"The American public doesn't know we're here."
The publicity machine of the besainted Bureau makes Madison Avenue look like pikers, so I was surprised to hear this. "Why are you here?"
He lit a cigarette and spent a moment considering his response. "A little of this, some of that. We give investigations training to the Iraqi police. For a high-value investigation-say, a particularly nasty bombing or VIP assassination-we handle the more demanding criminology work, forensic collection, residue analysis, technical analysis. Also, there are a lot of American firms here-sometimes we investigate them." He smiled. "Believe it or not, there's a lot of graft over here. Uncle Sam is spending over a billion bucks a month, and it brings out everybody's best instincts. Bribery, overbilling, kickbacks, the usual funny business." He stopped smiling. "My detachment's not that big, so sometimes it's just liaison work with the labs at Quantico or referral work with stateside offices."
"This must be a career-enhancing assignment."
He forced a tight smile. "Sure is. If you survive." He added, "But the Bureau does look kindly on overseas hardship assignments. If you're interested, we're all volunteers here. This is where the action is-great training, great experience, and great tax benefits."
This sounded like the standard recruiting spiel, and as with Army recruiters, one thing was not emphasized, and that was the great odds of a premature funeral.
But frankly I was having trouble picturing boys and girls in blue suits and starched white shirts running around Baghdad. Tirey apparently read my thoughts, because he remarked, frowning, "It takes a little adjustment. The hours suck. And the working conditions are almost indescribable." He said, "Also, the cops here are a joke. They're lazy, crooked, corrupt, on the take, infiltrated, or scared shitless of the insurgents."
"Maybe the fact that the insurgents are targeting them has something to do with it."
"Tell me about it. It's just that you can't trust them. They destroy evidence, pollute crime scenes, and feed us false leads. I used to think the stateside cops are a pain in the ass… You know what? I actually look forward to working with the NYPD."
I could've told him that a lot of foreign armies we work with are worse; instead, I nodded.
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.