Brian Haig - Man in the middle

"No. I'm… Be back in a minute."

I had a wave of bad feeling in my stomach and I walked as fast my feet could carry me to the motor pool, where my wave of bad feeling immediately turned into a tsunami. Yes, Major Tran had been here, the motor sergeant informed me, and she had signed out a Toyota Land Cruiser, the fancy model reserved for Special Ops, and departed about thirty minutes before. I asked him if the vehicle had a radio; no-no radio, no armor plating, and worse, no Drummond in the passenger seat.

However, the major had left a note, which the motor sergeant withdrew from his pocket with a greasy hand that left black smudges on the paper. It was handwritten and read, "Sean, don't be angry with me. I don't blame you for anything that's happened. I've been a complete bitch. Sorry. And I mean it. But I need to think this through, and for some reason, you distract me. I'll call as soon as I arrive. Don't worry. You know by now I can handle it. Bian."

The sergeant was watching my face and said, "Anything wrong, sir?"

"What? No… I- How long is the drive to the Green Zone?"

"An hour, maybe. Hour and a half when the traffic sucks. Usually does suck at this hour."

I should have been furious with her, but I wasn't. Truthfully, she'd been acting strangely ever since her two days in Baghdad-or, on second thought, earlier, as I recalled the shower episode-and I knew the incident with bin Pacha had really pushed her over an edge. When the head isn't in the right place, the body follows. I should have kept a better eye on her.

I returned to the subterranean jail and updated Phyllis that Bian was en route and would call and notify us as soon as she landed. I further informed her that Bian had left alone, which caused a raised eyebrow and a chilly admonition to stay on top of this.

I asked the man on the switch to put through any calls from Major Tran, then found an empty desk and parked myself beside the phone. After two hours of spinning my wheels, when Bian still had not called, I had the switch put me through to the corps G2-the intel staff-inside the Green Zone.

A very polite captain came on the line, I offered him the abbreviated version of my problem, and then asked with great politeness if Major Tran had checked in.

He replied, "Gee, sir, your guess is as good as mine. This is a large staff, with many offices on several floors." He then hypothesized, "Maybe your major got lost, or maybe she ran into an old friend in the hallways. There's a bazaar in the compound, so maybe she's shopping. You know how the ladies are." He laughed.

To which I politely replied, "Captain, I didn't ask you to guess."

"Uh…"

"I need to know whether she's arrived."

"Uh-huh… do you know who she's supposed to see?"

"If I knew, why would I be calling you?"

There was a long pause. "Well, sir… that could take a while. There are about three dozen offices here."

"Fine. After you check them all, ring me back."

I gave him my number, and he promised to call. He never did. Petty prick.

After another hour, I returned to Phyllis's makeshift office. I knocked and entered. I updated her and noted that, in my view, Bian was too good an officer, too reliable, and too responsible for the explanation to be innocent. Phyllis promised she would make some calls, and she did; Bian had never showed, but the moment she arrived-if she arrived-Phyllis would get a call.

Unfortunately, Baghdad is a big city, and it was already dark and too late to do anything, even if something could be done-which it couldn't. In a city filled with murder, bombings, and kidnappings, a tardy woman is the least of anybody's problems.

So I sat next to the phone all night and into the morning, thinking, waiting, and worrying. I tend to do nothing badly under the best of circumstances, and after thirty minutes people were avoiding me, which was fine. I finished two pots of coffee, and with each passing hour, I became more convinced that something terrible had happened. This was Iraq, after all, so the list of possibilities was endless and frightening, and I ruminated on every one of them.

The call I dreaded came at 7:30 a.m. from a sergeant in the operations shop of the 2/18th Military Police Battalion. His voice was gruff, his manner professional, and the news was bad.

In an alleyway in Sadr City, in the northeastern part of Baghdad, an abandoned silver Toyota Land Cruiser with U.S. military plates had been found by an MP patrol.

In the rear of the vehicle, the MPs discovered a green Army duffel bag. Neatly stenciled upon it was Major Tran's name and partial social security number-from which they deduced she was an occupant- and in the front seat was a leather briefcase in which they found a form from Camp Alpha with the phone number for this facility-which explained the call here, to confirm the major's provenance.

Regarding Major Tran, no trace of her or her body was found.

There were, however, six bullet holes through the driver's door and bloodstains on the seat and windshield.

We all walked out of the Camp Alpha compound as a military police detachment pulled up. A two-and-a-half-ton Army truck towed the silver Land Cruiser behind it, which was necessary, as the Toyota's front tires had been blown out by bullets. I did not like the look of that, but for the moment I withheld judgment.

The MPs began unhooking the tow shackles, and Jim Tirey, accompanied by four agents, waited until they finished before approaching the Toyota. They did a quick visual survey around the perimeter of the vehicle, and then dove in, dusting for prints and taking blood samples from the driver's seat-for once, they weren't developing a forensic portrait of the perpetrator, but of the victim. I walked to the driver's side.

As the ops sergeant had indicated over the phone, there were bullet holes in the driver's door, though not six, as he had stipulated- more like ten. Also the driver's window was blown out, with safety glass littering the inside. I studied the number and spacing of the holes; no way could the driver have emerged unscathed from such a fusillade.

An MP sergeant approached on my right and informed me, "We found it about 0600 hours, parked in an alleyway. It was, you know, a part of the city where you don't find expensive autos."

I looked at him but made no reply.

"An anonymous local called it in. Nobody gives you their names here," he continued. "Our Arabic guy took the message and dispatched us." He confided, "We were thinking VED, vehicular explosive device-you know?"

I nodded.

He said, "Ask me, it was a drive-by."

When I made no reply to his hypothesis, he explained, "There's gangs that rove around the city, day and night, hunting for vulnerable targets." After a pause, he asked, "She in uniform?"

Again, I nodded.

"Plain daylight, too," he commented with a disapproving frown. After a moment, he asked, "And she was alone, right?"

"Yes, alone."

"Uh-huh… I mean, Jesus H. Christ, that's how you spell stupid. Ask me, she was begging for it."

I turned to him and said, "If you offer one more stupid opinion, it will take ten strong men to pull my boot out of your ass."

He gave me an alarmed look, then wandered away. I continued to stare at the SUV.

I felt somebody take my arm, and when I turned around, it was Phyllis, staring at the bullet holes. She said, "Sean, I am truly, truly sorry."

I didn't trust myself to reply, and pulled my arm away. I moved to the rear of the vehicle, where Tirey's people had now withdrawn Bian's duffel bag and briefcase and laid them on the ground. The contents had been emptied and two agents were surveying the materials, spare uniforms, makeup kit, clean underwear, and so forth. Whatever they were looking for wasn't going to be found in Bian's bags.