Brian Haig - Man in the middle

He continued, "The Bureau has opened a lot of these overseas stations in the past ten years. In the old days, if you wanted fast track, the New York office was the place to be. Now it's pissholes like this." He shook his head.

Truly it was a new world, and the FBI, like the Army, was struggling to find its footing, and its people, trained and bred as they were to fight American crime in American cities, were having to learn new tricks and new angles, with different rules. He mentioned, "You might be interested to know that we flew in a team of financial forensics specialists. Assuming bin Pacha spills, they'll follow the money."

Bian was just responding to that statement when, out of the blue, our conversation was drowned out by an earsplitting noise, the sound of people shrieking and howling, that was really awful. The surround sound system was set at full blast and it sounded like a live concert from Dante's Inferno. I nearly jumped out of my shorts, and Bian actually did jump out of her chair and grabbed and squeezed my arm.

Jim mouthed the word "Relax." He got up, walked to the video screen, grabbed the remote, and pushed the mute button, which brought instant silence. He smiled at us in an amused way. "I tried to warn you. And don't get your pants on fire. It's a tape. Speakers are mounted outside of bin Pacha's cell. A little mood music to put new detainees in the right frame of mind."

And indeed, on the screen you could see bin Pacha's eyes pop open, and then he bolted upright and made a swift visual survey of his new environment. Doc Enzenauer had cautioned us that the after-effects of the drugs and anesthetics would leave him groggy and possibly would impair his judgment for a day or two. But on his face I saw no sign of confusion or disorientation-he knew he was in the shithole of the universe.

Jim had apparently seen this movie before, and wasn't interested in the rerun. He lit another cigarette and, through the billows of smoke, studied Bian and me. He said, "How did you know bin Pacha was in Falluja? And where to find him?"

I mean, it was hard not to admire the sneaky way he'd worked up to this question-this guy was smooth. It was none of his business, of course. But when you say that to a cop they make your business their business. Without pausing, Bian replied, "An informer. A member of his own network, if you can believe it."

"An inside informer? Wow."

"I know. Almost unheard of." After a moment, she added, "You'll enjoy this delicious irony. Zarqawi's people accidently blew up their own man's family with a car bomb. It's about revenge."

Sounded good to me.

But Tirey replied, "What are the odds of that, huh?"

My eyes were intermittently weaving between Tirey, Bian, and the video screen. I saw bin Pacha push off the cot and get to his feet. For a moment he swayed back and forth like an unsteady, one-legged drunk, but eventually he achieved his sea legs and steadied himself. His head turned sharply toward the door, then he stumbled, sort of dragging his fake leg, across the small cell.

Bian was telling Tirey, "When I took prob and stats at West Point, we had case studies like this. You know… assume a country of twenty-three million people, with ten thousand terrorists, who have fifty thousand direct family members, and who detonate two thousand bombs indiscriminately… what's the probability they'll blow up their own families?"

Bian was elaborating too much, which, with a cop or a lawyer, is like slicing your wrist in a shark-filled tank.

"Interesting way to look at it," remarked Tirey, but not all that sincerely. He pulled a drag on his cigarette and said, "Well, here's another curious thing. I was told you two flew into the country for this operation. Why? What's wrong with the local talent?"

Not only was this guy smooth, he was sharp.

On the screen, I observed bin Pacha now gesticulating with his hands. Because our viewing angle was a top-down, you couldn't see his lips moving, though it sure looked like he was conversing with somebody. I really wished I'd paid more attention when Enzenauer explained the after-effects from the drugs and anesthetics. Maybe he mentioned hallucinations during the period when I tuned him out, meaning most of the conversation. I'm not paid enough for medical lectures.

"Don't read anything into it," Bian was instructing Tirey. "Our source is still embedded in the insurgency. You know the mantra-extraordinary sources, extraordinary precautions."

Bin Pacha had crossed the cell and was leaning against the cell door. Now I was sure he was conversing with somebody.

I interrupted their conversation to mention, "Ali bin Pacha's awake. He seems to be talking. Maybe we should turn up the sound."

But Tirey was preoccupied with his interrogation and I think he suspected I was trying to divert him, which I was. Clearly, Bian had underestimated this guy, and was digging herself deeper into what law schools call "the liar's grave."

Also, I did want to know who bin Pacha was addressing, and about what. I mentioned it again, and Tirey answered, "In a minute." To Bian, he said, "I don't mean to get into your business." But of course he did, and he leaned closer to her face. "I'm used to being treated like a mushroom around here-fed shit and kept in the dark. But it helps to know the background before we begin an interrogation. Exactly how did you learn about his location?"

She asked, "Why would I lie about this?"

Now bin Pacha was waving his arms and gesturing emphatically with his hands. Whatever he was saying looked insistent and emotional, and he placed his head against the door, moving his ear against what must've been an opening.

Tirey was saying, "That's what I'm asking myself. Why would-" when on the screen I saw a cloud of red mist suddenly materialize from the side of bin Pacha's skull. In the same instant, his head flew sharply sideways, followed by his body, which landed in a heap on the floor. I yelled, "Oh shit!"

Tirey looked at me, then he turned to the screen, as did Bian, and their eyes shot wide open as they observed bin Pacha lying prostrate, and the arc of blood and gray stuff splattered across the floor. The TV had amazing picture quality, incidentally; you could even see where the tiniest dots of blood had stuck on the far wall.

"Jesus!" Tirey yelled. "What the fuck…?"

There wasn't time for an explanation. I stood and ran for the door, yelling at Tirey, "Where's his cell?"

He followed behind me, his gun drawn, with Bian sprinting behind him. We made it down the long hallway in about ten seconds, and fortunately the elevator default setting was on the operations floor. We stepped inside, he pushed the proper button, the doors slid closed, and we began our descent.

Tirey drew a few deep breaths then asked, "Now tell me-what the hell happened down there?"

"He was speaking with somebody. Through the cell door, I think. He moved his ear closer-there must be an opening, right? — and his brains blew out."

"Shit."

There was no way to improve on that sentiment and nobody tried. Clearly Special Agent Tirey now knew it had been a big mistake to leave the Saudis in control of the wing. I wasn't sure if he was in charge of this show or Phyllis. But if his name was on the blameline, the brief picture he had just observed on the video screen was his career flushing down the toilet.

The door slid open and we rushed out, then hooked a left and sprinted down a long hallway. We took another left and ended up moving down a short, poorly lit wing with cell doors on each side.

Five armed men in Saudi uniforms were gathered at the end of the hallway, standing casually, chatting, a few smoking cigarettes as if nothing had happened. Appropriately, Tirey raised his weapon and said, "Put down your weapons. Hands over your heads."