Getting a taxi, even with two hundred unruly and ambitious soldiers in competition, was faster than you can say abuse of rank.
The instant the first cab pulled up to the guest terminal, I stepped forward and bullied a poor private out of the back, leaving two hundred mutinous soldiers in my wake.
A helpful steward on the plane had kindly recharged my cell phone, and I made two quick calls, first to a person who confirmed what I had already guessed, and second to a person who answered a few simple questions regarding my hypothesis. Then I told the driver where to take me.
As soon as we were outside the air base gate, I rolled the windows all the way down on both my left and right sides and relaxed back into my seat. The wind and air were freezing and, dressed as I was in thin desert battle dress uniform, I might as well have been naked. The pleasure, though, was indescribable-to breathe fresh air, American air, air that didn't smell like human dung, to be freezing rather than sweating, to drive without worrying about snipers or bombs. Have I mentioned yet that Iraq sucks?
The cabbie caught my eye in the rearview mirror. He mentioned, "Back from Iraq, huh?"
"What gave me away?"
"A lot of them do that," he replied, referring, I guess, to my silliness with the windows.
I could observe only the rear of his head: an older gentleman, pockmarked neck, gray hair, my father's age or thereabouts. "You fooled me… at first," he continued. "Most guys head for the nearest bar."
"Well, I'm stuck with pleasure before business."
"How about a woman?" he charitably suggested. "Hey, I know a place, in Bethesda. Real patriotic ladies. They got welcome-home specials for vets that'll turn your pecker red, white, and blue. Yeah?"
"No. Thank you."
"Suit yourself."
"I was there only a few days," I informed him.
"That right?"
"I almost lost the war," I explained, truthfully. "They sent me home."
"Good for you. You still don't look tan enough."
"Office job. Lucky me."
"No kidding?" he asked, sounding slightly disappointed.
"It wasn't all milk and cookies. I picked up some nasty paper cuts and fell off my chair a few times. Want to see my scars?"
This got a chuckle out of him. He said, "Y'know, we really believe in what you boys are doing over there."
"That's why we do it."
"Yeah, horseshit. Saw some action myself. 'Nam, '68 through '69."
"Bad war."
"Name a good war."
"The one you make it home from."
"Hey, that's a good one." He started a long riff about his war, which I didn't really want to talk about. I interrupted and asked, "Which idiot are you voting for?"
"Neither guy. I'm a Nothingican. Like I said, I went to 'Nam. Politicians suck. All of 'em." He laughed.
He went on a bit, while I tried my best not to hold up my end of the discussion. Unfortunately, he was a conversation in search of a passenger and he wouldn't shut up. He eventually said, "Unbelievable about them Saudi princes. Know what I'm saying?"
"Sure do," I replied absently. If I had a gun, I would've shot him, or myself.
"We should form our own charities and send terrorists to kill Saudis. What's good for the goose, make it suck for the gander." He added, "Lord Limbaugh said that. Good one, ain't it?"
"Good one," I said agreeably. I had an important call to make and it really was time to pull the plug on this guy. I said, "Excuse me, but-"
He cut me off. "I mean… do those Saudi assholes really expect us to believe that coincidence crap?"
"Coincidence?"
"Yeah… them supposed accidents."
"Accidents?"
"You didn't hear? That first guy, Prince Faud, having a car wreck. And that other guy-Ali?… Abdul?… whoever-the same day skiing off a cliff in Switzerland. My ass. That jerkoff got an involuntary flying lesson."
Goodness. I leaned back in the seat. "Where did you hear this?"
"Radio. The Saudi day-night massacre-that's what the shock jocks are calling it." He asked, "Hey, you don't think our government finally got some balls and whacked them two?"
"Balls? Our government?"
"Yeah… what was I thinking?" He laughed.
"Both dead?" I asked.
"Well, when a sixteen wheeler head-ons your ass, or you forget to pack a parachute for your skiing lesson, dead is the usual result. Ha-ha. Those lousy Saudis, though… claiming it was just a coincidence. Bullshit. That's what it is-bullshit."
I needed to mull this over, so I sat back, flipped open my cell phone, and pretended to speak into it.
The first thing that struck me was how far behind the power curve I still was. I had spent a lot of time on the plane trying to piece together what Bian had done, and why, and I should've seen this coming. Obviously, I hadn't.
Said otherwise, I was closing in on Bian geographically, and yet mentally we weren't even on the same planet.
Because, second, I now understood who had given the expose to the press about these two rotten princes, but, more important, now I understood why. As a matter of fact, the Saudis would never turn this pair of princes over to the United States. But neither did they want or need the diplomatic heat or image problem from harboring members of the ruling family known to be funding the deaths of American soldiers and Iraqi civilians. In effect, for the princes, public exposure was tantamount to an execution order.
It occurred to me, too, that Bian's fingerprints were all over another leak. I recalled the moment on the plane in Baghdad, back when Phyllis, Waterbury, and the sheik had first shown up, and Bian and I were informed that somebody had tipped off the Saudis about our impending capture of Ali bin Pacha.
It was interesting that everybody, including Sean Drummond, assumed that that disclosure was the handiwork of some anonymous person back in D.C. And why wouldn't we? That is where the disclosures and intelligence compromises usually occur. Bian's camouflage, in other words, was our own cynical preconception regarding Washington and its appalling laxity with secrets, about which nobody was more brutally conscious than she. A sweet irony, if you think about it. I'm sure she did think about it.
But was this Saudi angle part of her plan from the beginning, from point A? No, I thought not. I was sure that Bian was genuinely surprised, as were we all, to learn what Charabi and his Iranian pals had offered Cliff Daniels in exchange for his betrayaclass="underline" Ali bin Pacha. But, experienced as she was in the shadowy politics of Arab terrorism, Bian was very quick to understand the opportunities bin Pacha posed, for us and for her.
Ultimately, Daniels and Charabi were her real targets, but chance had thrown this promising new opportunity into her lap and she went with it. So while we all sat in Phyllis's office trying to unravel and understand Daniels's betrayal, Bian's mind was on other matters, spontaneously devising a plan to exploit our own worst impulses. And the plan she devised was both brilliant and corrupting, because what she set in motion rested on two possibilities of dishonorable conduct.
One, she strongly suspected that Saudi intelligence was well aware that Ali bin Pacha, himself a Saudi national-and thereby his boss, al-Zarqawi-were getting contributions and assistance from important Saudi citizens, and was desperately trying to keep it hidden. She was a veteran intelligence officer with regional experience, after all. Wherever there's naughtiness in the world of Islam, Saudi money usually is involved. Usually, it's the motor.
Also, I recalled the private conversation Bian and I shared on the plane after Phyllis and Waterbury had delivered the new directive from Washington; to wit, the Saudis were getting bin Pacha and we weren't getting within a thousand yards of Charabi. I was hot as a pistol, and ready to rumble. Bian's mood had been one of casual acceptance, a pessimistic surrender, and that had surprised me. I had expected anger and disillusionment from her, not resignation.