Part 47 (2/2)

As I said, Bian and I were not clued in to the rules here, but the flesh trading was apparently over, because the sheik rose from his seat and began casually brus.h.i.+ng ashes off his white robes, even as he nonchalantly took a final pull from his stinky cigarette and crushed it beneath his foot. After about three seconds, he opened his valise, rummaged inside, fished out three manila folders, and slid them inelegantly across the table. He said to Phyllis, ”Their names and where they can be found. Also background information that I am sure will be helpful when you interrogate them.”

Phyllis grabbed the folders and, one by one, opened them and inspected the contents while the sheik picked up the recorder and inspected it to be sure the d.a.m.ning tape was still inside. They had just sold their souls to each other, and still did not trust each other.

The sheik said to Phyllis, ”My sincerest apologies to the Director.” There was an awkward pause, and then with a pained expression he confided, ”I had no option, Phyllis. It was this, or my job.”

She nodded.

”If not me, it would have been somebody else.”

”I'm sure.”

He looked at Bian and said, ”It was a pleasure meeting you.” He turned to me and could not help smiling. ”Better luck next time, Colonel.”

I smiled back. ”Count on it.”

I knew what Bian was going to say, and she said it. ”Go to h.e.l.l.” My sentiments exactly.

The sheik shrugged his robes and left, gently closing the door behind him.

Phyllis quietly read the files and, more to the point, quietly ignored Bian and me. She did not want to have this discussion, and seemed to be silently hoping the problem--us--would go away.

But we did not go away, and she finally looked up at us and asked, ”What did you expect?”

”We didn't expect expect anything,” I replied. ”Just definitely not this.” I asked, ”Was this little charade prearranged?” anything,” I replied. ”Just definitely not this.” I asked, ”Was this little charade prearranged?”

”What does that mean?”

”It means he walked in here with those folders, and you just allowed him to walk out of here with everything he wanted.”

”This is how our business works. Turki is a professional, and professionals come prepared.” She looked at Bian. ”You don't have to like it, but this is how you have to play it.”

”I don't like it,” Bian responded.

”No? Well . . . try thinking about what will save the most American lives, what will help win this war. Compromises are necessary evils.”

”What else would I be thinking about?”

Phyllis studied her face, then said, ”He told us who these two princes are. Whatever they did, they're gold-plated, and it doesn't matter--we weren't getting them.” She added, ”Nor is antagonizing the Saudis in our interest. For all the obvious reasons, we need them.”

Bian said, ”The calculus doesn't confuse me. But what you just did . . . it was no different than the pact Cliff Daniels made with Charabi, and we're doing nothing about that either. Guilty men walk, and everybody gets to avoid a scandal. That's what I question.”

Phyllis's finger was tapping the table, a less than subtle warning that her patience was wearing thin. But Bian was beyond impatience; she was in a slow rage, and being scolded with cold reason not only failed to douse her inner fires it was an aphrodisiac.

Phyllis said, ”Welcome to a world where every choice is flawed and you have to pick the one that least stinks. We lost bin Pacha. Nothing will change that. But at least we now have three new names, three fresh chances to pick up key figures, to find out what they know, and who they know.”

I heard what Phyllis was saying, and on one level it made sense. I also understood that Bian, a military cop, was taught to reason and was trained to act on another level--good guys versus bad guys; do the crime, do the time. The mind of a police officer is not simple, but the job is morally not all that complex: guilt or innocence, black or white, without any ethical vagaries. But for the lawyer, guilt and innocence are pa.r.s.ed into many shades, crime is subjective, and punishment is merely a commodity you negotiate with a prosecutor, a judge, or a jury. We call this justice, and we say it is evenhanded, and if you can afford a five-hundred-buck-an-hour attorney, you might even believe that. As lawyer friends of mine say, in America you get all the justice you can afford.

