Man In The Middle Part 26

The general thrust was this: Mr. al-Zarqawi ran a rough outfit. The exact size of his organization was unknown, and ditto for its makeup and exact membership. It was presumed to include a small, die-hard, highly trusted cadre, a few hundred warriors and kamikazes, and probably a few thousand sympathizers who provided safe houses, transportation, odd jobs, logistics, intelligence gathering, and whatever.

These people were a mixture of Iraqis and foreign talent, and it was notable that the local Sunni populace were largely on his side, not ours. In fact, Zarqawi was regarded locally as a Robin Hood type, despite taking money from the rich and giving only death to the poor. Lately, however, killing Americans was becoming too risky and difficult, so he had shifted his sights to murdering Iraqis, often indiscriminately, which was wearing thin with some locals.

Here's what was known: The structure of his organization was basically cellular and compartmentalized; small groups, connected vertically, not laterally, so no hands knew what the others were doing. A number of these cells had been captured or infiltrated; yet, to date, n.o.body had fingered the man himself, which was interesting.

A twenty-five-million-buck warrant was on Zarqawi's head; this in a part of the world where two grand was enough to sell your adorable, beloved daughter to a stinky camel farmer. This suggested that al-Zarqawi was either very good, very feared, very lucky, or very ruthless, none of which are mutually exclusive.

Nothing that I read here was news, of course. As with the rest of the conscious American public, I knew about Mr. al-Zarqawi and about his more flamboyant idiosyncrasies. He liked seeing his masked face on the tube, and he knew how to sweep Nielson ratings, as our broadcaster friends say. His particular form of attention-seeking behavior was making home videos of himself beheading helpless captives, which tells you he has a few big issues with Western civilization. Also, if Sean Drummond fell into his hands, I might be in for a very dramatic, one-act theater career.

Anyway, after two hours of reading and studying, I remembered I had slept only three hours the previous night. I stretched, put my papers away, locked my briefcase, and within seconds was sound asleep.

I would like to say I rested fitfully and experienced pleasant dreams, but when I awoke, here's the dream I remembered: I was kneeling on a small dark mat, three tall figures stood behind me, black masks covered their heads, coa.r.s.e tape covered my mouth, a hand was tugging my head backward, and I could see a large, crisp blade hovering in front of my throat, moving closer . . . closer . . . and . . .

CHAPTER NINETEEN

What jarred me awake were the wheels of the big 747 bouncing and skidding on hard tarmac. I opened my eyes, looked out the window, and got my first clue of something gone wrong--the airport. It shouldn't be, yet this airport looked familiar, and I knew I had been here before. The cobwebs cleared, and I knew where I was: Kuwait.

The second tip-off was the pilot announcing in that smooth, everything's-just-f.u.c.king-fine tone, "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for flying United. For your safety, we were diverted from Baghdad Airport, which is currently experiencing a serious threat from surface-to-air missiles. I apologize for any inconvenience. When you deplane, you'll be met by representatives from the armed forces who will connect you with ground convoys heading north."

This isn't the kind of announcement you hear on domestic routes. But this guy was so slick, for a moment I thought I was on a normal flight and we were about to be promised free food vouchers to mollify our discontentment, or whatever.

His tone then turned funereal, and he added, "It has been our distinct honor to have you on board and . . . and . . . and from the bottom of my heart, on behalf of the entire crew . . . G.o.d bless you all."

You could almost hear a collective gulp from his pa.s.sengers. A simple good luck would've been sufficient, thank you.

Anyway, he parked his big plane in the middle of a large empty ramp, off to the right of the runway where there were no other aircraft, and neither was there a terminal. The night was pitch-dark, yet the airport was well lit, and I could observe trucks moving around, all of them American military vehicles.

I checked my watch, which I had already preset to local time-- 4:00 a.m. An elevated stairway was rolled up, and we deplaned and waited in a large gaggle on the tarmac while our duffel bags and personal gear were unloaded down a long rolling ramp and arranged in a long line for pickup.

