?”

  Bian stared back at her.

  Phyllis said, “This is important. For instance, when was the relationship between Clifford Daniels and Charabi first formed?”

  “About ten years ago,” Bian replied. “Don mentioned the year . . . 1993 or 1994.”

  “The fifteenth of December 1994, according to the report he was required to file after that meeting. But until this administration came to power, their partnership was meaningless—inane and silly, to tell the truth. The previous President had no intention of invading Iraq. It did not become fully empowered until after Hirschfield and Tigerman returned to the Pentagon, and it really gained legs post-9/11.”

  She stood up and began quickly pacing around the room. “The information and sources fed us by Charabi were pivotal to the President’s decision to go to war. And, of course, they were included in the public justification for the invasion. Believe me, I know. Were it not for this information . . .”

  She let that statement drag off, and I nodded. That’s what it said in the news reports, and Phyllis, who had been on the inside, had a firsthand view of the decisions that led to war, and now she was confirming the reportage.

  Phyllis continued, “Don surmised that Daniels prodded or drove Charabi into t
he arms of Iranian intelligence.” She looked at me. “What do you think about that?”

  “Inter canem et lupum,” I replied.

  For Bian’s benefit, Phyllis translated my Latin: “Between the dog and the wolf. The more up-to-date expression is that he placed him between a rock and a hard place.” She focused on Bian and asked, “Do you believe that? Is it the only explanation?”

  Bian played with her pen for a moment. “I don’t . . . There’s an unproven assumption here, isn’t there?”

  Phyllis stopped her pacing and leaned across the table, facing Bian and me. “We’re assuming that Daniels drove him into Iran’s arms. But there’s another possibility, isn’t there?” I could almost hear the game clock ticking.

  So I eliminated that assumption from my logic train, and thought about it . . . and . . .

  And holy shit.

  Eliminate that assumption and you arrive at a whole new theory— that maybe Charabi didn’t need a shove, or even a nudge or nasty threat, because he already worked for Iran. And from there, it was a hop, skip, and a jump to the slightly more expansive proposition that Charabi was—from the beginning—working either with or for Iran’s intelligence service. Bian also pieced this together, because she looked at me, her eyes large.

  Phyllis said, “Possibly Mahmoud Charabi was . . . well, in the intelligence lexicon, an agent of influence. He may even have been an Iranian plant to feed us disinformation.” She started to say something else, thought better of it, and, with a regretful pout, instead suggested, “I’m surprised we never considered this before. It is the oldest gambit in the business.”

  I thought I had seen everything. But the hypothesis, the idea, the supposition—or whatever it was—that Iran, via its agent Charabi, had recruited first Tigerman, then Daniels, then the entire Pentagon, and then the White House, was almost beyond belief. Almost.

  Phyllis understood this. She said, “Hard to digest, isn’t it?”

  I made no reply to that understatement. I was still caught up in the idea that the whole reason behind a war might be a con job by the Iranians, who wanted Saddam gone and who duped Uncle Sam into handling the dirty work for them. It made sense, and it didn’t make sense.

  Bian suddenly stood up. “I might be sick.”

  I looked at her. Her face had gone pale and her legs a little wobbly. She placed her hands on the table and began drawing deep breaths.

  Never personalize things—that’s the golden rule. But Bian, because of her direct personal investment in this war, was more emotionally upset by this suspicion than Phyllis or I. To learn that it might all have been the result of some geostrategic hustle clearly unnerved her. Or perhaps she was responding as any normal person would to such a shocking theory; maybe I had become more like Phyllis than I pretended, too jaded, too cold-blooded. Whew—there was a frightening thought.

  I played it back and forth inside my head a few times. Deductively, Charabi and the Iranians shared a common goal—Saddam gone and a Shiite in his place—and better yet, from Iran’s perspective, a malleable Shiite who owed them a big, unspeakable favor. Further, what could be better than having the U.S. take the flack and casualties for a preemptive war most of the world, and a growing percentage of the American populace, regarded as unjustified, unnecessary, and strategically dangerous? This gave a whole new meaning to killing two birds with one stone.

  The mullahs in Tehran might even consider this some sort of aesthetic retribution for America helping to install and then propping up the shah. I knew also that most Iranians believe to this day that the United States had somehow instigated and then artificially prolonged their bloody eight-year war with Iraq—a war that ultimately cost half a million Iranian lives. Not entirely true. But nations are free to invent their own histories; they don’t have to be fair or accurate, they only have to make people feel good about themselves—even Americans are not above inflating our boogeymen and embellishing our myths.

  There was an almost biblical quality here—an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, so why not a war for a war? Especially with the added sweetener that the victim doesn’t even know he just got screwed?

  On the other hand, we were making a big leap in judgment. Okay, yes, it did seem to fit the facts as we now knew them. But truth, like life, depends on which end of the telescope you’re looking through.

