Man in the Middle (35 page)

“Captain Yuknis. I told you.”

“Yuknis was called to a meeting at the Tactical Operations Center. I’m in charge now, and I’m placing you and that car under military custody. And yes, it will be searched. Explain your story to an interrogator when one becomes available.”

“The car can’t be searched.”

And so on.

I approached the officer and directed the beam of my flashlight first at his chest, then on his collar. His nametag read Berry, and he sported the black bar of a first lieutenant, indicating he was Captain Yuknis’s second in command.

I then shifted the beam to the lieutenant’s face and was surprised by how youthful, actually baby-faced, he was. The longer I’ve stayed in, the more I’ve noticed that lieutenants are becoming younger and younger. But the junior officer in the military is an interesting creature, endowed with powers and responsibilities that far outstrip his experience and wisdom level. Some respond to this gap with intelligent humility, some with a self-destructive insecurity, and others by the silly illusion that it is deserved. Had I not guessed where Lieutenant Berry fell on this spectrum, he barked, “Get that damned light out of my eyes.”

I replied, good-naturedly, “Good morning, Lieutenant Berry. Fine day, don’t you think?”

“Who are you?” he demanded in a nasty tone.

“You’re the executive officer of this company, right?”

“Who the fuck are you?” he repeated.

“If it was your business, don’t you think I would’ve answered the first time?”

“Oh . . . a wiseass,” he said, showing surprising perceptiveness. After a moment, he ordered, “Put your hands over your head.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because I’m ordering you to.”

“Silly reason.”

“Is it? I’ll have you shot. Is
that
silly?”

When I did not raise my hands, he looked over his shoulder and said to his two Marines, “Search and cuff this asshole. If he resists, use force.”

Before either Marine could move, I said to Lieutenant Berry, “Now would be a good time for you to slap your heels together.”

“You . . . huh?”

“Heels. The little stumps at the back end of your feet. Assume the position of attention.”

“I know what the hell heels are.”

“Well, sometimes with Marines, you have to explain these things.” I overheard one of his bodyguards chuckle, even as he stepped closer with his M16 pointed at my face. I directed the beam from the flashlight to my own left collar and said to Berry—and indirectly to his bodyguards—“Order that Jarhead to back off before I place you all under arrest for assaulting a superior officer.”

I could see the confidence drain out of his face as he stared for a moment at the black leaf of a lieutenant colonel. He seemed unsettled and uncertain what to do next, then like the little martinet he obviously was, he fell back on military instinct, drew himself to attention, and popped off a smart salute.

I did not salute back. “Lieutenant, you have insulted and threatened the life of a senior officer.” I turned to Eric. “You witnessed this, did you not?”

“Sure did. He cussed at you. Called you a bad name, too. He even threatened to kill you.”

I observed, “Yes, a real snot. Any decent prosecutor will get him at least ten to fifteen in Leavenworth.”

“Sir, I didn’t know who you were . . . I didn’t recognize—”

“I recognized you. We were a mere two feet apart. I see no reason why you couldn’t recognize me.” I allowed him the necessary few seconds to consider what an unreasonable prick I am, then concluded, “No, I’m afraid that doesn’t excuse your behavior.”

“Would a Marine apology do, sir?”

“Not even close.”

“Well . . . I—”

“Lieutenant, how familiar are you with Article 834?”

He looked at me, then at Eric.

I explained, “To wit, interfering with, blocking, and/or jeopardizing the progress of a vital military operation. Just below treason in the Uniform Code of Military Justice and punishable up to life.”

“But sir . . . I didn’t know—”

“Ignorance is no excuse, Lieutenant.”

“No, sir.”

“The proper response is yes, sir.”

“Uh . . . yes, sir. What I . . . well, what I meant—”

“If you’d be so kind, you’ll speak when I tell you to.” After a moment, I asked, “Do you have a radio?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where?”

“In the command vehicle, sir.”

Now his voice was audibly quaking. Clearly, Lieutenant Berry was realizing that there are life-threatening dangers on the battlefield other than bullets. I said, “Call your unit. You will tell them that three civilian automobiles will be passing through. They will not be stopped, questioned, or in any way harassed.” After I beat, I added, “I want each car saluted as they pass through.”

