Brian Haig - Man in the middle

Also I suspected his show of diffidence was just that-an act. Beneath that veneer of cool apathy probably lurked a first-class thespian and a sophisticated intellect firing on twelve cylinders. I had known senior Army officers who employ this same technique. It's about power, the power to appear bored, to display bad manners in the presence of underlings. It's all illusion, of course; just like power. Anyway, I ended our spiel by recommending, "We believe Abdul Almiri should be turned over to the military as quickly as possible." I turned to Phyllis and observed, "The Baghdad field station can handle that without exposing our fingerprints."

Waterbury answered for her. He said, "I'll handle it."

"How will you handle it?" I asked.

"That's none of your business."

"Mark, it is our business," Phyllis interjected.

"All right, I'll… I'll tell the Army one of my people is over here and arrested him."

I exchanged looks with Phyllis. She artfully suggested to Waterbury, "Don't you think they'll wonder why the Pentagon special unit has people over here? You could blow this entire operation."

"Maybe… Well, I'll consider it." We all were left with the impression that he might accept that cost as long as he got official credit for capturing a bomber. I had this mental image of Waterbury back home, seated with his pals, smoking a big stogie, rolling a snifter of cognac around his palm, and saying something like, "So let me tell you how I bagged the biggest, baddest bomber in Baghdad…"

If this man were any stupider he would have to be watered twice a week.

Phyllis changed topics and informed Bian and me, "Doctor Enzenauer called about an hour ago. Ali bin Pacha's wound was cleansed and sutured. He's recovering in the post-op."

"So he's going to be okay?" asked Bian.

"The risk now is an internal infection, and that will have to be watched. But in Enzenauer's opinion, he should be ambulatory in about two days."

Bian looked a little relieved, as well she should. Had bin Pacha expired on the operating table, she would've had a few difficult issues to explain.

Everybody was now smiling, and I decided to burst their bubbles, commenting, "I don't think we're going to crack this guy."

"What does that mean?" asked Phyllis.

So I spent a moment regaling her and the others about what we learned from Abdul Almiri regarding Ali bin Pacha, closing with an interesting personal observation I picked up while he was pointing a gun at my head. "There was this moment," I told them, "a millisecond… when we just looked into each other's eyes. Melodramatic as this might sound… it was like we looked into each other's souls. What I saw in that instant was hatred, a rage that bordered on madness."

Bian smiled and said, "I wonder what he saw in your eyes."

Waterbury cracked, "Were you expecting him to smile, Drummond? He had comrades who were dead or shot. He had just been captured."

Actually, I recalled, bin Pacha had smiled. I said to Waterbury, "How would you know? I don't recall you being there."

He gave me a nasty look.

Phyllis intervened before this turned even nastier and asked, "What's your point, Sean?"

"Breaking bin Pacha will require ingenuity, luck, and time. Months, maybe years. He won't fall for the usual interrogatory tricks and gimmicks, nor will he be goaded into the sloppy mistakes you associate with common criminals." Glancing in the sheik's direction, I added, "In the event anybody is considering beating the truth out of him, pain will only fuel his indignation and rage."

Phyllis asked, "Are you inferring bin Pacha has a martyr complex?"

"Well…" What was I inferring? "Think of this man like steel. He prefers heat. It tempers him, makes him stronger."

Waterbury regarded me a moment, then said, "You claim to know a lot about this man. Yet you admitted that you never spoke with him, so that strikes me as… absurd."

I smiled back. "I have a strong intuitive sense. For instance, I didn't like you three seconds after we met."

He thought this deserved a serious response and replied, "Yes, but we actually spoke for a while."

Why do I waste my wit on guys like this?

So I ignored him and looked at the other faces around the table. Deciding to treat this like a courtroom summation, I said, "Let's review what we do know about Ali bin Pacha. He has been a terrorist his entire adulthood, having survived over a decade in a business we've done our best to make risky. In fact, he was handpicked by al-Zarqawi to represent his movement to outside investors. This is noteworthy. Ali bin Pacha is the chosen face of his organization. This suggests great confidence that he will protect his group's most precious secrets. And further, that he would be viewed by prospective investors as an inspiration, a poster boy for how terrorists look and act. Bottom line, his peers don't underestimate him, and neither should we."

Everybody thought about that for a moment.

Bian nodded at me, signaling her agreement with this assessment.

The sheik said nothing. He was leaning back in his chair, concentrating with great intensity on the glowing tip of his cigarette. Maybe I misjudged this guy, maybe he had a grapefruit for a brain.

Mr. Waterbury broke that silence and informed us, "In my experience, everybody talks." When nobody picked up on that thread, he said, "You just have to find the right approach."

What did he think we were talking about?

The sheik finally looked up and, in surprisingly good English, said, "The colonel has an excellent understanding of this man."

He poked his cigarette at Waterbury. "Ali bin Pacha descends from many generations of Bedouin warriors. He is not like these people from Jordan or Pakistan or Syria. These men, such as your Jordanian prisoner, they are peasants playing at warriors. Ali bin Pacha was bred differently."

"Is that right?" asked Waterbury.

"He is what we call takfiri. You know this term? They are worse even than Al Qaeda. Very fanatical, very destructive."

"I suppose you would know," Waterbury replied.

"I do know," he confirmed, which I thought was interesting, if not revealing. "And you will be glad to know I can offer a solution."

Everybody craned forward, anxious to hear this loaded announcement.

"Turn Ali bin Pacha over to me," he told us. "He is of us. We understand him."

Waterbury suggested, "You're referring to rendition?"

"Okay. I am not certain of your precise American expression, but I know it is done." He looked around at our faces and added, "I will of course provide you the fruits of whatever our interrogators obtain."

I leaned forward. "Excuse me."

Waterbury ignored my intrusion and said, "An excellent idea." He looked thoughtful for a moment, which is like watching a beauty contestant tell you she dreams of world peace; even when it's sincere, it's the depth of thought that's scary. Eventually, he said, "Sheik al-Fayef's people have expertise and the resources… and well… let's be blunt-the Saudis enjoy certain… exclusive prerogatives."

By prerogatives he meant the Saudis could electrify his gonads until bin Pacha realized that the truth might not set you free; it can, however, literally save your balls.

The sheik, however, looked annoyed by this innuendo. He said, "It is true that we possess certain… resources, and, let me be blunt… certain human and cultural insights that American interrogators lack. However, we are not barbarians. We do not resort to torture. I give you my vow that we will not employ such treatment on this man."

I turned to the sheik and noted, "In fact, U.S. law requires a written assurance of humane treatment from the receiving nation before a prisoner can be rendered."

"Is this so?"

"This is so."

"I had no idea."