Part 23 (2/2)

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 relations.h.i.+p 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 this administration came to power, their partners.h.i.+p 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.” administration came to power, their partners.h.i.+p 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 the 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 a.s.sumption here, isn't there?”

Phyllis stopped her pacing and leaned across the table, facing Bian and me. ”We're a.s.suming a.s.suming that Daniels drove him into Iran's arms. But there's another possibility, isn't there?” I could almost hear the game clock ticking. 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 a.s.sumption from my logic train, and thought about it . . . and . . .

And holy s.h.i.+t.

Eliminate that a.s.sumption 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 s.h.i.+te in his place--and better yet, from Iran's perspective, a malleable s.h.i.+te 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 embellis.h.i.+ng 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 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. 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 b.a.l.l.s 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 bulls.h.i.+t, 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 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 a.s.sertion. She didn't need to. Knowledge is power, more so in Was.h.i.+ngton than most places, and this knowledge was the equivalent of a hundred-megaton hydrogen bomb tucked in your pocket.

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