Part 19 (1/2)

”Well . . . our friends in the press seem to have manufactured the unfortunate impression that the Agency was largely responsible. Then again, they have their own credibility issues, don't they?”

”Where would the press get this idea?”

He did not reply.

”From sources inside the White House? From sources inside the Defense Department?”

Don did not reply to this either. Regarding this line of inquiry, Was.h.i.+ngton has an amazing cornucopia of more than a dozen different intelligence organizations. To an outsider this might sound superfluous and maybe absurd--an insider knows knows it's insane. But they all are ostensibly indispensable on the basis that each does something different, or employs different collection means, or offers a unique perspective, or serves different masters with differing needs. it's insane. But they all are ostensibly indispensable on the basis that each does something different, or employs different collection means, or offers a unique perspective, or serves different masters with differing needs.

It's a little like medieval Venice with all those interlocking families sharing the same cramped turf, warily coexisting, sensitive to slights, and completely paranoid about their own territory, prestige, and existence. Bureaucratic drive-by shootings and political poisonings aren't out of the question.

Yet, despite this excess of riches, before the war, Tigerman and Hirschfield had decided to add one more, their own in-house intelligence hothouse, and Clifford Daniels was brought in from DIA as a founding member. The expressed mission for this small cell was to cull through the raw intelligence provided by other agencies, to question, to reinterpret, to determine if anything vital had been missed, misinterpreted, or overlooked. But there were critics who claimed the reason was to cook, customize, and ma.s.sage the raw intelligence to justify an invasion, and a war.

Don had known about this, and I now knew about it as well. The policy wonks in the Pentagon had muscled their way into the intelligence business, and a larger bureaucratic war was going on here, a battle for tax dollars, for influence, for reputations--and now a battle over blame--and I wanted to know where Don stood on it. Well, I already knew where he stood; I just wanted him to admit it. Then, when the bulls.h.i.+t flew, we would all all know where he was coming from. know where he was coming from.

I looked at Don. ”In any event, we all know the Agency has been made the public scapegoat. Does that p.i.s.s you off?”

”Personally? Why should it, Drummond? Just business.”

Bulls.h.i.+t. ”How did Charabi end up as the Pentagon's man?” ”How did Charabi end up as the Pentagon's man?”

”That's a long and complicated story.”

”You're a clever guy. Come up with an abbreviated version.”

”All right.” He offered me a strange smile, like he was measuring my coffin size.

As I mentioned, Don was full of himself--arrogant, actually--and that nearly always equates to thin-skinned. Also, he would tell us what he he wanted us to know unless I p.i.s.sed him off enough to provoke a few inadvertent truths from his lips. Sizing him up, he was a cool customer, a world-cla.s.s bulls.h.i.+tter, and he affected a certain imperturbable coyness. He actually seemed to be enjoying this game of cat and mouse, and he obviously liked being the center of attention. wanted us to know unless I p.i.s.sed him off enough to provoke a few inadvertent truths from his lips. Sizing him up, he was a cool customer, a world-cla.s.s bulls.h.i.+tter, and he affected a certain imperturbable coyness. He actually seemed to be enjoying this game of cat and mouse, and he obviously liked being the center of attention.

He stopped smiling and said, ”Charabi approached us after the first Gulf War.” He paused and appeared thoughtful. ”Late 1993 . . . maybe early 1994. I, myself, met with him.”

”What was the purpose of this meeting?”

”It was in the nature of a negotiation.”

”Go on.”

”He was offering to provide intelligence about conditions inside Iraq. It sounded attractive. In fact, it sounded great. The truth is, getting and keeping good sources inside Iraq was . . . difficult. Saddam was--surely you've read this--almost insanely paranoid and ruthless. A lot of our sources ended up in graves. This was not helpful for recruitment.”

He paused and looked at Bian. She said, ”So it sounded good. What happened?”