Several officious-looking types with MP bra.s.sards on their arms and clipboards and flashlights in their hands began corralling the troops and loudly directing them to various holding areas, depending on their units and ultimate destinations in Iraq. The Army has a reputation for efficiency that is rarely merited, which is why "Hurry up and wait" is the unofficial Army motto. Except when it's to the Army's advantage; then the a.n.a.l minds kick in and usually get it right.

First Sergeant Jackson and I shook hands and wished each other good luck. I quietly separated myself from the group, confident that Phyllis had learned about this unexpected diversion and made the proper arrangements.

I wouldn't trust Phyllis with my life. But I definitely trust her to get me where she she wants me to be. wants me to be.

The weather was nice, incidentally, mid-seventies, without a hint of rain, almost balmy. Definitely nicer than October in Washington. Bermuda was nicer still.

After a moment of wandering around I observed a soldier using a flashlight to brighten a handwritten sign that read, "LTC Drummond."

I approached him and confessed that that would be me; in response, he offered a sloppy salute and informed me that his name was "Carl Smith . . . PFC Smith, Eighteenth Transportation Battalion," and explained he would be my chauffeur for the drive up to Baghdad.

I spent a moment doing the senior officer thing, asking Smith a few shallow, innocuous questions, as he did his respectful subordinate thing, offering brief, perfunctory replies. The senior officer is expected to show a personal interest in his or her subordinates, regardless of how temporary or ephemeral the relationship. On the surface, this translates as concern, and establishes rapport. But neither has it escaped my notice that the normal nature of these inquiries-- married status, hometown, family, that kind of thing--correspond to exactly the data an officer needs to know for a next-of-kin letter.

Anyway, Carl Smith. He was dark-haired and dark-skinned, and he informed me that he was thirty-two, yes, a little d.a.m.ned old for his rank, divorced--d.a.m.ned happy about that--an Alabamian--d.a.m.ned proud of that--and, like many of his peers, in a fit of angered idealism had rushed into an Army recruiter's station the day after September 11--a decision he now looked back on as d.a.m.ned impetuous.

He appeared unusually fit for a transportation guy, but probably Carl had a lot of free time to spend in the weight room. Booze is prohibited for soldiers inside the war zone, and Arab women aren't turned on by Christian men. When all else fails, you turn to the worst vice: exercise.

He led me to a dust-coated humvee; I threw my duffel in the back, climbed into the pa.s.senger seat, and off we went at a good clip. Military humvees, incidentally, aren't the gaudy gas munchers that are so la-di-da among Hollywood's spoiled and beautiful. They're diesel for one thing, but also they're more primitive and entirely lacking in bling, such as sound m.u.f.fling, air-conditioning, or entertainment systems of any form, with seats that are ergonomic atrocities. But as our Chinese friends say, a thousand sins can be overcome by one great virtue; I was relieved to see the one accessory that counts in these parts, the newest up-to-date armor.

We drove out of the airport--Smith flashed his military ID to clear us through the checkpoint--then moved at high speed along a black tarmac road for about an hour, connecting with a military convoy headed north, up the infamous Highway 8, to Iraq.

This convoy was a long mixture of fuel tankers, heavy trucks loaded with large green containers, flatbeds carrying replacement Bradley Fighting Vehicles, and, interspersed among these vulnerable noncombatant vehicles, an Armored Cavalry troop with tanks and Bradleys to chase the Indians away.

Carl informed me, "We'll hang at the end. Don't get no better than that."

"Fooled me. We're getting all the dust and fumes."

"Yeah . . . well the IEDs--the roadside explosives--usually they target the front or middle of convoys. Causes a traffic jam with stationary targets to shoot at." He added, "Dust or shrapnel? You're the colonel."

"Which is worse?"

He smiled agreeably, and tossed me goggles for my eyes and a green rag that I tied around my nose and mouth, cowboy style.

