Brian Haig - Man in the middle

"Long shot. We already know the guy had a lot of lady friends, right? Who knows which ones people will remember."

"There are no short shots here, Barry."

"You out of bright ideas?"

So I explained my new theory about how the murder was more stylistic than we initially surmised, including a few ideas about the possible symbolism in the staging of his death. On that topic I suggested, "You might spend a little time thinking about what that was intended to convey. If any profilers owe you a favor, call it in. If we get a better idea about how he was killed, maybe we'll get closer to why, and by whom."

"You realize I'll have to do this on my own time."

"You'd better do this on your own time." I added, "And watch your back."

"I figured out that part on my own." He asked, "Say I find something-how do I get in touch with you?"

"You don't. I'll check in with you."

"Got it. So what are you two doing in Baghdad?"

"Vacationing."

"Aw, come on. This has something to do with Daniels's murder. Right?"

"It's the hottest thing in adventure tourism. They advertise it as a safari, only you're the prey. Very exciting."

He laughed. "My boy, Elton, he said it sucks over there."

"Your boy has a good head on his shoulders."

"Let me tell you, he used to be a little asshole. Not all cops' kids are angels. The Corps straightened him out." He chuckled. "The first time he made his bed, his mama wanted to know who manufactured the robot that looks like her kid."

"Barry, listen. If you don't want Elton to spend the rest of his career over here, find something."

"Stay in contact." He hung up.

Bian lifted her beer can and we performed a quiet aerial toast. She said, "They failed to close the back door."

"But they didn't forget. These people aren't stupid, Bian. They won't ignore it."

"I know. What happens if he's caught?"

"He'll be okay. He's a big boy. He understands the risks."

"You're sure about that?"

"He's not a federal employee so they can't screw up his paycheck, or… say, reassign him here. You and I, on the other hand, might have a big problem."

"Screw them."

"Why are you doing this, Bian?" I popped that question out of the blue and watched her closely to see how she responded.

She did not bat an eye. "Duty, honor, country. It's that simple."

"Obeying orders is part of duty, and country can be interpreted many ways. You're not telling me something, Bian. I'd like to know what it is."

"Isn't it obvious?"

"With you, nothing is obvious."

"Is that a criticism?"

I took her hand and said, "No, it's not. You're a very exciting, unpredictable, and fun woman to be around. These past three days, despite everything, I've had a great time. I mean that. But from the moment I met you, I've sensed that you have your own agenda."

"This is the second time you've brought this up. It's getting old. What is it you think I'm doing?"

"Something more than truth, justice, and the American way. This is personal for you. I'm just not sure why."

She took a sip of her beer and examined me curiously. "That's hypocritical. You've been with me every step of the way. Has someone put a gun to your head?"

"Well… Ali bin Pacha, for one."

"Oh, screw off. Why are you bucking the system? Obviously not to get in my pants."

"Hey, that's below the belt."

To be polite, she smiled at my bad pun. She said, "I told you, I lost friends and soldiers here. I'd blow the whistle on these people in a heartbeat, but the scandal would destroy everything a lot of good soldiers have accomplished through blood and tears. That's something I'm not willing to do. I hope you're not either. But I'm more than willing to trade my career if I can force these people to make it right. Other people are giving their lives and limbs."

"Okay. I believe you."

"You better. And stop trying to psychoanalyze me. It makes me uncomfortable."

I sipped from my beer.

She said, "I know you're the cynical tough-guy type, and I know you'd never confess to doing anything altruistic. And I also know that it's a veneer, and that, underneath, you're maybe even a bigger sucker than I am, and maybe you're as compelled to find the truth here as I am."

Then, out of the blue, she added, "I'm going to take another shower. When I was here, we'd go weeks without them. I hated that almost more than I hated being shot at. It's so nice to feel clean in Iraq for a change."

Women are really into personal cleanliness. Men, on the other hand, think a month without showers and a shave is a cool vacation. But also, that sounded like an invitation. I wasn't sure if it was or not; it sounded like one, though. She stared at me a moment too long, then stood and walked out.

I popped the second can of beer and stared out the plane window. "To feel clean in Iraq for a change"-those words kept gnawing at me. She had meant for it to be taken at face value, and maybe it went no deeper than that. But from cross-examining thousands of criminals and witnesses, I also knew that through skill, luck, or chance, sometimes a Freudian slip lands in your lap, and you need to be receptive. Sometimes it's exactly as it sounded, and you end up spinning your wheels. Other times it's the switch that ends the darkness, or at least lights up a corner of a room.

So. "Clean in Iraq for a change"-what did that mean? Something had happened to her here, something traumatic she didn't want to talk about, but clearly something she felt remorse for, and maybe a deep sadness.

I didn't think Bian was dishonest; to the contrary, I was sure she was highly principled. But as I knew from personal experience, when two or more principles clash, something has to go.

It struck me, further, that she certainly wasn't the naive or overly gung-ho waif she occasionally came across as. With hindsight, what I had taken for gullibility, pliability, and excessive volunteering might have been something more.

Everybody involved in this thing had an agenda-nationalistic or institutional-and for each agenda there was a corresponding motive: passion, folly, obsession, anguish, intrigue, adventure, or, in a few cases, a less complicated matter of personal ambition and CYA. But for Bian-for whatever reason-this was personal. And when you mix personal with professional, you get big problems.

I heard the shower door open, and I heard it close.

This had not been my war, but it had been Bian's from long before we met. As all old soldiers know, what makes it personal for you isn't some galvanizing platitude or geostrategic imperative, or even being shot at. One attends a war because one is ordered to; one puts his heart and soul into it for a different reason. A bond to somebody, a comrade in arms, somebody with whom you share the risk of death, somebody you care about, and hopefully they care about you.

Joining Bian in the shower remained a bad idea, and I was sure she knew this as well; her quest, though, whatever it was, had become mine.

Bian and I were seated in stiff-backed hospital chairs observing our Arab patient, who remained unconcious. Three days had passed since Doc Enzenauer recommended that we allow bin Pacha a period of recovery before we squeezed his brain like a blackhead. According to the doc, this had more to do with the drugs and anesthetics than the trauma of the operation, and he gave us a long, detailed tutorial explaining why. Don't ask.

Anyway, when Abdul Almiri was picked up by a squad of MPs for delivery to Abu Ghraib, Bian hitched a ride into Baghdad, where she stayed for two days.

She didn't talk about it, and I didn't ask.

I assumed, however, that she went to see her fiance, Marvelous Mark, which perhaps accounted for why she didn't invite me. I recalled Bian once telling me that Mark and I had a lot in common, the inference being that we'd end up buds, but I wasn't so sure. I mean, we had both seen Bian naked; among guys, that doesn't make for a pleasant bonding experience.