Recalling what I had observed on the video, I suggested, "This must be when bin Pacha walked to the cell door."
She nodded-"Makes sense"-and continued, "Again, he tells Habbibi, 'Just make two phone calls-all will become clear. If you fail to make these calls, now I know your name, and you and your family will suffer horrible deaths. But there is a big reward you will be very happy with, if you call and do what these men tell you to do.' Habbibi replies, 'I can barely hear you. The noise from the tape is in the way. Come closer. Move to the opening. Tell me what you have in mind.' "
"And then…" Bian had been looking at our faces, and she looked back down at her notepad and continued, "Then bin Pacha said, 'Call Prince Faud ibn al-Souk, or Prince Ali ibn al-Sayyed. They will tell you what to do with me.' Habbibi answered, 'I can't hear you-' "
Phyllis interrupted, "You're sure of this?"
"Positive."
"I'm referring to the names. He named the two princes?"
"I know what you're asking. Listen to the tape yourself. Both names are easily distinguishable."
Phyllis nodded. "Please continue."
"There's not much after that. Bin Pacha recites the phone numbers to Habbibi. I'm not sure I heard them right-he had repositioned closer to the door and the speaker noise was overwhelming."
"Do your best," I told her.
"Well… Habbibi had trouble hearing him also-or he pretended to have trouble-because his last words to bin Pacha were, 'I need to hear the phone numbers again. Come closer. Move your head against the opening.' " Bian looked up and added, "Then bang-the gun went off."
We all sat back in our chairs. Nobody said a word. Unlike the others, I had a mental visualization to accompany the soundtrack, and as I replayed the scene in my mind, matching words with deeds, it all became clear: a double cross trumped by a double cross.
In retrospect, Ali bin Pacha had thought he was playing us; I recalled that curious smile back in the hospital bed when Bian and I notified him he was being turned over to the Saudis. A smile. We believed we were telling him the last thing he wanted to hear; he believed he was hearing the sound of salvation.
It was, in fact, a death sentence. Neither Ali bin Pacha nor we understood that, though. This man, responsible for countless deaths, believed we had just pulled the ace from his sleeve for him, even as Habbibi maneuvered him, like a big stupid fish, into the perfect position to blow his evil brains out. It was funny, and it was very sad.
Eventually, I looked at Phyllis and asked, "These two princes, who are they?"
She shook her head. "There are five or six thousand princes. The men of the royal family marry many women, and are atrociously fertile. It's the national curse."
I moved on to the next logical questions, which were more in the nature of Socratic statements. "Why would bin Pacha have their phone numbers memorized? And why would he refer Habbibi to them?"
"Protection. He obviously expected some form of intervention."
"But why would they protect him?"
Without answering, she stood and paced to the phone. She lifted it up, punched a number, and after a moment ordered somebody to track down Sheik Turki al-Fayef and escort him to the conference room.
She hung up and said to us, "I will do the talking. You will both remain quiet and polite. Don't challenge or harass him."
"I promise," I told her. I might rip off his head and crap down his throat, but I would neither challenge nor harass him.
Phyllis stared at Bian, who replied with obvious reluctance, "I understand."
We sat in silence.
A few moments later, there was a knock at the door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The sheik swept into the room. In his hand was a thin valise constructed of buttery leather, on his body the same ash-stained robe, and on his face his customary visage of complacent boredom.
What his expression did not convey was the slightest trace of regret, worry, guilt, or anxiety. Give the man credit, he had panache, which usually I admire; just not this time. I wanted to get my hands around his throat and throttle him.
Phyllis looked lost in thought for a moment, but finally she looked up and said, "Have a seat. We have something you need to hear."
His quick black eyes took us all in, and settled briefly on the receiver/recorder, which he then made a point of ignoring. I was sure he sensed that he had just entered the lion's den, that the animals were hungry, and that this mysterious device was part of the seasoning. He coolly lit a cigarette, set his valise on the table, and sat. Phyllis nodded at Doc Enzenauer, who nodded back and pushed play.
The sheik puffed on his cigarette and listened. To his professional credit, not when the princes were named, nor even when the shot exploded through the speakers, did he flinch or show the slightest emotional reaction.
Enzenauer wisely shut it down before Tirey launched into his CYA soliloquy.
So there it was.
We all sat quietly, uncertain who was supposed to make the next move. But for Bian, for Doc Enzenauer, and for me, there were no doubts; this was way over our heads. Whatever happened next was between the bosses.
The sheik suddenly clapped his hands together and erupted in a delighted belly laugh. "Ha-ha. Oh, Phyllis… you have, I think, outsmarted me. How did you… No, no-let me guess." He furrowed his brow and playfully stroked his goatee. "A transmitter, yes? Where was it? Sewn into his pants?"
"His body," Phyllis replied, playing the game.
He looked thoughtful. "Ah… yes." He offered a complimentary nod at Enzenauer. "Ingenious." He laughed. "Very excellent work, Doctor."
I had to admit, not only did this guy have balls he had charm. Phyllis, however, was neither warmed nor laughing. She said to Enzenauer, "Would you care to leave now?" which obviously wasn't a suggestion, and he dutifully stood and left.
"Who are the princes?" she asked al-Fayef.
"Why does it matter?"
"It matters. Tell me."
"Inconsequential men. Minor figures in the family. You know how our royals are. A big, horny rabbit farm."
Phyllis stared at him a long time, then asked, "But bin Pacha expected their protection-why?"
Until this moment, I think, al-Fayef had been testing the waters to see if Phyllis had put this together. Well, she had-obviously, we all had-and now the brain behind those clever black eyes was flailing for an angle, a ruse, a bluff. He tried to stall for time with another of those charming chuckles, and said, "Phyllis… Phyllis… how long have we known each other?"
Phyllis's left nostril flared and she hissed, "Be clear on this, Turki. You exploited my hospitality, and you humiliated me. You came into my facility and murdered my prisoner. You-"
"Please," he cut in. "I-"
"I speak, you listen, until I finish," she snapped. She drew a long breath, then continued, "The Director's at the White House as we speak, trying to explain this disaster. When I notify him that bin Pacha's dying words implicate the royal family, you will have problems you cannot begin to fathom. A nightmare for your country. A nightmare for you… for you, personally."
He stared at her, a little stunned. Until this moment, Phyllis and the sheik had been operating on spy-to-spy protocols, a sort of feint-and-parry interaction, almost like diplomacy, where the real meanings are cloaked behind tight smiles and evasive wording. The sand had suddenly shifted beneath his feet, now the topic was out in the open, and it was his personal health.
She leaned closer, a mere few inches from his face. "We are at war, fifteen hundred Americans are dead, an election is at stake, and the last thing you want or need is for us to misinterpret where your country stands." She added more menacingly, "The last thing you personally want is me as your enemy."
Phyllis had clipped about twenty degrees from the room's temperature. Even I-for once not the target of her anger, which was a relief-felt a shiver go down my spine. Her fury was real and red-hot, and were I the sheik, I would definitely consider the joys of life in Brazil under an assumed identity after a brief stop-off in Sweden for a sex change, because with Phyllis after you, there are no excessive precautions, only reasonable ones.