Part 22 (1/2)

We reentered the office, and Dandy Don was chatting with Phyllis, something about a trip to Paris and a restaurant on the Avenue de Who-gives-a-s.h.i.+t where he enjoyed something that in his words was exquisite, called fwa gra.s.s fwa gra.s.s, which apparently is not something you mow; it's something you eat. Why did I not like this guy? I held out the coffee cup to Don. ”I thought you might want coffee.”

He looked taken back by my generosity, but accepted the cup. ”Well . . . uh, sure.”

Before Bian could get out a warning, he took a long sip and-- ”s.h.i.+t!”--gooey black stuff sprayed out all over the tabletop. He slammed down the cup and stared at me. ”You're not as funny as you think, Drummond.”

Wanna bet?

An odd sound exploded from Phyllis's throat, a hiccup or maybe a choked laugh. Evidently she didn't like Don either. This was good to know.

After an awkward moment, she explained to Don, ”Drummond takes a little getting used to.”

This might have been the understatement of the day.

Bian was giving me a look that said, ”Grow up.” I mean, I'm trying to protect her virtue, to show her what a phony putz Donny Boy is before he starts humping her leg.

I smiled at her. She looked away.

Don, however, had now concluded that Sean Drummond was the cla.s.s clown, which was what I wanted him to believe. I often do this to witnesses on the stand. I never cease to be amazed at the stupid things people will say when they think you're stupid.

Trying to restore a modic.u.m of seriousness, Bian said to Don, ”As an expert on Iraq, what do you make of this exchange of information between Daniels and Charabi?”

Don swallowed a few times and regained his composure. He turned to Bian and said, ”Be more specific.” p.r.i.c.k. p.r.i.c.k.

Bian replied, ”Were you aware Daniels was giving Charabi this secret?”

”No.”

”Was this . . . officially sanctioned?”

”Why ask me? I thought that's what you and Drummond--”

”It was not sanctioned,” Phyllis quickly interjected. ”The Director alone had authority to bless this release.”

I turned to Phyllis. ”And you're sure he didn't?”

”Better yet, he's sure.”

”Who knew we broke the Iranian code?” Bian asked. ”After all, a breakthrough of such vital sensitivity and intelligence value . . . wasn't this compartmentalized?”

”Of course it was.” Phyllis explained, ”A small team from the National Security Agency handled the deciphering, and from within the Agency we handpicked a small cell to manage the use of the fruits.”

Don added, ”Decoded interpretations of the transcripts were hand-delivered by an Agency courier to a military exploitation cell in Baghdad. But the military, including this exploitation cell, were kept in the blind about where, or how, this knowledge was obtained. They didn't need to know where it came from to know how to use it.”

Don, antic.i.p.ating our next question, informed us, ”And no . . . Daniels was not read on, nor was he part of this operation. Nor did he have the security clearance to be in the loop.”

I thought about that a moment. I asked, ”Do you know for sure that Charabi revealed this news to the Iranians?”

Don studied me for a moment. Eventually he said, ”You think like a lawyer. You're wondering if the c.o.c.ked pistol was actually fired, if there is a victim, if there was a crime.”

He turned to Phyllis, who nodded. He informed us, ”About three months back, we saw . . . yes . . . there were definite signs of compromise, that the Iranians knew what we were up to. But frankly, we were in disbelief. At first. We had no idea how this could have happened.”

”And now you know. Describe these signs.”

”Ask another question.”

”All right. These signs--they were irrefutable?”

After a moment, Don replied, ”Yes.”

”How? Why?”

”You're probing into areas that are . . . Look, for the purpose of your investigation, you don't need to know about this. Okay? It was a huge loss. Leave it at that.”

”Got it.”

”Good. The point is--”

”Why was it a huge loss?”

