Part 36 (2/2)

I turned to Bian and said, ”He wants to talk to you about bombs. Get me when you're finished.” I paused, then added, ”It would be nice if he was still alive and in one piece.”

”No promises.”

Ali looked very chagrined by the prospect of being left alone with a homicidal Israeli maniac, but I was hungry. I went to the galley, where I found jars of crunchy peanut b.u.t.ter and strawberry jam, a loaf of Wonder Bread, and a cold c.o.ke. I made four sandwiches, heavy on the jam, and I sat and ate.

From my experience, once a witness steps over the line and becomes a squeal, usually they go from telling you nothing to reciting the entire Yellow Pages, trying to impress you with their newfound good citizens.h.i.+p. Anyway, I heard no howls or slaps and a.s.sumed Abdul was behaving and letting it all hang out. Neither did I hear any shots, so Bian also was behaving.

As I ate, I thought about what we were doing, and where this was going.

I had been involved in legal cases that became more and more complicated, one thing leading to another, some related, some not. It is an article of faith in law enforcement that those who commit one serious crime usually exercise a disdain for all laws. So as you investigate deeper, you frequently stumble into a briar patch of criminal behavior, additional crimes, and coconspirators. In those instances you keep plodding forward, putting one foot in front of another, and--if you keep your head screwed on straight--eventually it all makes sense, or it makes absolutely no sense, which can be a revelation in itself.

But this case had turned into one of those Russian Matryoshka dolls, where one thing always leads to another, and you become trapped by never-ending disclosures. So were all these things connected? Were they even related?

What we had here were Abdul Almiri and Ali bin Pacha, tangents, if you will--in Phyllis's words, low-hanging fruit--that, for good and obvious reasons, had to be plucked and squeezed. But they were also a diversion from our original investigation and it was worth pondering whether that was by happenstance or design. I mean, you had to consider the possibility that Phyllis hadn't been totally up-front about her motives for sending us here.

Security and confidentiality, she had stressed. And, okay, yes, certainly I could understand and appreciate how Bian and I fit that bill; good soldiers, discreet, obedient, plus we offered the additional quality of plausible deniability, which people in Was.h.i.+ngton value a lot. We were also plausibly expendable, since n.o.body would question two more dead soldiers in Iraq.

And then there was this: Were Phyllis and her boss the lone keepers of the Secret, they would have their own bedrooms at Kennebunkport and bandstand seats at the inaugural parade. Actually, they would pick who was being sworn in. Sounded about right. Were I in Phyllis's shoes, Sean Drummond and Bian Tran would be my first choice.

But considered from another angle, maybe Phyllis was jerking us off. And if so, why? Well, one reason would be to buy time. But time for what?

Or was I being unfairly suspicious? When you work for people who are paid to be underhanded, sneaky, and devious, it does tend to make you paranoid. Suddenly, behind every door lurks a hungry tiger, every order disguises a lie, and the mission that appears perfectly innocent ends with a bullet through the back of your skull. Then again, maybe my imagination was overworking this. But Phyllis does think think like that. like that.

After ten minutes, Bian joined me in the galley. She informed me, ”His job was just logistics--no involvement in planning or execution of the hits. He just built bombs and provided them to others.”

”It's a relief to know he's not such a bad guy.”

”That was his argument, too. He insisted that he never personally killed or harmed anybody. You know?”

”I know. Did he have anything useful?”

”Not really. Turns out that the man Eric's men shot, he was Abdul's controller. He knew who got the bombs, the chain of supply, and so on.” She picked a sandwich off my plate and began eating. ”We should turn Abdul over to the military, ASAP. He probably possesses knowledge the Army will find relevant. Technical details about his bombs, for instance. That knowledge is always useful to the disposal units. The sooner the better.”

She had been here, and she would know, so I nodded. I put aside the plate, and she accompanied me back to the suite. When we entered, I noted that Bian had positioned Abdul's sandwich about five inches beyond his reach. The man was contorted like a pretzel as he strained to reach it. He looked very annoyed.

I said to Mr. Almiri, ”The Central Intelligence Agency thanks you for your cooperation.”

He ignored the stupid sandwich for a moment, looked up, and offered me a broad, ingratiating smile.

I informed Mr. Almiri, ”About that witness protection offer, after a lot of thought, I've decided on your final destination.”

”Ah . . . well, sir, I am certain you will choose well. Abdul can be happy in even a cold place.”

”I promised it will be warm. That promise I'll keep.” He looked at me expectantly, and I let the shoe drop. ”You're going to Abu Ghraib, Mr. Almiri. We're turning you over to the American military. You'll cooperate with them, or we'll tell the entire prison yard that you ratted out your fellow jihadis. Do you understand?”

Abdul looked like a guy on the verge of an o.r.g.a.s.m being told to pull it out. ”But, sir . . . you were promising Abdul--”

”I lied.”

I thought he was going to cry.

I looked him in the eyes. ”An hour ago, Mr. Almiri, I was at the American medical facility. Dozens of horribly wounded women and children were being rushed in, the result of a bombing. This might've been from one of your devices, or the handiwork of one of your students. Fry in h.e.l.l.”

I walked out.

Bian followed, and quietly closed the door behind her.

I headed straight to the lounge, removed my boots, stretched out on the comfortable sofa, and within three seconds was deeply asleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The alarm went off at 2:30 p.m. and I awoke from my nap. I walked to the rear of the plane, back to the master suite, where Bian was asleep on the big bed, and I awoke her as well.

We both used the bathrooms to dash cold water on our faces and brush our teeth, and then we reconvened in the galley. We brewed a large pot of coffee, poured peanuts and trail mix into a large bowl, and then moved to the conference room, where we settled in to await the arrival of Phyllis and Adolf Waterbury.

The few hours of sleep seemed to agree with Bian, and her mood had brightened--albiet still a little coolish toward moi. We chewed the fat awhile, the kind of shallow, aimless conversation people have who are just becoming acquainted--or who are working on becoming less acquainted--before she changed the subject and mentioned, ”I liked the way you handled Abdul Almiri.”

I nodded.

She said, ”So you saw the consequences of a street bombing at the field hospital?”

”I did.”

”What was your impression?”

”What would anybody think?”

”I don't care about anybody. What do you you think?” think?”

I put down my coffee and answered her. ”These people are savages. They're not making war, they're ma.s.s-murdering innocents under the guise of a cause.”

”That's it? Nothing deeper?”

”Tell me what I'm supposed to think.”

She sipped from her coffee and stared at me a moment. She said, ”You can't imagine how many of those things I witnessed during my tour. As an MP, we were often the first responders. I have dreams about it still.”

”Dreams or memories?”

”They mix together.”

”Tell me about one.”

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