Part 52 (1/2)
”I understand,” I a.s.sured him. ”And they understand.”
I got up and took a few steps toward the door, and he said somewhat weirdly, ”You know, Cliff really was my dear friend. I liked him.”
I turned around. We stared at each other a really long time, then I said, ”What you like, Mr. Charabi, you seem to destroy. You killed Cliff as surely as if you had pulled the trigger yourself. And your scheming, lying, and manipulations have done the same thing for your people. They are still being slaughtered by Sunnis, and you are not the man to save them. That said, I truly do wish you good luck.”
I walked out and closed his office door quietly behind me. I approached Jim Tirey and informed him that this was a bust, that Charabi was not in any way implicated in Bian's kidnapping, or in the murder of Clifford Daniels, and it was time to clear out. He gave me a look that combined surprise and confusion with annoyance and said, ”You told me it was conclusive.”
”I was wrong.”
”Wrong . . . ?”
”He had nothing to do with Bian, or with Daniels's murder. Sorry.”
”You're . . . sorry sorry?” He asked, ”And just how do you know this?”
”Because he had a gun, the perfect legal justification to kill me, and I'm alive.”
He stared at me for a long time. Eventually, he called his agents into a knot and informed them, ”We had bad information. Time to get out of here--now.”
He opened the door and we began quickly filing out.
To our common surprise, however, awaiting us in the hallway was an attractive blonde female reporter with a man beside her holding a reflective light, and a second man hefting a camera on his shoulder.
The reporter was staring at me, though I was sure we'd never met. But in her eyes I was sure I saw recognition, which was odd. Jim Tirey also caught her look, and he stared at me a moment inquisitively.
Then the light flashed on and the lovely female reporter completely ignored me and stepped forward, directly in the path of Jim Tirey. She stuffed her mike into his face and said, ”Inside sources tell us that Mahmoud Charabi is under suspicion of pa.s.sing vital secrets to the Iranians. Specifically, that we had broken their intelligence code. Could you comment on what your search turned up?”
Tirey looked at me, and we shared an unspoken thought. He then did something unfortunate and shared that thinking. ”Oh . . . s.h.i.+t.”
So in the interest of getting a more family-friendly comment, the reporter and Tirey tried again, and in true Bureau form, he told her, ”No comment.”
He shoved the mike out of his face and began walking as fast as his feet could carry him down the hallway and out of the building.
We all walked behind him. The reporter, true to her profession-- i.e., a big pain in the a.s.s--jogged along beside us and persisted in peppering us with relevant questions like, ”Is Charabi under arrest? . . . Did you find a smoking gun? . . . Who ordered this search?”
n.o.body commented. We all looked like idiots.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Bad news always has company.
Actually, bad thing number one, the story about how Mahmoud Charabi was suspected of exposing American secrets to the Iranians--including Jim Tirey's awkward screen debut--was not even the lead event in the news trailers.
It was almost totally eclipsed by bad thing number two: the shocking tale about the two Saudi princes who were named as financiers for al-Zarqawi, with an interesting sideline about how the Saudi government might be complicitous, and what this might mean for our already troubled relations.h.i.+p. Obviously there had been another leak, and I was sure people in Was.h.i.+ngton were very unhappy about that. Maybe this wasn't such a bad thing for the American public to know, but it was profoundly bad news for the two princes, and for Saudi Arabia, and for those in the American government who had colluded in the attempt to cover it up. And, too, it could be very bad for my favorite guy--me. I mean, were I the one searching for the source of these leaks, Sean Drummond would be my number one suspect.
I caught a little of this second story on one of those obnoxious cable news scream shows in my room in the Visiting Officers' Quarters. The anchor was interviewing a p.i.s.sed-off, loudmouth expert on things Middle Eastern, who was haranguing some slick-looking bulls.h.i.+tter sent over from the Department of State to try to defuse this thing. Middle East expert was screaming, ”The Saudis are not not our friends. Never been our friends. We buy their oil, they buy our terrorists.” our friends. Never been our friends. We buy their oil, they buy our terrorists.”
Anchorman says to Middle East expert, ”Aren't you overstating things?”
State Department guy answers for him, suggesting, ”I would say he definitely is. This is not the occasion for histrionics. Our relations.h.i.+p with Saudi Arabia is very complicated.”
Middle East expert guy stares with disbelief into the screen. ”Complicated? If you pay a wh.o.r.e to bite off your own . . . uh . . . your thing off . . . what's complicated about that? That's stupid!”
Pompous news anchor says, ”Please . . . be careful here. Families are watching, and--”
”We are not ignoring this,” State Department guy interrupts. ”The Secretary is in discussions about this with the Saudi amba.s.sador. We're requesting the immediate extradition of the two princes.”
