Man in the Middle (55 page)

He looked up at me, very surprised. “I . . . I . . . w-what? I have never heard of this . . . major . . . what did you say is her name?”

I stood up and leaned over his desk. “On your orders, her vehicle was ambushed yesterday evening. She was wounded and kidnapped.” We locked eyes. “If she’s dead, you’re dead. I’ll kill you myself.” I pointed at my watch. “Nine minutes.”

“I have told you the truth. I do not know her . . . and d-definitely . . . I have not kidnapped her. Whoever told you this . . . It is a d-despicable l-lie.”

I maintained eye contact and informed him, “Major Tran wrote your name in blood on the dashboard before she was dragged out of her car.”

“Oh . . .” He glanced around his office, tried to compose himself, and a modicum of color returned to his face. He said with surprising coolness, “Why don’t you sit? Let us talk this over without further threats.”

“Here’s a better idea. Why don’t you pick up the phone and order your people to get Tran over here. Chop-chop.”

“Because I can’t. You are wrong.” He drew a few breaths, then said, “You come into my office—
my
office—accusing me of murder and kidnapping. You cannot blackmail me into confessing things that are such big, terrible lies.” He had found his voice, apparently, because he then ordered imperiously, “Sit down.”

This guy needed a pop in the nose and I leaned forward to give him one, but he did something that slightly upset my plan. His right hand came up from underneath his desk and in it was a Glock with the barrel about six inches from my groin. He repeated himself, saying, “Sit down,” more emphatically and, given that the pistol was threatening man’s best friend, more persuasively.

I did not sit, but I did back off a few steps. I said, “Half a dozen FBI agents are in your outer office. Listen . . .” We both took a moment, and you could hear through the walls Tirey’s Feds noisily trashing his outer office. “Hand me that pistol and I promise I won’t beat the crap out of you.”

“I think not. You broke into my office, you threatened me, went crazy, and attacked me. Self-defense—I have justification to kill you.”

At moments like this, you have to ask yourself, is he serious or is he bluffing? Well, I had just threatened everything he had schemed for decades to get, I knew he was ruthless, and I had no doubt he was capable of murder. Also he was right; when there are only two witnesses to a murder, the living one has a monopoly on the truth.

But given all that, he hadn’t fired yet—that meant I had something he wanted. His curiosity was the only reason I was alive. As long I didn’t cure that problem, I had a chance.

You should never take your focus from a man’s eyes at a moment like this, but I looked at his gun. “Hey, you know what?” I told him what. “Clifford Daniels died of a gunshot from an identical pistol. A Glock 17 Pro. Right?”

“Is this so? Well . . . I had no idea.”

“I just thought it was, you know, odd. A quirky coincidence.”

“Perhaps not such a coincidence. I purchased one for me, and one for Cliff. Matching pistols. Brothers in arms.” He smiled at me. “A fitting gift—for all he was doing for my poor, miserable country.”

“You give America phony intelligence, and now over a thousand of our soldiers are dead. You give Clifford a present and he dies by that gun. Does anybody ever get gifts from you and live?”

He waved the pistol. “You will not be alive to hear me say this again.
Sit down
.”

I saw that his trigger finger had turned white. I sat.

He came right to the point and demanded, “Where is Cliff’s computer?”

Clearly, this was part of what was keeping me alive—probably the only thing. I was sure that if I told him the computer was the property of the CIA, and that I alone did not hold the key to his political survival, I was dead. In summary, he needed me alive long enough to learn how to contain this thing, and I needed to stay alive long enough to get my hands around his throat. So I lied. “Hidden. Major Tran and I, well . . . once we saw what was on the hard drive . . . frankly, it was impossible to resist.”

“Why?”

“Because there are enough powerful names in those messages to make sure we’ll both retire as general officers.”

He appreciated my self-serving logic and asked, “So you hid it?”

“I put it in a safe place. Someplace only the major and I know about.”

He regarded me a moment, then said, “Who are you?”

“You know who I am.”

He repeated his question with his pistol pointed between my eyes, this time adding, “You won’t hear me ask again.”

“Major Tran’s partner. She and I are investigating the death of Clifford Daniels.”

