Man In The Middle Part 50

He suggested, "I think you should leave." After a moment in which I did not leave, he informed me, "Now I am calling the American amba.s.sador to protest." He lifted up the phone and began hitting numbers with angry little punches.

There are two ways to approach a delicate situation such as this; diplomacy is the recommended course for all the obvious advantages that it avoids nasty confrontations, often gets results, and leaves no ugly feelings. And to be fair, the man to my front was perhaps weeks away from becoming the most powerful man in this country, and as such, he deserved my respect and courtesy, if not for himself, then for the office within his grasp. Also he had powerful friends in Was.h.i.+ngton who could screw up my paycheck, my career, or worse.

That, however, has never been my way and I said, "Put down that phone."

He continued dialing.

I said, "Go ahead, then. It's your funeral."

He stopped dialing. I seemed to have his attention and he asked, "What are you talking about?"

"Well . . . for starters, who murdered Clifford Daniels? Then, who told the Iranians that we broke their intelligence code? And finally, who shot and kidnapped an American Army major? There's more, but I think that's a good beginning. Don't you?"

Somewhere in there I struck a chord, or several chords. His face went white. He said, "I . . . I have no idea what you're talking about. W-who are you . . . and w-who sent you?"

I ignored his questions and said, "Ordinarily, at moments like this, I would read you your rights and advise you to get a lawyer. But today, I'm your lawyer. And today, you have no rights, only options." I paused, then briefly explained why he should pay attention to these options. "I can destroy you with one phone call."

Mahmoud Charabi, incidentally, was in his late fifties, medium height, and a bit on the plump side--pampered and soft-looking, actually--which did not reinforce the tough-guy expression he was trying to give me. He had graying hair around a bald dome, waxy flesh around a formless face, thick lips around a tight mouth, and full cheeks around small brown eyes that were staring at me a little incredulously. The overall impression was a sort of roundness and flabbiness, which might be why people underestimated this man.

Also he possessed excellent English and was fairly well-spoken, but with a discernible accent, and I detected a slight stutter, perhaps a nervous affliction. To tell the truth, nothing about him looked powerful, charismatic, or even slightly imposing. He looked more like an overweight insurance adjustor than the George Was.h.i.+ngton of this country. Probably this accounted for why he was trying to lie, scheme, and murder his way into power.

Also he had the unfortunate Nixonian reflex of squeezing his hands together at moments of high stress--at that moment, he looked like he was pressing coal into diamonds.

Lest he harbored any doubts, I informed him, "I have Clifford Daniels's laptop computer." His eyes widened, and to confirm his worst fears, I continued, "You're Crusader Two. And yes--Clifford was both stupid and sloppy. Because, yes, he failed to eliminate the e-mail messages. And yes, Mr. Charabi, they were decoded, and they are very . . . incriminating. Message after message."

"But they--"

Not allowing him to get a word in, I continued, "Imagine, if you will, how those messages will look on the front page of the New York Times New York Times." He began contemplating the empty blotter on his desk, and in case he forgot, I reminded him what he had written, saying, "Those unflattering a.s.sessments of your fellow leaders here in Iraq. Your whiny complaints about the American Army and the American amba.s.sador--'d.i.c.khead'? . . . Do you think he'll be flattered by that nickname? I don't. And best for last: You and Cliff cooking up that deal to tell the Iranians we had broken their code."

When he made no response, I said, "Wow. I mean, wow. How is that going to look?"

If his face had looked white before, he now was on the verge of disappearing into thin air. He never imagined he would hear these words; he thought Daniels was dead, that his secrets went to the grave. He said, "Uh . . . w-who . . . please, who are you?"

"It doesn't matter. Major Bian Tran will be brought to this office immediately. You have ten minutes, or . . ." I allowed that thought to drag off.

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 modic.u.m 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." 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 tras.h.i.+ng his outer office. "Hand me that pistol and I promise I won't beat the c.r.a.p 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 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 gla.s.ses, 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 Was.h.i.+ngton 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 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." 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 a.s.sa.s.sin. 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 s.h.i.+rt."

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 s.h.i.+rt--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 unb.u.t.toned 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-s.h.i.+rt, 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 a.s.s." But, to be blunt, yours truly is not that 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 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 my questions. On second thought, a suppository up your a.s.s is not that bad. questions. On second thought, a suppository up your a.s.s is not that bad.

Anyway, while I b.u.t.toned 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, "Bulls.h.i.+t."

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 s.h.i.+tes 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--n.o.body was given mercy. And I do not even include in this number the four hundred thousand s.h.i.+a 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 n.a.z.is, the whole world condemned this. It even was given a name--the Holocaust--as if ma.s.s extermination pertains only to Jews. Why does the ma.s.s 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 s.h.i.+tes."

"Your best 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 Taqiyya . . . are you familiar with this Arab word? This concept?" . . . 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 s.h.i.+a concept. It sanctions lying in defense of our poor, persecuted faith. If I perhaps pa.s.sed 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 n.o.ble, 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 pa.s.sed vital intelligence to Iran, and I have no doubt that if we dig deep enough, we'll find you're also implicated in s.h.i.+pping 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."