Brian Haig - Man in the middle

"Bullshit."

"Is it? You didn't even want to come. You're here only because Phyllis and I shamed and pressured you into it."

True enough. And yes, maybe that did make it, not easy, but at least easier to pass judgment. I had my wars, my battles-Panama, the first Gulf War, and Mogadishu-and as my father likes to say about his wars, those were the last real wars. No, I had no emotional connection to this one-like empathy and sympathy; I understood, I just didn't emote. I avoided eye contact with her, opened the door, and inside was, in fact, a fold-up bed, which I reached for.

Bian said, "Look at me, Sean."

I looked at her.

"You weren't so judgmental tonight when we threatened those men with execution. That also is a violation of the laws of war. Going all high and mighty now doesn't look good on you."

There was no need to point out the difference between threatening and doing; she understood the distinction. And yes, I had crossed a line; she, on the other hand, had jumped galaxies.

She continued, "Had I been some burned-out, hyperventilating basket case, I would've killed those men. I couldn't… and I didn't. I deliberately wounded them. Explain that."

I couldn't explain it. Had it been battlefield rage or simmering racial hatred, those men wouldn't be crippled; they'd be worm meat.

But in the eyes of the law, it mattered not whether her motive was expediency-as she claimed, to separate the chaff from bin Pacha-or, as she further rationalized, to immobilize a future battlefield threat. Shooting unarmed prisoners is, at the very least, an excessive use of force; at worst, it is a method of torture.

"Don't be angry with me."

"I'm disappointed in you. There's a difference."

"That's worse." I looked at her again and noticed that tears were coursing down her cheeks. She said, "I think there's something between us… and… I…"

I grabbed the bed and tried to maneuver it out of the room. It was too large and unwieldy, and I said, "Give me a hand."

"Tell me what you intend to do."

"I'm going to report you."

"To whom?"

"When I decide, you'll be the first to know."

"Am I under arrest?"

"Not yet. But consider yourself under military custody."

"I want to finish this… I… I have to finish this."

"I can't trust you around prisoners, Bian. I'm sure I don't need to explain why."

"Then you're not thinking straight. You can't finish this without me. You know that."

"Do I?"

"Yes. If we can get bin Pacha to talk, how many lives might that save? You have… This is very important to me. Come on, we've come this far."

She had a point. She understood the operating environment and she could converse in Arabic, whereas I couldn't even ask, "Who's handing over the moolah, bin Pacha?"

On the other hand, I could not get past the memory of those men toppling over.

She sensed that I was conflicted and said, "Satisfy your conscience after we're done, okay? Mission first, right? What is it they say about babies and bathwater? What more damage can I accomplish?"

"Are you out of cliches yet?"

"You know I'm not."

I looked at her. Against my better judgment, I said, "Promise you won't shoot anybody."

She smiled and crossed her heart. "Promise."

"No mistreatment of the prisoners."

"I won't even squash a sandfly without your consent."

"You won't even pee without my permission."

"That's what I meant."

"Give me a hand with this bed."

She did and we carried it out to Doc Enzenauer, who in our absence had also hooked up Nervous Nellie to an IV. The doc was hovering over bin Pacha, and he looked up and said, "He's stabilized. But without opening him up, I can't diagnose how serious his wound is. He needs to be on an operating table right away."

We lifted bin Pacha by his arms and feet and gently set him down on the bed. Bian explained to Enzenauer, "This is Ali bin Pacha."

"I thought he might be."

"So you're aware of his importance, and the complications. There are several field hospitals nearby. But you understand the sensitivity of his identity becoming exposed?"

"I'll give him a sedative that will keep him under and shouldn't react badly to whatever the anesthesiologist pumps into him." He added, "But I can't guarantee he won't talk."

Bian looked at me. "Well?"

"We'll move him first. We don't want an ambulance coming and linking him and this airplane."

"I hadn't considered that."

Enzenauer and I lifted up the cot and hauled bin Pacha out of the hangar while Bian trotted off to look for an MP with a radio to request the services of the nearest medevac facility.

I mentioned to Enzenauer, "I'll accompany you. After he's admitted, however, you're on your own. Long night. I need sleep."

"Well… that's why I'm here." He then asked me a good question. "How do we explain the victim? I assume you don't want him recuperating in an American military hospital. So, something that justifies a release as soon as he's ambulatory."

An idea was forming inside my head, and I said, "Tell them he's a member of the Saudi royal family. Shot by a terrorist, right? Stress his connection to the Saudi king and he'll get first-class treatment." I craned my neck around and looked back at Enzenauer. "How do we explain you?"

"That's easy. Lots of rich Saudis retain their own personal Western physicians."

I nearly told him I have my own proctologist, named Phyllis. He didn't seem to have much of a sense of humor, though.

He added, "I have a friend who does it. Lives in a monstrous mansion out in Great Falls. The pay is incredible." He chuckled and said, "My wife's always badgering me to get my own royal."

"Now you have one. Your client, Ali al-Saud, was here on a business trip. He didn't explain the purpose to you, because it was none of your business. Right? But he brought you here and asked if you wanted to accompany him to see the local sights. He was walking down the street, a stranger in dark clothing stepped in front of him, and bang. Completely arbitrary. Keep it simple. If they ask about you or your background, tell the truth. Just not the CIA part. The best lies stretch truth."

He nodded.

"So you put your patient in a taxi, rushed him here to the American air base, and asked for help. You ran into me by the front gate… I located a medic-somebody from a unit at the airfield-he provided the IV and blood. Right?"

"Exactly how I remember it."

"Don't mess this up, Doc. Getting him out will be Phyllis's problem."

We set down the bed, and about three minutes later, Bian jogged up. She said, "An air medevac's en route. Shouldn't take long. They're only three miles away as the crow flies."

I explained our intentions and she agreed it sounded workable. I told her to remain in the airplane and babysit Nellie Nervous and reminded her not to kill him. I promised I'd be back in two hours and instructed her to call Phyllis from the plane and update her.

We heard the whack-whack of helicopter blades.

Good news bad news.

A suicide bomber struck near the city center, and our arrival coincided with the victims, a mass of broken, traumatized people streaming into the field hospital. Some walked or limped in; the majority were hauled in on stretchers. The admitting nurses were overwhelmed and rushing from patient to patient, sorting the horribly wounded from the merely wounded from the too far gone to save, a triage situation.

I had never seen anything like this. I had seen dead and wounded soldiers, but here the wounded were all civilians, for the most part women and children, looking bloodied and dazed as they cried out for attention and help. I saw tearful fathers carrying wounded little children, and little children standing with desperate expressions beside horribly mangled parents.