Part 45 (2/2)

”Oh . . . well . . .” An expression of real concern crossed his face, as he apparently a.s.sumed this was a result of his medical advice or skill.

And characteristic of her profession, Phyllis was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g with his head, she knew it, and she let his agony brew for about ten seconds before she clarified, ”By a.s.sa.s.sination. The Saudi guards.”

”Ah . . .”

Phyllis continued, ”Unfortunately, our Bureau friends failed to record the events inside his cell. So my questions for you are these: Was he transmitting and was he recorded?”

And characteristic of his profession, Enzenauer spent about thirty seconds looking profoundly thoughtful, as if Phyllis had asked him to solve the mystery of the universe. ”Well . . .” he eventually said, ”the device is noise-activated. So”--he looked at each of our faces-- ”yes . . . if he emitted noise, he transmitted. As to whether it was recorded, I frankly don't have a clue.”

We all stared with deep fascination at the contraption on the desk. I cleared my throat and asked, ”Can you make that thing work?”

”Of course.” He pushed a few b.u.t.tons, and we heard the first optimistic whirring sound of a tape rewinding. For the first time that day, it looked looked like something was going right; we stared at one another in disbelief. The tape stopped and Enzenauer pushed start. like something was going right; we stared at one another in disbelief. The tape stopped and Enzenauer pushed start.

As he had warned, the transmitter was noise-activated, and the first sound came through clear as a bell--Ali bin Pacha let loose a terrifically long and loud fart, which he repeated a few times, followed by satisfied grunts. n.o.body laughed or even smiled. Such was the mood that even I resisted the impulse to offer a crude comment.

Doc Enzenauer, however, feeling the need to offer a medical diagnosis, pushed pause and said, ”After three days of unconsciousness, it's natural for the body to purge itself.”

Well, now it was almost irresistible. But Bian read my mind and was giving me a look.

The doc pushed play, and next came the noise of people screaming and howling from pain.

To Phyllis and Enzenauer, I noted, ”A tape. To scare the new prisoners.”

Phyllis nodded like she already knew this.

Next a voice, yelling, and then the bed creaking as bin Pacha got up. Then, very distinctly, voices--two different voices--and they were were speaking to one another. There was some back-and-forth between bin Pacha and an unidentified party, in Arabic, and I understood nothing. The conversation was brief, lasted for perhaps a minute, and ended with a loud bang. speaking to one another. There was some back-and-forth between bin Pacha and an unidentified party, in Arabic, and I understood nothing. The conversation was brief, lasted for perhaps a minute, and ended with a loud bang.

Next, Bian's voice, on tape. ”He's dead. Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds a.s.sa.s.sinated him. They didn't want us to hear what he had to say.”

Tirey. ”This . . . this Saudi arrangement . . . this was . . . you know, the CIA's bright idea. It did . . . it originated with your people. I . . . I merely followed orders and . . .”

Me. ”This is a crime scene. Treat it as one.”

”Uh . . .”

Me again. ”Was the killing recorded?”

I reached forward and pushed stop. Phyllis remarked, ”Tirey wasted no time, did he?”

”Wait till the official inquiry. That was only the first rehearsal.” I looked at Bian. ”Translate.”

”I'll need to hear it again. All that noise from the torture tape . . . it's . . .” She shrugged.

So the doc took it backward and forward for her a few times, and now Bian was concentrating fiercely and jotting notes. A few phrases--actually, names--were decipherable even to me.

Bian glanced up from her notepad and said to Enzenauer, ”Once again, please. I think”--she scribbled something--”I nearly have it.”

Enzenauer played it again as Bian tracked the dialogue on her page. ”All right,” she said, and then read, ”After bin Pacha's . . . after the flatulence . . . the first voice is a guard. He yells, 'Are you awake yet?' Bin Pacha replies, 'Yes,' and he asks the guard, 'Why are they playing that stupid recording? Only fools would try a trick of such obvious ignorance. It sounds like something Americans would try.' The guard laughs, and yells back that the tape might be phony, but bin Pacha's pain will soon be real enough.”