Fortunately, Carl Smith proved to be the untalkative type, though-- less fortunately--not the silent type. He spent nearly the whole trip whistling country tunes--like many backcountry southern males, he had perfected a loud and penetrating whistle--while I alternated between nodding off, studying the contents of my legal case, sticking my fingers in my ears, and wishing I had a gun to pop this guy, or myself. I hate country music.

Around midafternoon, he handed me lunch; having slept through the meal on the plane, I was lightheaded with hunger. The meal was an Army MRE--Meal, Ready-to-Eat--proof that the Army has a sense of humor, despite what you hear.

One bite, and I remembered what I don't miss about being a field soldier.

Anyway, the drive lasted about thirteen hours, and, aside from pa.s.sing through one large city early in the trip, for the most part we traveled through terrain that could charitably be described as monotonous and awful--flat desert, a balance between beauty and cruelty, until we were deep inside Iraq proper, at which point we saw more frequent signs of life: palm trees, shabby buildings, caved-in huts, wrecked and abandoned cars on the roadside, and sometimes, in the distance, a remote village presumably built around a well or an oasis, or a Taco Bell. Just kidding about that last one. But why would anybody live here?

I was reminded of those desolate little American towns in the middle of the Mojave Desert, and where once there was a reason for them to exist in such remote and inhospitable settings--gold mines, or borax, or Pony Express stops--they had long since become abandoned, sweltering white elephants. Some have become picturesque ghost towns with tumbleweeds billowing through the streets, though a few still are populated by quirky, eccentric folk--loners, flakes, and hermits--exiles from the hurly-burly of American life, or perhaps perps hiding out from the cops. But what were the people in these isolated little Iraqi villages like?

I could not fathom the gap between people who live like this and the typical young American soldier who would experience a monumental fit were he deprived of his PlayStation, cell phone, chat rooms, cable TV, and fast food. Indeed, all of these things now existed here, on the military bases, and soldiers returning from a day battling insurgents spend their evenings e-mailing their families and one-andonlys, playing video games, and browsing p.o.r.n, which is, I suppose, as healthy a mixture as any to put it behind you and get your head straight.

The Vietnam warriors of my father's generation also maintained their connections to their former lives, to the American lifestyle, to what the Army euphemistically terms "creature comforts." Their adversaries lived in jungles and tunnels, exposed to the elements and surviving on rice and raw fish, even as helicopters swooped into the American base camps loaded with cold Budweiser, Playboy Playboy magazines, pizza, and Bob Hope with alluring ladies in miniskirts, all good reminders of what they were fighting for. magazines, pizza, and Bob Hope with alluring ladies in miniskirts, all good reminders of what they were fighting for.

One way to win an insurgency is to melt into the environment and culture--to go native--and beat the locals at their own game. This, of course, just has never been the American way. We rearrange the culture and environment to suit us.

Indeed, the day was coming when this highway would be chock-a-block with fast-food places, minimalls, and Days Inns for the hungry, tired traveler, with the obligatory Koran tucked inside the bedside table, a prayer rug at the foot of the bed, and an arrow pointing at Mecca carved on the bedpost. This, I guess, was what the insurgents were fighting against, just as. .h.i.tler, Tojo, Mao, and Stalin had fought against it before them. Good luck. The carpetbaggers are here and change is around the corner. Probably someday their grandchildren would look back and wonder what all the fuss was about.

Occasionally we saw long convoys of slow-moving American military vehicles headed where we had just left, toward Kuwait, and behind them, crawling in long impatient lines, Iraqi cars, buses, and trucks, no doubt entertaining unkind thoughts about their occupiers. Pa.s.sing a military convoy in this country is nearly as perilous as jaywalking in New York City.

His incessant whistling aside, Smith remained almost supernaturally alert, robotically scanning the roadsides for anything that looked out of place or even innocuously suspicious--dead animals, or wayward barrels, or broken-down cars; the usual costumes for roadside bombs. Whenever he saw something he didn't like, he jerked the humvee off the road to stay on the safe side, b.u.mping and grinding through a few hundred yards of sand.