“Ah . . . well, then I am confused. I was informed that my old friend took his own life. So, Colonel . . .” He apparently had a politician’s vanity about glasses, without the politician’s gift for name recall, because he had to lean forward and study my nametag. “Colonel Drummond . . . suicide or murder? Which was it?”

“You don’t know me?”

“Why? Have we met before?”

He did look clueless, as if he was totally unfamiliar with my name. But if somebody in Washington had informed him about Bian Tran, surely they had also informed him about me. I found it curious that he felt a need to play games;
he
had the gun, after all. But, since he was being selective, I decided to be selective, too, and instead addressed his first question. “Cliff’s death looked like suicide. Certainly, he had ample motive—a nasty divorce, a disappointing life, and as you know, an order to appear before a congressional investigating committee. He was already professionally ruined; next stop was public disgrace.”

“So then . . . it was suicide?”

“It was murder. A hired female assassin. It was staged to replicate suicide, and you know what? But for a few sloppy mistakes and contradictions, that might’ve been our ruling.”

I quickly recounted those mistakes, and he listened, but it looked like his mind was on other matters, and he did not seem all that focused or bothered. I concluded, “Were she my employee, I’d cancel her Christmas bonus.”

Charabi’s expression had now turned to suspicion. He studied me a moment and asked, “Are you wired?” He did not wait for an answer. “Stand up. Remove your shirt.”

I did not stand. I had had enough. A murderer, a betrayer, a kidnapper—no way was I going to indulge this man by stripping.

“Your shirt—now,” he barked, and once again directed the pistol at my groin. His hand was shaking and his trigger knuckle was white.

Well, why not? I unbuttoned and threw my Army blouse on the floor. I stood and pulled my trousers down to my ankles and did a slow pirouette so he could see I was not wired. He said, “The T-shirt, also,” and I pulled it off as well. He informed me, “There is a wonderful Kurdish saying that predates modern electronics. A naked man tells no lies.”

“If you think my underpants are coming off, shoot me now.”

He laughed, then said, “You can put them back on,” and I took a moment and redressed.

Everybody watches cop shows these days, and they presume you can visually detect a listening device, though frankly that perception has long been outmoded by the miracle of miniaturization. My Bureau friends, I knew from personal experience, actually have a bug in a suppository, which gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “talking out your ass.” But, to be blunt, yours truly is not
that
dedicated. Had I been wired, though, Tirey’s people would already have busted down the door, I would be pointing the pistol at his head, and he would be answering
my
questions. On second thought, a suppository up your ass is not that bad.

Anyway, while I buttoned my blouse, I sat and considered my options and he toyed with his Glock and appeared to consider his. Letting me go seemed out of the question, but shooting me and claiming self-defense clearly wasn’t off the table. I had something he wanted— information—and he had something I wanted—the gun. I saw no way that we could meet each other halfway; I don’t think he did either.

He eventually said, “Listen to me. I did not kill Cliff—he was my friend—nor did I have him killed.” He leaned closer and added, “Nor have I kidnapped this major you keep talking about.”

Involuntary sounds sometimes escape from my throat, and I heard somebody say, “Bullshit.”

This annoyed him and he reminded me, “I have a gun and you do not. A man in my position has no need to lie.”

“You know what? You’re right. Boy, I’m glad we’ve cleared the air, and . . . well . . . I’m sure you’re very busy.” I stood and got about two steps toward the door.

“Sit! Or I shoot.”

“A bullet in my back won’t help your self-defense claim,” I informed him. I did not like the tone in his voice, and I did stop walking.

“The real issue, Colonel, is what a hole in the back of your head will do for your health.”

Good point. I turned around and sat. He waved his pistol. “I do not think the Army sent you here. Who do you work for?”

I decided to tell him the truth. “The CIA.” I think he had already put this together, though, because he did not appear surprised or shocked. I told him, “So, this is great. I know you work for Iran, and now you know who I work for.” I smiled at him. “Naked men tell no lies, right?”

He asked, “But you are in the Army also? This uniform is real?”

“Yes.”

He waved his weapon at my shoulder and said, “You have a combat patch. This means you have been in battle, yes?”

I nodded.