  Phyllis allowed us a moment to collect our thoughts, then told us, “We three are the only ones who have put these pieces together. Except the Director . . . I informed him about two hours ago.” She added, “He nearly had a heart attack.”

  But this was not exactly so, and I said, “If this is true, Charabi knows, and the Iranians know.”

  Bian heard what was I saying and commented, accurately, “That would mean they have . . . well, they have the balls of the President of the United States in their hands.”

  Phyllis took this in and replied, “Perhaps they do. Were they to leak this, there won’t be a need for an election here next week. A coronation will suffice.”

  Which raised the ever-evocative question. I looked at Phyllis. “Why us?”

  “I need my best man on this.”

  “Where is he?”

  “That would be you.” She smiled.

  This was such utter bullshit, I had to smile back.

  She said, “I have my reasons.”

  “I’m sure you do. I’d like to hear them.”

  But this was not my game, this was Phyllis’s game, and she responded, “Tell me what you think.”

  “Instead I’ll tell you what I know. You’re worried about your agency.”

  “It’s your agency as well.”

  Wanta bet? I expanded on this reasoning and continued, “You don’t trust your own people. They might leak this to destroy this President, or they might exploit it to intimidate or blackmail the White House.”

  “I won’t claim there’s any love around here for this President. And yes . . . there is considerable resentment within the Agency toward this administration,” she acknowledged. She then observed, “You appear to have a dim view of Agency people.”

  “I think Agency people are great. I really do. You’re the one who seems to have a problem trusting them. That’s why us, right? Military people follow orders.”

  “That thought had entered my mind.”

  “In fact,” I continued, “you and your boss want to be the dealers. You control the information, you control the investigators, and you control the results.”

  She neither confirmed nor denied this assertion. She didn’t need to. Knowledge is power, more so in Washington than most places, and this knowledge was the equivalent of a hundred-megaton hydrogen bomb tucked in your pocket.

  I could picture the Director seated beside that handsome marble fireplace in the Oval Office, smiling pleasantly and saying something like, “Mr. President, the Agency needs the biggest budget increase in its history . . . and yes . . . I know, I know . . .” He would pause to shake his head. “Times are hard . . . what with the national debt exploding . . . yes, yes, it’s certainly difficult to justify, and . . . but . . . well, here . . . Browse through this file I’m putting on your lap. Maybe you’ll find it in your heart to support me on this.”

  Phyllis lifted a paper off her desk, which she handed to Bian, who read it before she passed it to me. It was another of the missing messages, this one from Charabi to Daniels, and it read:

  Clifford, my most loyal, truly dearest friend. I am apologizing for this long lapse of time that I have not given you the promised information. Alas, I should have heeded the old Arab saying: To trust a Persian is to trust a snake. Truly, they are the rottenest race of all Allah’s followers, dirty beggars, Ali Babas, and thieving miscreants. But they continued to insist, as I have several times repeated to you, that the trail of this bad fellow has been lost, and he needed to be re-found, which now they say has been accomplished. As my Persian friends promised, this is a big fish, the moneyman behind Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, whom you know has k
illed many of your soldiers and caused much mayhem in this country. This man has the name Ali bin Pacha, a Saudi who stays in the city of Falluja, in a white compound at the end of the Avenue of Ali, near the city center. They say this man can be recognized because he misses his left leg, and they advise you must move swiftly, because a man of such value and cleverness does not grow roots. So you see, my friend, I am not, as you cruelly and unfairly proclaimed in your recent messages, a rotten turd.

  Phyllis informed us, “This was the last message in the file.” She added, “It was sent only two days ago.”

  Bian looked at me. “Then this man . . . this Ali bin Pacha—”

  “That’s correct.” Phyllis finished Bian’s thought, “Presumably he’s still on the loose, still in Falluja, and still ripe for the taking. But for how long . . . ?” She shrugged.

  I said nothing. I hoped she wasn’t thinking what she seemed to be thinking.

  She was studying me, her left eyebrow cocked expectantly.

  When I didn’t voluntarily volunteer, Phyllis prodded, “Well, Drummond . . . ?”

  So that was what she was thinking. Did I want in? No, absolutely not—this was nuts, or worse.

  For one thing, Ali bin Pacha might already have shifted to a new location, or alternatively, this whole thing might be another con by Charabi, and/or by his Iranian pals.

  Second, Phyllis was keeping secrets. An operation of this nature is risky even when you know what’s happening behind your back and everything is on the up-and-up.

  And not insignificantly, now that we were cognizant of criminal activity, if we failed to refer this to the FBI, we were also committing a crime.

  I’m not always a stickler for rules and legalities, especially when I think I won’t get caught. This was not one of those times.

  But before I could answer, Bian leaned forward and responded, “I’m in.” After a moment, she added, “Actually, if you think about it, I’m the ideal choice.”

  “Why would that be?” asked Phyllis, her eyes on me.

  “I completed a full tour there. I know the country and culture, I’m fluent in the language, and I have recent operational experience.”