“But, sir, I don’t even know who you are.”

“Son,” I replied, using that awful expression, “I’m the guy who can ruin your life. Two seconds. Decide.”

Lieutenant Berry used up his two seconds, then raced to his vehicle to radio his Marines while Eric and I walked back to the car and got inside. Eric slammed it into gear, and we quickly drove through the unit, where, I noted, the Marines were holding their weapons at the position of a military salute.

Eric chuckled and said to me, “And I thought
he
was an asshole.”

“He’s a bedwetting wimp.”

“Are you really a lawyer?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Article 834? There is
no
friggin’ Article 834.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, I’m . . . Oh . . .” We both laughed.

After a few minutes, Bian urged Eric, “Hurry. The prisoner’s breathing is getting shallow.”

Just at that instant, to our rear, was a series of loud explosions, and the night sky lit up like a lightning storm sent by a very angry God, a God without pity, though this was just the opening omen, a foretaste of what was coming.

I turned around and peered through the rear window. Falluja had just entered the opening stage of the Marine Corps urban renewal project. Sometimes, as idiotic as it sounds, the old adage is tragically true: You have to destroy the village to save it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

T
he remainder of the drive to the airport took forty minutes, during which bin Pacha lapsed into unconsciousness and his breathing turned unsteady. We passed through only one more checkpoint at the entrance to the airport, manned by a squad of anxious-looking civilian contractors, who allowed us through without a hitch.

Bian then guided Eric to a covered hangar, inside of which was a large, gleaming Boeing Business Jet. The ramp was down and the door was open, so presumably somebody was inside. I walked up the stairs and stepped inside to begin my search for the doctor. The interior of the aircraft was hot and stuffy, and the crew seemed to be off on crew rest, because they weren’t present.

To the right, I entered what appeared to be a large lounge area with walls of burled wood, lush blue carpet, a large video screen, a glass conference table, and a combination of lounge and office chairs, with an oversize plush circular sofa. I continued to work my way to the rear and next entered a dining room that was equally extravagant with a long mahogany table, coordinated mahogany chairs, and an impressive chandelier that looked like crystal but was actually plastic. Then there was a private office, a sort of cubicle with a large desk loaded with all the electronic marvels and goodies.

I could not imagine why the Agency needed this flying
Queen Mary
, much less how it convinced Congress to foot the bill. Well, I guess I had an idea: a sotto voce arrangement with certain members of the Intelligence Oversight Subcommittee who might need to borrow this aircraft for long overseas trips, in the interest of national security, of course.

Anyway, the plane seemed empty, and there were only two doors I hadn’t yet opened, both at the rear of the aircraft.

So I opened the first one on the right and stepped into what appeared to be the master suite, a gaudy cage with rococo wallpaper, a mirrored wall, and a small bar, which I absently and unhappily noted was unstocked. Also, on the queen-size bed I saw a gentleman asleep in his underwear. I gave his leg a shake.

He opened his eyes and looked at me, blinking.

He looked fairly intelligent: thick glasses, thoughtful eyes, and all that. I asked, “Are you the doc in the house?”

“It’s a plane.”

That gift for pedantry nailed it. “And yes . . .” he confirmed as he rubbed his eyes and stuck out a hand. “Bob Enzenauer.”

“What kind of doc are you?”

“Well . . . what kind of patient do you have?”

“A gut-shot one.”

“Always bad.” He sat up. “Allow me a moment. I’ll be right out.”

I left him and returned through the maze of aeronautic lushness to the hangar.

Bin Pacha now lay prostrate on the cement, and Eric and Bian hovered over him. Also, the silver sedan had arrived and Nervous Nellie was seated on the cement, looking more miserable and emotionally conflicted than ever with Eric’s big gun aimed at his head.

Bian had knelt down and was taking bin Pacha’s pulse. From Madame de Sade to Ma Barker to Florence Nightingale—this lady changed roles faster than I change underwear.

She looked up at me and said in a concerned tone, “His pulse has dropped. This isn’t good. There has to be internal bleeding.”

Eric looked at her, then at me, and said, “Sounds like we better conclude this deal quickly.”

