Actually, he'd told us as minimal truth he could get away with: a careful mixture of what we could learn on our own, what was intuitively obvious, and what any intelligent regional expert could divine from the facts. The problem for us, and the bigger problem for him, was what he didn't tell us, but that Bian had just surmised.
Regarding Phyllis, as usual her eyes conveyed one emotion, her lips another, and neither betrayed what probably was in her heart, or in her head. I was sure she was angry, frustrated, and worried. But for Phyllis, emotion and logic were never at war; it just never occurred to her that reason has a peer, or that emotion should incubate action. She announced unequivocally and, I thought, predictably, "What's done is done. We move forward."
Bian asked, "What does that mean?"
"It means what it means."
"What about justice?"
"For who?" Phyllis asked.
"For the soldiers who are fighting. For those who are dead. For their families, for their loved ones. For America."
"There is no justice for dead soldiers," Phyllis replied with typically chilling logic. "They are not murder victims-they're casualties of war."
"The Saudis have been feeding money, people, and who knows what to their killers. We now have the names of two princes." Bian looked in al-Fayef's direction and added, "It sounds like there are more names, and possibly the Saudi government's implicated as well. You can't ignore or paste over that."
Wrong, because Phyllis turned to al-Fayef and said, "It's not in our interest to expose the royal family to… embarrassment."
He smiled, though I saw no hint of pleasure or even contentment in his eyes; I saw relief. He said, "Good choice. It would be, you know, a disaster for both our countries." He looked around the room, at each of our faces, then added agreeably, "A war is going on, after all. We must remain friends. Good allies."
After all he had just said, about America, about our arrogance, about our incompetence, I was amazed that a bolt of lightning didn't strike. Apparently, while Bian and I missed the cues, the sheik and Phyllis had moved to a new song, this one titled "Row, row, row the boat gently down the stream."
And, in fact, Phyllis gave a cool nod to her sheik friend.
He said, "I recognize, however, that we have caused you certain difficulties." He waved his cigarette in small circles through the air. "Embarrassments. Inconveniences."
"Your sensitivity is greatly appreciated."
He leaned back into his chair and exhaled a long stream of smoke. "Two names, Phyllis. This is all I have been authorized to offer."
Phyllis shuffled her hands and replied noncommittally, "If they're the right names."
"Yes, yes… of course." He watched her face. "There is a man in Syria, a man who arranges the shipment of weapons and jihadists into Iraq. A smuggler of considerable talent and cleverness." Phyllis looked unimpressed, and he quickly emphasized, "He is big. Very big. Perhaps a third of the mujahideen entering Iraq flow through his channels."
Phyllis stared at him, then nodded. "We're halfway there."
"And I have heard of another man, a Saudi expatriate, who recruits jihadists in Jordan. He-"
Phyllis interrupted. "Forget about him. Recruiters are too easily replaced."
"Ah…" A pained expression came to the sheik's face, and he hesitated before he said, "There is another man, in Iraq, who decides the targets the mujahideen strike in the city of Karbala."
Phyllis bent forward with intensified interest.
"Alas, he also is Saudi, from a prominent family-his father is a dear friend of many years-and it… I am greatly pained to betray him."
This guy was a real craftsman, and probably he threw that in to make us all feel better. After a moment, Phyllis observed, "You know, of course, that names without addresses are of no use."
"And you know, of course, that my guards will depart with me. Also that infernal machine," he said, pointing at the recorder, with its incriminating recording. He quickly added, "And I'll give you the man in Jordan for free. We have no use for him."
"The recorder and guards are yours. I have no use for them."
As I said, Bian and I were not clued in to the rules here, but the flesh trading was apparently over, because the sheik rose from his seat and began casually brushing ashes off his white robes, even as he nonchalantly took a final pull from his stinky cigarette and crushed it beneath his foot. After about three seconds, he opened his valise, rummaged inside, fished out three manila folders, and slid them inelegantly across the table. He said to Phyllis, "Their names and where they can be found. Also background information that I am sure will be helpful when you interrogate them."
Phyllis grabbed the folders and, one by one, opened them and inspected the contents while the sheik picked up the recorder and inspected it to be sure the damning tape was still inside. They had just sold their souls to each other, and still did not trust each other.
The sheik said to Phyllis, "My sincerest apologies to the Director." There was an awkward pause, and then with a pained expression he confided, "I had no option, Phyllis. It was this, or my job."
She nodded.
"If not me, it would have been somebody else."
"I'm sure."
He looked at Bian and said, "It was a pleasure meeting you." He turned to me and could not help smiling. "Better luck next time, Colonel."
I smiled back. "Count on it."
I knew what Bian was going to say, and she said it. "Go to hell." My sentiments exactly.
The sheik shrugged his robes and left, gently closing the door behind him.
Phyllis quietly read the files and, more to the point, quietly ignored Bian and me. She did not want to have this discussion, and seemed to be silently hoping the problem-us-would go away.
But we did not go away, and she finally looked up at us and asked, "What did you expect?"
"We didn't expect anything," I replied. "Just definitely not this." I asked, "Was this little charade prearranged?"
"What does that mean?"
"It means he walked in here with those folders, and you just allowed him to walk out of here with everything he wanted."
"This is how our business works. Turki is a professional, and professionals come prepared." She looked at Bian. "You don't have to like it, but this is how you have to play it."
"I don't like it," Bian responded.
"No? Well… try thinking about what will save the most American lives, what will help win this war. Compromises are necessary evils."
"What else would I be thinking about?"
Phyllis studied her face, then said, "He told us who these two princes are. Whatever they did, they're gold-plated, and it doesn't matter-we weren't getting them." She added, "Nor is antagonizing the Saudis in our interest. For all the obvious reasons, we need them."
Bian said, "The calculus doesn't confuse me. But what you just did… it was no different than the pact Cliff Daniels made with Charabi, and we're doing nothing about that either. Guilty men walk, and everybody gets to avoid a scandal. That's what I question."
Phyllis's finger was tapping the table, a less than subtle warning that her patience was wearing thin. But Bian was beyond impatience; she was in a slow rage, and being scolded with cold reason not only failed to douse her inner fires it was an aphrodisiac.
Phyllis said, "Welcome to a world where every choice is flawed and you have to pick the one that least stinks. We lost bin Pacha. Nothing will change that. But at least we now have three new names, three fresh chances to pick up key figures, to find out what they know, and who they know."
I heard what Phyllis was saying, and on one level it made sense. I also understood that Bian, a military cop, was taught to reason and was trained to act on another level-good guys versus bad guys; do the crime, do the time. The mind of a police officer is not simple, but the job is morally not all that complex: guilt or innocence, black or white, without any ethical vagaries. But for the lawyer, guilt and innocence are parsed into many shades, crime is subjective, and punishment is merely a commodity you negotiate with a prosecutor, a judge, or a jury. We call this justice, and we say it is even-handed, and if you can afford a five-hundred-buck-an-hour attorney, you might even believe that. As lawyer friends of mine say, in America you get all the justice you can afford.