”You don't back off, do you?” He looked at Phyllis, who nodded again. He turned back to me and said, ”Okay, I'll tell you this much. Because the Iranians had, and still have, their fingers deeply inside Iraq. It's a long, porous border with smugglers' routes that have existed for a thousand years. They've been moving large amounts of money, weapons, and people to various s.h.i.+te parties and factions. Put two Army divisions on that border and it wouldn't make a dent. They can't be stopped physically. Just electronically.”

”And using these decoded transcripts you were tracking all this?”

”Yes . . . were. were. Once they learned their code was compromised, they've taken the appropriate steps and devised an alternative communications structure that, so far, has been foolproof.” He looked at Bian. ”You have a combat patch. You were there, right? I think you appreciate firsthand how invaluable this information was, militarily and politically.” Once they learned their code was compromised, they've taken the appropriate steps and devised an alternative communications structure that, so far, has been foolproof.” He looked at Bian. ”You have a combat patch. You were there, right? I think you appreciate firsthand how invaluable this information was, militarily and politically.”

Bian leaned back in her chair and thought about this. Eventually, she leaned forward and said, ”The timing . . .” She paused. ”This disclosure occurred near the start of the s.h.i.+te uprising, right?”

Don nodded. ”None of Daniels's messages are dated. You know that. However, this message was sandwiched between e-mails that place it within a few weeks--perhaps days--before Muqtada al-Sadr's s.h.i.+te uprising. In fact--”

”In fact, that's enough on that topic,” Phyllis interrupted.

Don and Phyllis exchanged quick glances. An important piece of this story was being withheld, and I wondered what that part was. More important, why were Bian and I being kept out of the loop?

You can go crazy asking yourself these questions with these people--they won't even tell their own kids where they hid the Easter eggs.

Anyway, Don s.h.i.+fted gears and began speaking extemporaneously, without questions or prompting, which was sort of refres.h.i.+ng. Clearly he was an expert on this subject, and he offered us a rich and fairly informative tutorial about the s.h.i.+fting situation on the ground in Iraq.

Essentially, within a year after the invasion, the country had become embroiled in a civil war--more accurately, several concurrent civil wars--between s.h.i.+tes and s.h.i.+tes, between s.h.i.+tes and Sunnis, between Sunnis who wanted to return to Baathist ways, Sunnis with different designs, and three or four splinter groups that n.o.body understood, probably including themselves. Tossed into that potpourri were foreigners pouring across Iraq's borders because it was a shooting gallery with American troops as targets. In short, what we had was Uncle Sam trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle with pieces that didn't fit together and that wouldn't sit still.

I interrupted at one point and asked, ”So what's the problem between these s.h.i.+tes and Sunnis? They're all Muslims, right? Don't they believe in the same faith?”

Don looked like he could not believe I asked this. ”Yes, they are all Muslims. The theological differences are small, almost irrelevant. For all Muslims, Mohammed is the prophet who received the word of G.o.d from the angel Gabriel and gave it to his people. The major differences stem from after Mohammed died, over who should inherit his mantle. His cousin Ali or his best friend, Abu Bakr. The s.h.i.+tes believe only Mohammed's bloodline can be caliphs, and the Sunnis believe it was Mohammed's intent to pa.s.s it to Abu Bakr. Over this issue, the Muslims divided into two opposing sects, each side accusing the other of perverting Islam, of being apostates. Eventually, the first leader of the s.h.i.+tes, Husayn, and his followers were killed by Sunnis in a battle in Iraq. Clear?”

”No.”

”The s.h.i.+tes believe the twelfth iman, the last iman, will return to earth from a cave to rule a perfect G.o.dly society. For the Sunnis their holy city is Mecca, in Saudi Arabia. For the s.h.i.+tes the most holy shrines are in Najaf and Karbala, in Iraq. In the seventh century, when Husayn and his s.h.i.+a followers were slain by the Sunnis, the schism became a blood fued. Only a tenth of the world's Muslims are s.h.i.+a, and embedded in their beliefs is a lot of minority anger, the sense of always being repressed by Sunnis, of being part of a religion shaped from injustice. So it remains.”

I looked at him and said, ”So this is like a family feud over the old man's inheritance.”