“The requirement was alive.” I handed him the two M16s, and I noted two laptop computers and my legal briefcase and duffel bag piled neatly on the floor beside bin Pacha.

He glanced down at bin Pacha. “This is the very definition of close enough for government work. Works for me. How about you?”

Considering the ugly alternative—a perfectly healthy bin Pacha and a wall in Falluja decorated with my brains—I didn’t want to sound ungrateful to the man who saved my life. “Deal.” I looked at him and said, “Please pass my compliments to your people.”

“I will.”

“You do remarkable work.” And I meant it.

He stuck out his hand, and we shook. I told him, “I’m doubling your pay.”

“You can do that?”

Phyllis was going to go nuts. “I just did.”

He smiled and patted my arm.

I mentioned, “About Phyllis, incidentally . . . are you aware she has an unlimited budget?”

“No . . . I—”

“Black money. Totally unaccountable. She can spend like a drunken sailor.”

“For real?”

“I only mention this, because . . . well, before I arrived she was telling me . . . bragging, actually . . . all the other contractors get twice what she pays you.”

“You’re serious?”

“FYI. For next time.”

For a moment we stared at each other. He looked like he wanted to say something. Finally I said, “Eric, as soon as you have enough, go home.”

“Good advice.” He turned around, and he and his people climbed into their cars and departed.

Doc Enzenauer now was hunched over bin Pacha, pinning an IV into his arm. He looked up at me and said, “What about that other man?” He pointed at Nervous Nellie.

“Just knee-shot.” I pointed at bin Pacha. “He’s your priority. Don’t let him die. Do whatever it takes.”

He gave me the Look.

I asked, “Am I overstating the obvious?”

“There’s a folding bed in the crew’s lounge. First door on the right. If you want to be helpful, get it.”

Bian accompanied me, and as soon as we were inside the aircraft she pulled my arm and spun me around. She said, “We need to speak.”

“Not now.”

“You haven’t said a word to me since the factory.”

“Not true. I told you to shut up. That’s a standing order until I rescind it.” I looked her in the eye. “Right now, I’m not in the mood.”

She was, though, and asked, “Aren’t you going to ask me why?”

“You shot unarmed prisoners. Why would I ask or even care why? In fact, anything you say at this point can and probably will be used against you in a court of law.”

“I deserve better than that from you.”

“Do you?”

“I want you to know
why
. This is important to me, Sean. The truth—are you willing to listen?”

When I did not reply she said, “We were down to two minutes. I knew bin Pacha was missing his left leg, and I assumed he wore a prosthetic. You remember that from the message, don’t you? So I . . . I shot them each in the left leg. It worked, didn’t it?”

I had already figured that out. “Did it never strike you that all you had to do was lift up their pant legs?”

“Yes, but—”

“But it was just easier to shoot them.”

“No, I . . . It was . . . one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”

“But you made it
look
so easy.”

“Also I realized that if we left those men physically intact, they would be available to battle the Marines. These are dangerous men, hardened terrorists, murderers.”

“Are you finished?”

“Not yet. I’m not saying what I did was legally right. It wasn’t. I know that. Yet I still believe it was the proper thing. If it saves the life of a single U.S. Marine—”

“That’s why the Army has its own court-martial system with boards composed of veteran officers.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They appreciate the unique strains and stresses that accompany combat, the situational judgments, the rationalizations for questionable conduct, the extenuating matters.” I opened a door, but it turned out to be a galley closet. “Save it for them.”

“Sean, I’m telling the truth.” After a moment she asked, “Why do
you
think I did it?”

“Maybe you snapped. Maybe you have bad memories of your time here, flashbacks, an illogical hatred of Arabs, or battle fatigue, or latent sociopathic tendencies, or PMS. Possibilities abound. I really don’t know. I really don’t care.”

I moved toward the pilot’s cabin and stopped at the first door on the right. I opened it and stepped inside.

“You know what I think?” Bian asked.

She doggedly followed me inside what appeared to be the crew’s cabin. She said, “This isn’t
your
war. How did you phrase it before? Correct me if I misquote you. It’s just a news event, a tidbit tucked between the weather and the sports update. That wasn’t only the great American public you were describing, it was you.”