Brian Haig - Man in the middle

As an attorney, I am of course philosophically opposed to torture under any circumstances, though men like Abdul Almiri and Ali bin Pacha are tempting. On more practical grounds, however, an interrogation ultimately is a form of negotiation-to succeed, there has to be a carrot, and there has to be a stick. Ali bin Pacha was telling me where I could put the stick.

He informed me, "My comrades will know I am a prisoner of your army. You cannot hide or disguise this. They will post my capture on a Web site, and they will notify Aljazeera, and so the world will hear of this. I think your press will be very interested about me."

"Is there a point to this?"

"I think you know my point. Mistreat me, and your press will create for you another big public problem-another embarrassment your idiot President cannot explain."

The Army advises that one should never underestimate the enemy, and here, I thought, was a case in point. Bin Pacha's people had planned for this eventuality, the capture of their moneyman, they were sensitive to the need to shield him from coercive tactics, and they were sure they knew how to do it.

In truth, on any other day it might even have been a workable plan. I turned to Bian. "These people are smart, aren't they?"

"I guess so."

"I mean… this is… you know…?"

"I know. This guy so much as gets an infected pimple, and the whole world will scream that we're Nazis."

"That seems to be the general idea."

"Very clever."

"Would you ever have-?"

"Nope. Not in a million years."

Bin Pacha's smile now looked a little less certain; it looked wobbly, actually.

Bian grabbed my arm. "Well, he has been unconscious for three days."

Bin Pacha had not a clue what we were talking about, but he was reading our body language and picking up the sarcasm in our voices. I looked at him and said, "Which do you want first, pal? The merely bad news or the crap-in-your-drawers news?"

The smile disappeared. But maybe he didn't understand the question.

"Well… why don't we ease into it?" I continued, "Bad news first. The morning you were captured, the Army and Marines kicked off a big-time assault on Falluja. Last report I heard-this was two hours ago-about three hundred of your fellow terrorists are dead, many dozens more are buried in the rubble, and who knows how many have been turned into mist or paste by tank and artillery shells."

In case he didn't get the message, Bian added, "Your compatriots will never know whether you've been captured, blown to pieces, or just buried in the rubble."

He had asked for it and it was time for the kicker. I said, "Last chance-will you cooperate or not?"

"Rot in hell."

I turned to Bian. "Can't say we didn't try."

"Sure did." She glanced at bin Pacha. "Poor soul."

Bin Pacha now looked very interested in this exchange, dealing as it did with his fate. He insisted, "I am more than willing to live the rest of my life in your prisons. You are fools to think I am fearful of this."

"I'm sure you are not." And I was sure it was true.

Bian had endured this guy's abuse with commendable stoicism-well, but for that one minor incident-and it seemed only fair for her to be the bearer of the worst tidings. I glanced at her, and she nodded.

She faced Ali bin Pacha. "You're being turned over to Saudi intelligence. I've never seen them so anxious to get their hands on a prisoner."

I added, "Your countrymen play by different rules. You're aware of this." I added, "If you're interested, they already have your family in custody."

His eyes went a little wide, but he didn't look as upset as I expected. In fact, I thought I saw a faint smile. This guy had more bullshit bravado than an Army Ranger, which is saying something.

Bian advised him, "Some parting advice." She may have been an infidel slut, but she now had his undivided attention. "Don't hold on to it too long. I've seen prisoners who tried. They were missing body parts, and in some cases, missing family members. And you know what? They all talked."

I assured him, "You'll talk as well."

Bian added, "How much agony and how many parents and brothers are a few hours or days of silence worth?"

Ali bin Pacha's eyelids were fluttering. You could see he was fighting to maintain consciousness, and you could also see that Doc Enzenauer's magical mickey had already coursed through the IV tube, through his veins, and straight to his evil brain.

He tried to say something and what came out was, "Oh… I… ugh…"

To send him off on the right note, I said, "Ali, you're going home."

His eyes closed.

In a convoy escorted by a platoon of detached military police, we drove for more than an hour from the Army field hospital and ended up at the entrance of a small military base. A metal sign by the entrance read, "Forward Operating Base Alpha"-in military jargon, FOB Alpha.

The base was entirely encased within ten-foot-high concrete blast walls and concertina wire, and if, say, you had forgotten you were in a war zone, this forbidding exterior reminded you that there were two worlds here-the violent, hazardous one outside the gates, and these highly fortified bases, like Old West cavalry forts.

Directly outside the gate on the roadway were five oversize speed bumps and a series of oil barrels filled with sand or concrete, arrayed in a winding maze so you had to slow to a crawl and make about ten short-angled turns. Also there were two twenty-foot concrete towers, from each of which the worrying snouts of big.50 caliber barrels followed our progress.

This reminded me, as I said, of an old cavalry fort, though the occupation of Iraq wasn't supposed to look like this: I recalled the stories Grandpa told me about his occupation after Germany surrendered-of round-heeled frauleins, of beery nights in gasthauses, of a fortune in black-market cigarettes and silk stockings-the uniquely American version of rape, pillage, and plunder. Better still, his natives accepted their defeat. Occupations are supposed to be the fun part of war, but I suspected no one would return from this occupation feeling nostalgic.

A pair of soldiers cautiously approached the lead SUV, and apparently Phyllis handled the entry requirements. Whatever she said, both guards snapped to attention and banged off crisp salutes, ordinarily a sign of respect-not in a combat zone, though. Might as well hang a fluorescent sign around the neck of the recipient for enemy snipers that announces, "NOT ME, IDIOT-SHOOT HER."

During my own combat tours, we actually used to make a point of saluting senior officers we didn't like. We thought this was very hilarious; they looked very aggravated. Maybe you had to be there, though.

Anyway, the guards signaled for us to enter the compound, and our convoy drove at slow speed over the bumps, through the winding path of barrels, and entered the gate.

I rode in the rear of the trailing vehicle, a military ambulance, with bin Pacha, who remained unconscious, and beside me sat Doc Enzenauer, who occupied himself monitoring his patient's vital signs, adjusting IV fluids, and doing doctorly things.

I looked out the side window as we progressed through the base, which pretty much was what you could infer from the title: a small, temporary encampment located in close proximity to the enemy. Inside Iraq, of course, this would be any base flying the Stars and Stripes. As it was, the weapons clearing barrels outside each building and the sandbags covering the roofs dispelled any illusion of an R amp;R center.

To most civilian eyes, all soldiers appear alike, androgynous beings wrapped in camouflage, with their hair closely cropped and an iron rod stuffed up their rear. But here the troopers mostly looked a little older, they sported the most up-to-date body armor, were carrying the coolest, latest gadgetry, and definitely swaggered more than your run-of-the-mill GIs, who generally look like confused high school kids stumbling around in oversize uniforms.