Middle East expert guy laughs and says, ”Blah, blah, blah. You know what your Secretary should tell them. We changed our minds. We invaded the wrong p.i.s.sant--now we're gonna turn Jidda into a big Wal-Mart.”
Both guys disappear, and anchorman looks gravely into camera, goes on a bit about what a big deal this is, then closes by noting, ”But the big question is . . . what effect these newest revelations will have on the President's poll ratings in this neck-and-neck race.”
Which brought up bad thing three. Phyllis was gone, disappeared. She had, however, left behind a brief, perfunctory note addressed to me, that read, ”I've been called back to Was.h.i.+ngton. Close out here, then be on the most ASAP flight. Go straight to Langley, and straight to Marcus Harvey of the Office of Professional Ethics, who will brief you about your rights (nonexistent) and then usher you downstairs for your polygraph appointment. Caveat Emptor; sinners fare better than liars.” That could be an excellent new Agency motto, I thought, and below her signature was a brief afterthought: ”PS, Truly sorry about Bian.”
As I mentioned earlier, you have to read between the lines. Since somebody had leaked and blown the whistle on the princes, somebody needed to be screwed, and a screwee--aka, scapegoat--was needed. Since Bian was kidnapped and beyond suspicion, since neither Phyllis nor Tirey had leaked, and since the Saudis hadn't ratted themselves out, by process of elimination, that left moi. Nor did it matter if they could prove I was guilty or not--I was guilty.
If blowing your cover is the cardinal sin of this business, exposing nasty secrets to the press is the mortal sin. I had no idea how the Agency handles these things. I know the Army policy, however, and it goes like this: What you can't kill, you eat. But maybe the Agency had a different approach. Maybe it just killed you.
Bad thing number four: still no word on the fate of Bian Tran. I had struck out and was out of reasonable suspicions, sensible leads, or even idiotic guesses. It didn't matter anyway. My name was mud with Phyllis. And because of me, Jim Tirey was on a wanted poster back at Hoover City, and his tour had gone from career-enhancing to career-ending.
But since it wasn't Charabi, I was down to the usual suspects: terrorists, people who sell captives to terrorists, or garden-variety a.s.s-holes who kipnap and kill at random, just for kicks. Maybe the MP sergeant was right. Maybe ”CHA” referred to letters on a license plate. Or maybe Bian, out of her mind with pain and fear, had been doodling gibberish in her own blood.
I felt as bad as I had ever felt. I had missed something, a clue, a brilliant revelation, a magical key that could unlock the truth and save her life. Yet, irrational and superst.i.tious as it sounds, a feeling, an instinct, some primitive premonition was telling me that Bian was still alive.
But if I couldn't save her, it was time for the last thing I wanted to do, and the one thing I had to do. Somebody needed to notify her loved ones, and that kind of bad news is best delivered by someone who knows and cares for her. So I walked to the office of the corps G1--the head personnel weenie--where a staff sergeant sat behind a short desk directly inside the door.
Personnel clerks have more power in a single finger than all the generals and colonels in the Army. With a single keystroke they can have your paycheck sent to Timbuktu, or you you sent to Timbuktu, or alter the religious preference in your personnel file to Muslim, which is not the best faith to have before a promotion board these days. So I smiled courteously and said, ”Good afternoon, Sergeant. Major Mark Kemble, First Armored Division. Can you please tell me how to get hold of him?” sent to Timbuktu, or alter the religious preference in your personnel file to Muslim, which is not the best faith to have before a promotion board these days. So I smiled courteously and said, ”Good afternoon, Sergeant. Major Mark Kemble, First Armored Division. Can you please tell me how to get hold of him?”
”Professional or personal?” he asked. ”Sorry. Gotta ask.”
”Both. His fiancee was kidnapped.”
”I'm on it, sir,” he replied, and began punching b.u.t.tons and at the same time eyeing his computer screen. After a few seconds, he articulated, ”Kemble . . . Kimble? An 'e' or an 'i'?”
”Why do you think the Army sewed this nametag on my uniform?”
”Uh . . .”
”So I can remember how to spell it.”
Old joke--bad joke--but he laughed anyway. ”I'll try both,” he suggested, then did a few more keyboard punches, and he asked, ”The rank and unit . . . you're sure?”
”Why?”
”Well . . .” He bent forward and pressed his nose an inch from his screen, ”I've got three Kembles with 'e's . . . and wow, one with an 'i' . . . you know . . . same as that guy with the missing arm in that old TV series, and . . . hey. Look at that . . .”
I leaned forward. ”What?” ”What?”