Brian Haig - Man in the middle

In the words of Tennessee Williams, the heart is the most stubborn organ. About women, that sounds about right. About men, he definitely overlooked a more stubborn organ.

Which opened the question of what motives placed me on this plane, headed off as I was to do something my instincts said was foolhardy, my legal judgment said was wrong, and in my professional judgment, bordered on suicidal.

I recalled my father's favorite admonition: Never let your dick write a check. Good advice, Pop-but like most good advice, the devil is in the details.

In truth, Bian Tran had made a strong impression on me. Were I completely honest, I was a little smitten by her, and maybe a wee bit jealous of Major Mark Kemble. Indeed, this was a unique and spellbinding woman, a personified American dream. Arriving on our shores as a young child, impoverished, confused, homesick, and bereaved by the recent death of her father, she mastered a new language, absorbed a new culture, worked hard, marched through four years at that uniquely American institution, West Point, and, I suspected, were I to check her military file, her officer efficiency reports would be uniformly sterling.

In short, this was an intellectually gifted, forceful, driven lady. Also, as has been my experience with other immigrant children, I suspected that Bian Tran was a little hyperpatriotic regarding the ideals of her adopted land, inebriated by her sense of duty and, maybe, by her willingness to sacrifice for those she loved. It's interesting. Over 10 percent of American soldiers in Iraq weren't even U.S. citizens, just hungry young people trying to earn the dream.

Those of us born with the silver spoon of citizenry in our lips, I think, tend to be more convinced that we deserve our American birthright, particularly its fruits and indulgences over its labors and burdens. I did not think, though, that Bian was a mindless fanatic; in fact, I was sure that something else, something more-perhaps love, perhaps guilt, perhaps both-was driving her. I would have to keep an eye on that.

Also I didn't trust Phyllis. Well, I didn't trust the CIA. In my months in this job, I had found these were good people, patriotic, courageous, and enormously talented, who nearly always do what they think is best for the Republic. The problem is, they do it behind a curtain of smoke and mirrors; this isn't always a temptation to good judgment, or worse, good results.

Anyway, Captain Howser recognized a pal at the front of the plane and excused himself. This apparently required an exchange of seats, as, shortly afterward, a man, large and burly, with the stripes and diamond of a first sergeant on his collar lumbered down the aisle toward me. The name patch on his chest read Jackson, and he looked at me and said, "You mind, Colonel?"

"If you have a photo album, I mind a lot."

He laughed. "Divorced. Twice. How about I tell you what complete bitches they were?" Whereupon he fell into the seat and stretched out.

On his left shoulder, I observed the patch of the First Infantry Division-his current unit of assignment-and on his right shoulder, that of the Third Armored Division, a unit he served with in a previous war, or on a previous tour in this war. He was a combat veteran several times over with that weary, deromanticized, been-there-done-that look of somebody who was too tired to talk about it.

He said to me, "You're JAG." His eyes moved to my shoulder where there was no unit patch. "Where you assigned in Iraq?"

"I'm not."

"Then why-"

"I'm a tourist. Maybe you can recommend a good hotel. A pool and spa would be nice. A good, well-stocked bar would be more than nice."

"You're nuts." He laughed.

"Me? Who's coming back a second time?" I informed him, "It's temporary duty. Just in and out."

"Oh…" I thought for a moment he was going to knock me out with his beefy fists and trade uniforms.

"Meeting a client," I told him. That, in fact, was my cover, and should anyone ask, that's also what it said on the phony orders in my breast pocket. Good covers are always based on fact, and in reality, there was a prisoner facing charges, though he hadn't yet been assigned counsel. I had even briefly studied his case file to substantiate my cover; the guy didn't have a prayer.

"What's his tit 'n a ringer for?" Jackson asked.

This seemed like a good chance to practice my cover, and I replied, "Mistreatment of an Iraqi prisoner."

"They're real sensitive about that these days."

"Sure are."

"Ever since that Abu Ghraib thing."

"Yep."

"That was a bunch of wacko idiots, you ask me. What the hell were they thinking?"

"They weren't. They were just doing."

After a moment he asked, "Your guy, he do it?"

"Never touched the guy."

"Uh-huh."

"But I think the seven witnesses and the victim's broken jaw from the rifle butt might prove a little tricky in court."

He laughed. "I can see where that could be a problem."

That about covered everything I knew, so to change the subject I asked him, "So how is it over there?"

He took a moment to contemplate this question. "Sucks."

Any soldier who is happy in a war zone needs his head checked. I asked him, "But is it worth it?"

He understood what I was asking and replied, "Is now."

"Why now?"

"You know Tennyson?" After a moment, he clarified. "Alfred… the English poet." And then he quoted, "'Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do or die.'"

" 'Charge of the Light Brigade,'" I replied.

"Says it all."

"Bullshit."

He laughed. "Complete bullshit." He twisted sideways and faced me. "A month ago I sent home two of my kids in body bags, and I damn sure give a shit that my soldiers are dead." He soberly contemplated his combat boots. "Now it better be worth it."

I looked out the window at the expansive blue sky, at the marshmallow clouds below, and off in the distance, I noted a jet contrail headed in the direction we had just come from. Possibly that sleek silver container also was filled with soldiers, their year at war over, their minds choked with memories of long, tedious days, of comrades wounded, mangled, and worse.

And it struck me that Bian was right about one thing-we could blow the lid off this war-and among some on this plane, I would end up man of the year, and among most, loathed.

First Sergeant Jackson closed his eyes. Field soldiers have the stamina of babies, and within thirty seconds he was comatose and snoring loudly. Time for business. I opened my legal briefcase, withdrew a thick sheath of papers, took a moment to clear my mind, and dug in.

I recalled the old Army saying-a plan lasts until the second it's implemented. I have found this to be generally true, but I think it's important to have one, to have a baseline, and if you've really done your homework, workable options for when the poop flies. What we had in this case was seat-of-your-pants bullshit.

The basic idea-what the Army calls a POW snatch; POW standing for prisoner of war, and snatch implying the goombah in question might not be a willing participant. Such operations are always risky, as bad guys invariably hang around their own neighborhoods, usually in the company of other bad guys, and you have to be quick or you end up on the short end of the stick. There are, in fact, times when the roles become reversed, but it's bad luck to dwell on that-and hard not to.

In the interest of airtight secrecy, rather than rely on career Agency types or even uniformed military who might become nosy about Sean Drummond and Mr. Ali bin Pacha, the heavy-lifting stage of this mission was going to be done by private contractors employed by Phyllis.

These were people who had done work for the Agency before, and they passed the entrance exam; they were still alive to do another job. They are not mercenaries, mind you, and they are sure to point that out to you; they are patriotic Americans, mostly former Army and Navy Special Forces types who are still serving their country, and it just happens to be for more money.