“Have you killed for your country?”

I did not respond.

“How many have you killed?”

“I didn’t count.”

“This means you lost count. Am I correct?”

I didn’t like his questions and said, “What’s your point?”

“Do you consider yourself a patriot?”

“I’m a soldier.”

“And you have killed for your country—for your people.” He looked at me thoughtfully, and asked, “Do you know how many Shiites Saddam Hussein murdered?”

“A lot.”

“Is a million a lot? How about two million?” he asked in a mocking tone. “Murdered, Colonel—poison gas, bullets in the back of the head, torture, rape, starvation. Men, women, children, the aged—nobody was given mercy. And I do not even include in this number the four hundred thousand Shia who were forced to fight and die in Saddam’s idiotic wars with Iran and America.”

“I read the newspapers.”

“When so many Jews died at the hands of Nazis, the whole world condemned this. It even was given a name—the Holocaust—as if mass extermination pertains only to Jews. Why does the mass murder of my people not have a name?”

“The murder of your people was a tragedy. And you know we did our best to end it, with food and medical programs, and no-fly zones over southern Iraq to keep Saddam from using his aircraft to slaughter Shiites.”

“Your
best
? I think not. Did the murders ever stop? You knew they did not. In the most merciful years, it was only tens of thousands.”

“It was not our fight.”

He had made his point, he knew it, and he returned to his smaller point, saying, “So you have killed for your country. Would you also lie for your country? Surely a liar has less need for shame than a killer.”

“Killing in defense of your country is no sin.”

He relaxed back into his chair and gave me a little smile, or a nasty smirk—his lips were fat and it was hard to tell. He said, “Neither, I think, is lying to save your own people a sin.
Taqiyya
. . . are you familiar with this Arab word? This concept?”

“In fact, I think I ordered some yesterday. Means burnt goat meat, right?”

He ignored my sarcasm and explained, “It is a Shia concept. It sanctions lying in defense of our poor, persecuted faith. If I perhaps passed on some untruths to your government, if, before this war, I perhaps exaggerated a few claims, I have no qualms or regret for this.”

“When you lie at the behest of your Iranian bosses, and to further your own rise to power, that doesn’t make you noble, Mr. Charabi. It makes you a liar and a cheat.”

A surprised pout creased his face. “My bosses? Surely, you do not believe I work for Iran?”

I looked at him a long time, then told him a few things he already knew. “You’ve met with Iranian intelligence, you passed vital intelligence to Iran, and I have no doubt that if we dig deep enough, we’ll find you’re also implicated in shipping Iranian weapons and agents into Iraq.” I told him, “If we dig deeper still, I suspect we’ll also find that you were talking to the Iranians long before the war.”

“Look all you want.”

“Thanks for your permission.”

“In fact,” he said, smiling, “I will save you some trouble. Yes, you are right.” He stopped smiling. “Well, you are
partly
right. I have been talking to . . . certain friends in Iran. And yes, since long before your invasion. And yes, now I am helping them expand their influence among my Shia people inside Iraq. And do you know why?”

“Because you would pimp your own mother for a throne?”

He chose not to respond to this.

So I took another stab. “Because they want their hands around the nuts of whoever’s running Iraq, and you’ve volunteered your balls?” I looked him in the eye and asked, “Yes? No? Am I warm?”

He knew I was trying to piss him off, and his eyes narrowed. He was shrewd, though, and to piss me off, he did not rise to the bait. He gave me a cool gaze and answered himself. He said, “Because it helps me . . . and it helps my people. And because those who I now find myself vying with for leadership of the Iraqi Shia, and for leadership of Iraq—the clerics Sistani, Sadr, and others—they have their own long relationships with the Iranians.”

He paused and looked at me.

He said, “Like your government in Washington, Tehran also has many views, many factions. Not everybody there is happy with Sistani, or with Sadr. So I give this gift of great intelligence significance to certain friends in Iran’s government, they pass this along to the appropriate people, and now—wallah!”—his chubby hands flew through the air and he performed a silly pantomime of pulling a rabbit out of a hat—“Mahmoud Charabi has his own very powerful supporters in Tehran—and here, in Iraq.”