So I wasn't really shocked that this applies to espionage as well. And neither should Bian have been appalled, or even surprised. She was, though. And Phyllis, who usually exerts a more deft touch when she shoves around her subordinates, this time appeared surprisingly tone-deaf and clumsy.

I knew it would do no good, but I advised Bian, ”I don't like it either. It is is, though, the best deal we're going to get.”

She replied, ”That man ordered an a.s.sa.s.sination to keep us from knowledge that was invaluable to us and embarra.s.sing to him. That same man just bartered his country's way out of a black eye it has definitely earned. That's wrong--we all know it's wrong. Pretend otherwise and you're as bad as her.” She stood and left the room.

Phyllis watched her leave and drew a long breath, then turned her eyes to me and said, ”You need to get her under control.”

I stood and moved toward the door, but then I stopped and turned around. I said, ”I understand your decision. I really do, Phyllis. And, you know what? Were I in your shoes, I might've made the same deal.”

”Thank you.”

For a moment I stood quietly. I then said, ”But that doesn't make it any more morally excusable, or even right. So she's disgusted and disillusioned. Frankly, if you and I had souls, we would be, too.”

Phyllis started to say something, and I kept talking. ”And that's the problem. At the beginning of this case, we had lots of chances to do the right thing. The chance to find out about and expose Charabi. The chance to expose Daniels and his bosses, to expose the truth about the cooked intelligence, about a possible betrayal, and along the way, we stumble into a money scheme that implicates a government that is a t.i.tular ally. Instead, we settle for a few garden-variety terrorists. I think you can see where that might turn the stomach of a good soldier.”

”She's obsessed with justice and honor. We're doing what's best for the country.”

”I won't argue what's best or not. I really don't know anymore, and that bothers me more than anything.” I added after a long moment, ”Fire me or transfer me; I really don't care. I'm through with this job.”

Phyllis did not look surprised but neither did she look ready to fire me. She picked up another folder. ”I'll consider this as a sentiment expressed in a moment of haste, anger, and frustration. You have nothing to feel guilty or ashamed about. Nor do I. We handled the cards we were dealt as best we could. If there are moral shortcomings, they lie with others.”

I said nothing.

”Sleep on it.” She stuck her nose inside the folder. ”Make your decision later, with a clear head.”

She read. I walked out.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Just when you think it's over, you get jerked through a new knothole.

Two matters needed to be resolved before we returned home-- and Phyllis made it clear that n.o.body was leaving until both jobs were finished. Probably, after all that happened, she needed to notch a few victories on her belt before she flew home into a s.h.i.+tstorm. A thousand successes do not wipe clean one screwup, but neither is it a good idea to appear empty-handed before a review board.

Problem one was the apprehension of the smuggler of arms and jihadists into Iraq. As he was operating across the border in Syria, his capture offered what Phyllis politely referred to as ”delicate diplomatic and extralegal issues.” Under the proper protocol, the American amba.s.sador in Damascus would lodge a formal request to the Syrian government to arrest the perp, followed by a speedy and efficient extradition process. Given Syrian hostility to America, the name of this option was ”p.i.s.sing into the wind.”

So when Phyllis said extralegal, she meant illegal, and when she said diplomatic, she meant violating Syria's sovereignty with a kidnapping. Delicate, of course, meant a black bag job by Agency operatives.

As long as it didn't mean Sean Drummond; my fun, travel, and adventure quotient was pegged out.

So Phyllis worked the phones, coordinating his apprehension, and I was dispatched to handle problem two: to wit, the terrorist master planner in Karbala. As this guy operated inside Iraq proper, his apprehension required neither finesse nor skullduggery, which meant the blunt power of the U.S. Army, and this meant Drummond and Tran were designated to be the mail carriers.

Bian was in the mess hall when I found her, seated alone, and wearing a desultory expression as she picked at her food. I fell into the chair across from her, cleared my throat a few times, and noisily s.h.i.+fted my chair.

She sawed off a piece of steak, put it in her mouth, and chewed.

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