Brian Haig - Man in the middle

The passengers in the rear of the aircraft were probably tossing their lunch; I was feeling a wave of nausea myself. "What about Charabi?"

"Who?"

I looked at her. "You can't allow this."

"I follow orders." After a moment she observed, "Needless to say, you also will follow orders."

"He betrayed us."

"Do you know that for sure? You have a suspicion based on a flimsy circumstantial foundation. A few e-mails in a computer that belonged to a seriously troubled, contemptible man who perhaps committed suicide. Were you the defense attorney, would you allow that to be entered into evidence? I think not." She didn't need to state the obvious, that her question was as abstract as it was specious, since I would never be allowed within ten miles of that computer or the incriminating e-mails. She did add, however, "You have no tangible proof that Charabi passed any secrets to the Iranians. He's not even a U.S. citizen. That's a requirement for an indictment for treason, is it not?"

"He's a suspect in the murder of Clifford Daniels. That's an extraditable offense."

"You said the murderer was a woman."

"I also told you I believe she was a hired assassin. She was the murder weapon, not the murderer."

"There's that 'possibly' word again. I thought the law dealt with facts, and I thought innocence is presumed."

These weasel words had a lawyerly ring, as if Phyllis was parroting the stupid rationale cooked up by the nameless powers that be back in D.C.

You can imagine how much I enjoy legal lectures, and I informed her, "Investigations always begin with vague and uncertain suspicions, you dig a little, and you decide which suspicious assholes need a second look. And, if you're interested, the presumption of innocence pertains to jurors, not investigators. To the cop everybody is a suspect until proven otherwise."

She did not reply.

"He's a suspect. He needs to be questioned."

"He is an Iraqi citizen. This is Iraq. You have neither the legal basis nor the authority, nor the access to question him."

"No problem. I'll just walk into his office and ask a few questions. Perfectly harmless. Man-to-man. See where it goes."

"I was instructed to convey three words: Forget about him."

We locked eyes for a moment.

She said, "The Iraqi people are scheduled to have their first election in January. This is a critical milestone to victory in this war, a necessary step for bringing our troops home. Mahmoud Charabi-maybe you read this in the papers-is a leading contender for future prime minister."

"And that's why he needs to be investigated. What if he's elected, and what if he's working for Iran, and what if he's behind the murder of Cliff Daniels? That won't be good for America, and that's not what my comrades in arms are fighting and dying for."

"Why is irrelevant. Pay attention. Neither you nor I are allowed to carry this any further." She pointed a finger, daggerlike, into my arm and invoked those sacred words: "That's an order."

"What's going on here?"

There was silence for a moment. Eventually, Phyllis said, "Two words, this time: Martin Lebrowski."

"Who?"

"The man you know as Don."

"Am I going to dislike Martin as much as I dislike Don?"

"More." She added, "The leak of the Iranian operation occurred on his watch. He was responsible for all aspects of that operation. Especially, operational security. Lebrowski was facing a serious career crisis."

"Lebrowski never should have had a career in the first place."

"Whatever. He has more savvy than I gave him credit for. Right after Martin departed our meeting he called a few friends, on the NSC staff and at the Defense Department. He disclosed what we knew." She added, "The details were off, but it didn't matter."

"What happened next?"

"What do you think happened next?"

Her response was as rhetorical as my question. This was Washington-a meeting happened next. The bright boys scrummed around a long mahogany table in a lushly carpeted back room and collectively they realized that, with a seesaw election mere days away, the opposition could begin picking out Secret Service nicknames and contacting their real estate agents. One meeting always begets the next, and this time Phyllis and her boss were invited, not as guests but as factotums to hear their marching orders. I asked her, "And what was Martin's reward?"

"Oh, well… he now works in the White House. On the National Security Council staff. A special assistant to the President."

"I love when the good guy wins."

"Martin outsmarted us-"

"Martin outsmarted you. Personally, I thought he was an asshole."

"All right… me. There's nothing to be done about it now."

She was right, of course. And actually, I felt a pang of guilt for indulging in that bratty told-you-so. I can rise above the vindictive and small-minded stuff. Then again, she doesn't; why should I?

I stared at her for a moment, then said, "Let's make sure I'm clear on all this. In summary: Ali bin Pacha will be interrogated by his homies, Lebrowski has a new desk with job security, Charabi has a papal dispensation, and… what have I missed?"

"A few details. Nothing important."

Actually there was something important-me. I asked, "Where does this leave Bian and me?"

"Oh… yes. You will complete this leg of the investigation. Actually, the people who redirected this operation are very impressed with both of you."

"Does that mean my plane won't accidentally blow up on the way home?"

She ignored my paranoia. "You've apprehended an important terrorist, Sean. If he talks, it could help change the course of this war. We're all very interested in what he might disclose."

"It sounds like Washington is more interested in suppressing what Charabi might divulge."

"In this business, you rarely achieve all that you want. You have to celebrate what you get." She looked away from me and said, "There's a good chance you'll be rewarded for this impressive accomplishment."

"You can't imagine how good that makes me feel."

"And your personal feelings, as you know, are entirely irrelevant."

"That's what I meant."

"Also I was asked to remind you of the secrecy statements you signed-you remember what that means. As I'm sure you've guessed, this is what Waterbury is discussing with Major Tran back at the plane."

I looked at her a long time, then said, "They're rubbing it in our faces. Yours too, Phyllis. Doesn't this bother you?"

She surprised me and replied, with a rare display of emotion, "You're damned right it does."

We walked on in silence for a few moments before another unnerving thought hit me. "Wait…" I asked, "How did the Saudis learn about Ali bin Pacha? Don left before we got to that part."

"That's the question, isn't it?"

I stared at her.

"I'm telling you the truth. Out of the blue, the Saudi ambassador called the White House yesterday. He threw quite a stink."

"Can't anybody in the Agency keep a secret?"

This apparently was funny, because she laughed.

I said, "A very small circle were aware of this operation, Phyllis. How could the Saudis have learned about it?"

"I don't know the answer to that. But the ambassador knew. He wouldn't disclose how, but he knew. So, the Director and I were directed to work out an arrangement with Turki."

"You said yesterday? Before we had our hands on bin Pacha?"

"That's right. You might even say that was the decisive factor in our decision."

"I didn't think you made any decisions."

She ignored this sarcastic insight and continued, "We were quite aware that Saudi intelligence could have tipped off bin Pacha's organization. But in the event we didn't figure it out on our own, Turki subtly reminded us."

I said nothing.

"So it became a choice, Sean. A choice between taking bin Pacha out of circulation with the chance of learning what he knows or losing him altogether."