Part 47 (1/2)

”Who are these two princes?”

Here was a question he didn't want to hear and he couldn't evade. But since we already knew their names, we could, and obviously, we would, find out through our own sources. So for once he answered directly and unequivocally. ”Prince Faud is the third son of the defense minister. Prince Ali is the second son of the oil minister.”

He watched our faces, studying our reactions. He had previously a.s.serted that the princes were themselves insignificant figures-- which might or might not be true--but their daddies were two of the most powerful and influential men in the kingdom, and in a land where lucky sperm is the ticket, this made their kids very important indeed.

In response to our silence, he a.s.sured us, ”I can handle this. And I will handle this.”

I was about to ask what he meant by that when Bian leaned across the table. She said, ”You had an intelligence file on bin Pacha. Why? Why was bin Pacha under an intelligence watch?”

He treated her question as irrelevant. ”We observe all returning mujahideen. Nothing is suspicious about this. These men who have come back from Afghanistan, Somalia, Bosnia, and Chechnya, they pick up . . . strange ideas.”

In other words, the Saudis had no problem exporting jihadis, but big issues when jihadis came home.

”How long were you watching bin Pacha?” asked Bian.

”It began, I believe, after his return from jihad in Somalia.”

Bian's fingers were tapping the table, and she said sarcastically, ”You believe believe?”

”My bureau handles external security, not internal . . . and so I cannot say this for sure. As I said, it was routine.”

”Ten years?”

”Perhaps. Not continuously, though, or even very thoroughly. He was merely one of thousands of our returned mujahideen.” The irony of this statement eluded him, and after a moment he added, ”You saw his file. He raised no particular concerns or alarms.”

This statement was so blatantly disingenuous I had to laugh.

He did not like this and gave me a nasty look.

”Yet,” Bian noted, ”when you learned he was about to be apprehended, your amba.s.sador rushed to the White House and intervened. If this . . . if Ali bin Pacha was beneath your radar, why go to such extraordinary trouble?”

Another question he didn't want to hear. In fact, I had not put this piece together, and Bian's a.n.a.lysis caught me by surprise--not the fact that the Saudis wanted to hide bin Pacha's secrets, per se; something else. It caught him by surprise as well, and he simply stared at her.

Since he was no longer answering, Bian answered for him. ”You were aware bin Pacha was part of a terrorist cell and you knew rich Saudis were giving him money. Until he was about to be captured, you didn't care, or . . . you did care, and approved of his activities.”

”This is speculation. Completely absurd.”

She kept her eyes on his face.

I also was studying al-Fayef's face. He was too much the veteran professional to do something stupid, like look guilty, or even more stupidly, confess. But he did lick his lips a few times, and with a shaky hand he fumbled out a fresh cigarette and lit it.

He turned to Phyllis and insisted, ”I have nothing more to say. Now you must tell me what you intend to do.”

Actually, he'd told us as minimal truth he could get away with: a careful mixture of what we could learn on our own, what was intuitively obvious, and what any intelligent regional expert could divine from the facts. The problem for us, and the bigger problem for him, was what he didn't tell us, but that Bian had just surmised.

Regarding Phyllis, as usual her eyes conveyed one emotion, her lips another, and neither betrayed what probably was in her heart, or in her head. I was sure she was angry, frustrated, and worried. But for Phyllis, emotion and logic were never at war; it just never occurred to her that reason has a peer, or that emotion should incubate action. She announced unequivocally and, I thought, predictably, ”What's done is done. We move forward.”

Bian asked, ”What does that mean?”

”It means what it means.”

”What about justice?”

”For who?” Phyllis asked.

”For the soldiers who are fighting. For those who are dead. For their families, for their loved ones. For America.”

”There is no justice for dead soldiers,” Phyllis replied with typically chilling logic. ”They are not murder victims--they're casualties of war.”

”The Saudis have been feeding money, people, and who knows what to their killers. We now have the names of two princes.” Bian looked in al-Fayef's direction and added, ”It sounds like there are more names, and possibly the Saudi government's implicated as well. You can't ignore or paste over that.”

Wrong, because Phyllis turned to al-Fayef and said, ”It's not in our interest to expose the royal family to . . . embarra.s.sment.”

He smiled, though I saw no hint of pleasure or even contentment in his eyes; I saw relief. He said, ”Good choice. It would be, you know, a disaster for both our countries.” He looked around the room, at each of our faces, then added agreeably, ”A war is going on, after all. We must remain friends. Good allies.”

After all he had just said, about America, about our arrogance, about our incompetence, I was amazed that a bolt of lightning didn't strike. Apparently, while Bian and I missed the cues, the sheik and Phyllis had moved to a new song, this one t.i.tled ”Row, row, row the boat gently down the stream.”

And, in fact, Phyllis gave a cool nod to her sheik friend.

He said, ”I recognize, however, that we have caused you certain difficulties.” He waved his cigarette in small circles through the air. ”Embarra.s.sments. Inconveniences.”

”Your sensitivity is greatly appreciated.”

He leaned back into his chair and exhaled a long stream of smoke. ”Two names, Phyllis. This is all I have been authorized to offer.”

Phyllis shuffled her hands and replied noncommittally, ”If they're the right right names.” names.”

”Yes, yes . . . of course.” He watched her face. ”There is a man in Syria, a man who arranges the s.h.i.+pment of weapons and jihadists into Iraq. A smuggler of considerable talent and cleverness.” Phyllis looked unimpressed, and he quickly emphasized, ”He is big. Very big. Perhaps a third of the mujahideen entering Iraq flow through his channels.”

Phyllis stared at him, then nodded. ”We're halfway there.”

”And I have heard of another man, a Saudi expatriate, who recruits jihadists in Jordan. He--”

Phyllis interrupted. ”Forget about him. Recruiters are too easily replaced.”

”Ah . . .” A pained expression came to the sheik's face, and he hesitated before he said, ”There is another man, in Iraq, who decides the targets the mujahideen strike in the city of Karbala.”

Phyllis bent forward with intensified interest.

”Alas, he also is Saudi, from a prominent family--his father is a dear friend of many years--and it . . . I am greatly pained to betray him.”

This guy was a real craftsman, and probably he threw that in to make us all feel better. After a moment, Phyllis observed, ”You know, of course, that names without addresses are of no use.”

”And you know, of course, that my guards will depart with me. Also that infernal machine,” he said, pointing at the recorder, with its incriminating recording. He quickly added, ”And I'll give you the man in Jordan for free. We have no use for him.”

”The recorder and guards are yours. I have no use for them.”