”His offer came with stipulations. For one, we had to agree to emanc.i.p.ate his people from a monster.”

”I thought that was our policy.”

”It was. Later. But then--and even later--we were . . . let's just say, concerned concerned about Charabi's additional conditions.” about Charabi's additional conditions.”

Bian suggested, ”He wanted you to put him in power.”

He nodded. ”He wanted to be king.” He paused, then said, ”He claimed he had hundreds of Iraqis in his pocket, exiles, and also people in country willing to help. And of course these were Iraqis--very cliquish, very clannish. You get one, you get dozens of relatives and tribal members. They would gather intelligence, and after Saddam was gone, they would form the base of his power. Also, he's s.h.i.+te, as are about 60 percent of Iraqis. Better yet, he's a secular s.h.i.+te, so the Kurds--and maybe even the Sunnis--might find him palatable.”

Bian commented, ”For the situation, that sounds like an attractive resume.”

”The perfect perfect resume. So, yes . . . I agreed to meet with him.” He paused, then added, ”I brought along another gentleman. An Agency psychiatrist who specializes in quick profiles of foreign leaders. He's quite good at it. Would you care to hear his a.s.sessment?” resume. So, yes . . . I agreed to meet with him.” He paused, then added, ”I brought along another gentleman. An Agency psychiatrist who specializes in quick profiles of foreign leaders. He's quite good at it. Would you care to hear his a.s.sessment?”

I said, ”Sure.”

”A cla.s.sic narcissist, compounded by a manipulative personality cla.s.sification.”

I looked at Bian and shrugged. She shrugged back.

Don was amused by our ignorance and with a snotty smile informed us, ”Here's language even you'll understand, Drummond. A self-serving a.s.shole with a velvety tongue who will screw you for a nickel.”

”Was that you, or Charabi? Or both?”

He gave me a long, hard stare. He turned to Phyllis. ”Do I really have to put up with this?”

She advised him with some insight, ”He's trying to taunt you. Ignore him and he'll stop.”

I smiled at Phyllis. She ignored me, and to humor her, I stopped smiling.

Bian said to Don, ”I have no idea how these things work. Presumably this was a vetting process and this snapshot psychoa.n.a.lysis was part of it. Right?” He nodded, and she asked, ”Did this psychiatrist veto an arrangement?”

”That's not how it works. He offers insights; I decide. However, he cla.s.sified Charabi as a high-risk a.s.set. Specifically, he predicted Charabi would follow his own agenda, guided by his own scruples, which in the doctor's judgment were scarce and very elastic.”

Incidentally, every time he spoke, Don's eyes flashed toward Bian. You knew exactly what was going through his filthy mind. Geez-- dogs in heat show more savoir faire than this guy.

Bian, for her part, seemed totally oblivious, or perhaps she mistook Don's interest as intellectual flattery. Message to Bian--it's not your mind he wants to get into.

I have known women who live for this kind of attention; others I know do nothing to invite it and are perilously blind to the signals. I don't mean that Bian was naive, or a naif, but she spent four years at West Point, where the boy-to-girl ratio is about ten to one. In such a male-dominated environment, I imagine the female either dampens her antennae or becomes a s.e.xual hypochondriac.

Anyway, I tried to catch Don's eye and said, ”I haven't knocked over any foreign governments, so maybe this is going over my head. For replacing Saddam, isn't that a reasonable trade?”

”On first blush, Drummond . . . yes, sure . . . I might agree with you. A duplicitous liar for a pathological ma.s.s murderer. Sure. Why not?”

”That's what I asked you--why not?”

”I ran his background and he wasn't . . . credible.”

Credible, for most people, concerns integrity and trustworthiness; these people, however, play by different rules, and more often it's about whether they can get a grip on his short hairs.

Having not spent time with Agency types, however, Bian found this concept elusive and asked, ”Can you explain that?”

”Well . . . why do you think he fled Iraq in the first place?”

”The newspapers said--”