Man in the middle

Charabi broke into my thoughts and insisted, "I have answered your question. You will now answer mine."

"Okay. The major and I were investigating everything about Cliff Daniels, including his bosses, and including you. Plus we have Cliff's computer, and that's known inside the Pentagon. So Tigerman or Hirschfield contacted you and told you to find out what Major Tran and I know, and maybe to stop us. Damage control. Right?"

He laughed; I scooted another few inches forward. He seemed amused by my logic, and he leaned back in his chair and said, "No, this is not right. This is very stupid. Tigerman and Hirschfield stopped talking to me months ago. I am a pariah in Washington." He laughed again.

"All right. If you didn't kidnap the major, who did?"

"I believe that is your problem, Colonel."

"Is it? Then why did she write your name in her blood?" Another short scoot.

"I really have no idea," he replied, and we stared at each other a moment.

I knew this man was a liar and a cheat, and I shouldn't believe a word that came from his fat lips. Not his denial about murdering Cliff Daniels, or about kidnapping Bian, but I did. That left open the issues of who did kill Cliff and who took Bian, but as he said, that was not his problem; it was mine.

I mean, he had already confessed he was a liar, that he had betrayed his pals in Washington, and that he was willfully consorting with Iran, our presumptive enemy. On second thought, confession was the wrong word; he was bragging. He was enjoying himself, looking an American officer in the eye and boasting openly and freely about how smart he was, and how deeply and easily he screwed the big, powerful USA, and his enemies in the CIA.

And why not? He thought he was talking to a dead man. Which reminded me, and I took another short scoot closer to his desk, and to his gun. But he quickly picked up the pistol and asked in a coldly reasonable tone, "Do you really think I am so stupid I haven't noticed you doing that? Back away."

Whoops. I backed away.

But it seemed our conversation was drawing to a close, because he sort of summarized our situation, saying, "So, you and I, we seem to be at a crossroad. I do not have this major you want, and you have this computer that is very troubling to me."

"And you have the gun."

"Yes, that also." He leaned toward me and asked, "If I asked you where this computer is, can I trust you to tell me the truth?"

"Can I trust you not to shoot me afterward?"

I saw that his finger was back inside the trigger guard. He was too preoccupied with his own thinking to answer my question-actually, I knew the answer-and he leaned farther forward and began sharing his own thoughts. He said, "Of course, only you and this missing major know where Cliff's computer is located. Now she has been kidnapped, and of course, this is Iraq-forgive me if this sounds cruel- she is as good as dead." He paused very briefly and then said, "So… if you are dead, too, nobody will find this computer."

I was afraid he would put that together. Looking like a man who was happy with his own reasoning, he aimed the pistol at my chest, and his finger began to squeeze.

I quickly said, "Well… maybe I wasn't completely forthcoming about the computer."

The pistol didn't go down, but neither did it go off.

I told him, "When I said I have the computer, I meant the Agency has the computer."

"So you lied. It is not… hidden?"

"That depends on your definition of hidden." Actually, it was hidden from me; that's a pretty good definition.

He asked, "And what is your definition?"

"It's in the possession of my boss, who works directly for the Director. Only three or four people have read the messages, or know about them, including the Director."

I was telling the truth, of course, but he looked a little surprised, and also a lot dubious. He asked, "If you lied to me once, why should I believe you now?" Then he answered his own question and said, "I think I will just kill you and take my chances."

"I thought you were smarter than that. You know, for instance, that your e-mails were professionally encoded. Do you really believe a couple of Army officers broke that code? It was a real ballbuster." I tried to remember some of John's technogibberish, and sort of mumbled, "VPN, and ISP protocols… firewalls layered upon firewalls…"

While he mulled this over, I said, "Kill me, and the deal will be off."

"You have never mentioned a deal."

"Well… the idea was that you and I would have a confidential discussion. This whole thing would be kept under wraps, and nobody would be the wiser."

He stared at me very intently with his finger caressing the trigger.

I said, "Why do you think you and I are in here alone? Why did I lock your door? Talk with the agents searching your office-they've been told they're investigating a kidnapping, period. So I go out, tell them you're free and clear, we go away, and you resume your rise to power."

"And why would the CIA consider this a good outcome?"

"We regard it as a terrible outcome."

"Then-"

"You outsmarted us, Mr. Charabi. We recognize reality."

I could see that it made him happy to hear this, and he asked, "And what is this… reality?"

"Discretion is best for you, best for us, and best for Iraq." I told him the truth, saying, "The Agency and this administration have taken more than enough black eyes over Iraq. The last thing Washington wants is another public scandal. This scandal in particular." I added, after a beat, "Unless you kill me."

"And then?"

"Good question. Because then… well…" Because then, well, what? Well, then Sean Drummond would be dead, and who cares what happened afterward? I didn't say that, of course. As persuasively as I could, I said, "Because the CIA does not like it when you kill one of its own. Right now, it's professional. You don't want to make it personal."

He needed a moment to reconsider the situation in light of this new variable. Mahmoud Charabi was indeed sly, and also, I thought, a more complex individual than I had been led to believe. As Don- aka Martin Lebrowski-had described, the man was an inveterate schemer, and a brutal and habitual manipulator of truth and people, as well as nations. But what Don missed-what you would expect an egocentric, careerist prick like Don to miss-was that Charabi could self-justify these behaviors as necessary means to a good end, a moral end, a righteous purpose.

I thought, too, that Charabi truly believed he was the anointed savior of his people, just as he now genuinely believed that he, and he alone, could lead them to the Promised Land. He wasn't the first man to mix selfless impulses with his own greed for fame and power, and he wouldn't be the last. And depending on how things worked out, Mahmoud Charabi would have a place in his country's history books, either as a cherished hero or as a miserable flop who overreached and delivered only more death and misery to a land that already had suffered more than enough of both.

He asked for a war, and he had gotten his wish; I was sure, though, that this wasn't the war he anticipated-or wanted. I looked at his face as he contemplated what to do with me, and it struck me that, like America, he had assumed that the war would be swift, the victory complete, and with the Pentagon's backing, he would already be on the throne. As they say, man plans, and God laughs. Now he was jukin' and jivin', caught up in a civil war partly of his making, playing one side off the other, dividing powerful governments against each other, dancing on powerful cracks, and praying the tectonic plates did not shift and squash him in the middle.

This squat, unimpressive-looking man had grabbed a hungry wolf by the ears. And I was sure I did not need to explain to him what would happen if the wolf got loose.

No, I could not really condemn Mahmoud Charabi for his deceptions, his lies, and his plots; but I could and I did blame those in Washington who wrapped his lies into a nation's justification for war, and in so doing, allowed his machinations to become ours.