So I wasn't really shocked that this applies to espionage as well. And neither should Bian have been appalled, or even surprised. She was, though. And Phyllis, who usually exerts a more deft touch when she shoves around her subordinates, this time appeared surprisingly tone-deaf and clumsy.
I knew it would do no good, but I advised Bian, "I don't like it either. It is, though, the best deal we're going to get."
She replied, "That man ordered an assassination to keep us from knowledge that was invaluable to us and embarrassing to him. That same man just bartered his country's way out of a black eye it has definitely earned. That's wrong-we all know it's wrong. Pretend otherwise and you're as bad as her." She stood and left the room.
Phyllis watched her leave and drew a long breath, then turned her eyes to me and said, "You need to get her under control."
I stood and moved toward the door, but then I stopped and turned around. I said, "I understand your decision. I really do, Phyllis. And, you know what? Were I in your shoes, I might've made the same deal."
"Thank you."
For a moment I stood quietly. I then said, "But that doesn't make it any more morally excusable, or even right. So she's disgusted and disillusioned. Frankly, if you and I had souls, we would be, too."
Phyllis started to say something, and I kept talking. "And that's the problem. At the beginning of this case, we had lots of chances to do the right thing. The chance to find out about and expose Charabi. The chance to expose Daniels and his bosses, to expose the truth about the cooked intelligence, about a possible betrayal, and along the way, we stumble into a money scheme that implicates a government that is a titular ally. Instead, we settle for a few garden-variety terrorists. I think you can see where that might turn the stomach of a good soldier."
"She's obsessed with justice and honor. We're doing what's best for the country."
"I won't argue what's best or not. I really don't know anymore, and that bothers me more than anything." I added after a long moment, "Fire me or transfer me; I really don't care. I'm through with this job."
Phyllis did not look surprised but neither did she look ready to fire me. She picked up another folder. "I'll consider this as a sentiment expressed in a moment of haste, anger, and frustration. You have nothing to feel guilty or ashamed about. Nor do I. We handled the cards we were dealt as best we could. If there are moral shortcomings, they lie with others."
I said nothing.
"Sleep on it." She stuck her nose inside the folder. "Make your decision later, with a clear head."
She read. I walked out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Just when you think it's over, you get jerked through a new knothole.
Two matters needed to be resolved before we returned home- and Phyllis made it clear that nobody was leaving until both jobs were finished. Probably, after all that happened, she needed to notch a few victories on her belt before she flew home into a shitstorm. A thousand successes do not wipe clean one screwup, but neither is it a good idea to appear empty-handed before a review board.
Problem one was the apprehension of the smuggler of arms and jihadists into Iraq. As he was operating across the border in Syria, his capture offered what Phyllis politely referred to as "delicate diplomatic and extralegal issues." Under the proper protocol, the American ambassador in Damascus would lodge a formal request to the Syrian government to arrest the perp, followed by a speedy and efficient extradition process. Given Syrian hostility to America, the name of this option was "pissing into the wind."
So when Phyllis said extralegal, she meant illegal, and when she said diplomatic, she meant violating Syria's sovereignty with a kidnapping. Delicate, of course, meant a black bag job by Agency operatives.
As long as it didn't mean Sean Drummond; my fun, travel, and adventure quotient was pegged out.
So Phyllis worked the phones, coordinating his apprehension, and I was dispatched to handle problem two: to wit, the terrorist master planner in Karbala. As this guy operated inside Iraq proper, his apprehension required neither finesse nor skullduggery, which meant the blunt power of the U.S. Army, and this meant Drummond and Tran were designated to be the mail carriers.
Bian was in the mess hall when I found her, seated alone, and wearing a desultory expression as she picked at her food. I fell into the chair across from her, cleared my throat a few times, and noisily shifted my chair.
She sawed off a piece of steak, put it in her mouth, and chewed.
I smiled at her and asked, "How's the chow, soldier?"
Her mouth must've been full, because she did not get a word out.
The famous Drummond charm obviously wasn't doing it. I cut to the chase and said, "You have one last mission."
"Is this an order?"
"No. You're involuntarily volunteering."
She laughed. Not nicely.
"The Saudi planner in Karbala is being referred to the Army for apprehension. You served on the corps intelligence staff, so I assume you know who to bring this to."
She continued eating.
I informed her, "You and I will together deliver the Saudi file on this man, and then go straight to the airport for the flight home."
"Go to hell."
"Bian, look at me."
She studied her steak.
"You're directing your anger at the wrong person."
"I don't think so."
"Don't hate the players, hate the game."
"Oh… now it's a game."
"You know what I mean."
"And you know what I mean."
She was being unreasonable, and I guess it was no mystery why. She was furious at the powers that be in Washington, disgusted by their decisions, their machinations, their cover-ups, their bullshit- and she needed to lash out. Sean Drummond wasn't responsible for that, of course. But the idiots in Washington weren't seated across from her, they were five thousand miles away, and not likely to take her calls. Still, this was starting to piss me off.
I said very sharply, "Finish your meal. We'll go to the motor pool together and sign out a vehicle."
She pushed away her tray and focused on me for the first time. "You're right. I still have friends in the corps intel staff. So… yes, I do know who to refer this to. In fact, my old office handles these matters."
"Good. Everything should-"
"But if I do this, I do it alone."
"Wrong. We do this-"
"Alone. Also, I'll fly home alone," she continued. "Actually, I'd prefer a military flight. The company of real soldiers will be refreshing."
That really hurt. I responded, "How you get back is your business. I don't really care. You are not, however, driving alone to Baghdad."
"Why not? I know the way."
"The buddy system. It's-"
"You're not my buddy," she pointed out.
"— it's theater policy. Nobody travels through Indian country without a buddy," I continued. "Also this is a very sensitive and important mission. It requires an armed shotgun."
She looked at me and said, "Suit yourself."
"I always do."
She glanced at her watch. "You know, depending on traffic, this could be your last chance to eat. Go ahead. The food was wonderful, since you asked. I need to freshen up and get my equipment together."