Bian looked up and explained, ”Words to that effect. Arabic is structured differently than English. More formal. Also the verbs and nouns are displaced. I'm converting to the vernacular.”

I told her, ”You're doing great.”

She looked down at her pad and continued, ”Bin Pacha asks the guard's name. The guard replies that he is named Abu Habbibi. Then bin Pacha warns him, 'You are making a big mistake that will be poor for your personal health.' Again, Habbibi laughs. He asks, 'Why is that?' ”

Bian paused, then said, ”Bin Pacha told him that to learn the answer to this riddle, Habbibi must make only two phone calls.” She looked up for a moment and explained, ”Because the tape is noise-activated, there are no breaks in the conversation. I think here, though . . . from the change in their tone, there was a pause.”

Recalling what I had observed on the video, I suggested, ”This must be when bin Pacha walked to the cell door.”

She nodded--”Makes sense”--and continued, ”Again, he tells Habbibi, 'Just make two phone calls--all will become clear. If you fail to make these calls, now I know your name, and you and your family will suffer horrible deaths. But there is a big reward you will be very happy with, if you call and do what these men tell you to do.' Habbibi replies, 'I can barely hear you. The noise from the tape is in the way. Come closer. Move to the opening. Tell me what you have in mind.' ”

”And then . . .” Bian had been looking at our faces, and she looked back down at her notepad and continued, ”Then bin Pacha said, 'Call Prince Faud ibn al-Souk, or Prince Ali ibn al-Sayyed. They will tell you what to do with me.' Habbibi answered, 'I can't hear you--' ”

Phyllis interrupted, ”You're sure of this?”

”Positive.”

”I'm referring to the names. He named the two princes?”

”I know what you're asking. Listen to the tape yourself. Both names are easily distinguishable.”

Phyllis nodded. ”Please continue.”

”There's not much after that. Bin Pacha recites the phone numbers to Habbibi. I'm not sure I heard them right--he had repositioned closer to the door and the speaker noise was overwhelming.”

”Do your best,” I told her.

”Well . . . Habbibi had trouble hearing him also--or he pretended pretended to have trouble--because his last words to bin Pacha were, 'I need to hear the phone numbers again. Come closer. Move your head against the opening.' ” Bian looked up and added, ”Then bang--the gun went off.” to have trouble--because his last words to bin Pacha were, 'I need to hear the phone numbers again. Come closer. Move your head against the opening.' ” Bian looked up and added, ”Then bang--the gun went off.”

We all sat back in our chairs. n.o.body said a word. Unlike the others, I had a mental visualization to accompany the soundtrack, and as I replayed the scene in my mind, matching words with deeds, it all became clear: a double cross trumped by a double cross.

In retrospect, Ali bin Pacha had thought he was playing us; I recalled that curious smile back in the hospital bed when Bian and I notified him he was being turned over to the Saudis. A smile. We believed we were telling him the last thing he wanted to hear; he believed he was hearing the sound of salvation.

It was, in fact, a death sentence. Neither Ali bin Pacha nor we understood that, though. This man, responsible for countless deaths, believed we had just pulled the ace from his sleeve for him, even as Habbibi maneuvered him, like a big stupid fish, into the perfect position to blow his evil brains out. It was funny, and it was very sad.

Eventually, I looked at Phyllis and asked, ”These two princes, who are they?”

She shook her head. ”There are five or six thousand princes. The men of the royal family marry many women, and are atrociously fertile. It's the national curse.”

I moved on to the next logical questions, which were more in the nature of Socratic statements. ”Why would bin Pacha have their phone numbers memorized? And why would he refer Habbibi to them?”

”Protection. He obviously expected some form of intervention.”

”But why why would they protect him?” would they protect him?”

Without answering, she stood and paced to the phone. She lifted it up, punched a number, and after a moment ordered somebody to track down Sheik Turki al-Fayef and escort him to the conference room.

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