Increasingly we began to pa.s.s ramshackle villages with kids in raggedy clothes who stood by the highway with their hands extended--begging for food, money, or trinkets--a few of whom had obviously learned something from the GIs. By the end of the convoy, when Carl and I pa.s.sed, the kids were all waving farewell with their middle fingers.

Maybe it was a local gesture meaning good luck and good health. Or maybe not.

Well, enough touristy detail. By late afternoon, we were pa.s.sing through, or by, larger towns and small cities, and by early evening we entered the outskirts of a large, sprawling city with telltale landmarks that were recognizable from television. I glanced at Smith. "Baghdad?"

He leaned back in his seat and stretched. "Better be."

I mentioned, "I have an appointment in the Green Zone. You know the way, right?"

He nodded.

I glanced at my watch. I was sixteen hours late for my rendezvous with Eric Finder--but if Phyllis had known to send transportation from Kuwait, I a.s.sumed she had also reset our meeting.

Then Carl said, "That ain't where yer goin', though." I looked at him, and he added, "The blood-dimmed tide is loosed."

After a surprised pause, I replied, "And everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned."

If you're interested, this is Phyllis's eccentric idea of pa.s.swords, a pa.s.sage from a Yeats poem. I guess I understood how this might be sort of a poetic metaphor for this case and all that. But the golden rule of operations is KISS--keep it simple, stupid.

I mean, Carl could have said two, and I could have replied three. Works fine.

Indeed, we were on the same wavelength, because he asked me, "Who thought up that silly s.h.i.t?"

"My boss."

He stared, obviously wondering if it was contagious.

I stared back. "You're Eric Finder?"

"Nope. Still Carl Smith. I'm taking you to Finder."

"There must be a good reason you lied and didn't identify yourself."

"Must be."

"I'd like to hear it."

"'Cause you'd of spent the whole drive askin' me dumba.s.s questions." He stared straight ahead. "Don't really like to bulls.h.i.t."

To confirm his suspicion, I asked, "Tell me about your group."

"Like what?"

"How many?"

"Fifteen. Only ten are involved in this, though. Orders are to keep it small and tight as possible."

Of course. The less witnesses the better. "Who are they?"

"Former Delta or Rangers mostly. There's two ex-SEALs, and one guy who was NYPD SWAT." He commented, "He talks real funny." He glanced at me and remarked, apparently in reference to his own credentials, "Delta. Five years."

"Is there a name to this organization?"

"Nope. Truth is, we don't like to be known. We don't bodyguard or handle facility protection like them other groups."

"What do you do?"

"Wetwork."

He confided this matter-of-factly, as though I was expected to know he and his team specialized in rubbing out human targets. In fact, I was now a little embarra.s.sed that I ever accepted Carl Smith for a simple driver.

His impressive physical fitness aside, the man was intensely wound, and a stone-cold introvert. A man of few words is often a man of few thoughts; or he can be someone whose thoughts are best kept to himself.

There was a time when I recognized dangerous men, which was how I survived three conflicts, albeit the last time the bad guys scored a few points by pumping two rounds into yours truly. But that Sean Drummond had lost his edge; if he wanted to survive this one, he needed to remember that. I asked Smith, "How much do you know about this mission?"

He smiled. "Much as I need to know. Why?"

"You know what it's about?"

He shook his head. "We're paid plenty not to know."

"How much?"

"Fifty thou' apiece. Plus expenses."

I whistled.

He glanced at me and insisted, "Hey, we ain't mercenaries."

"Then how about you guys do this one on the house?"

He did not find this funny. After a moment he asked me, "How much you know 'bout Falluja?"

I pointed at the three thick binders on my lap. "I've read and memorized every detail inside these Agency binders."

He asked a little dubiously, "What do they say?"

"I'm an idiot if I go near the place."

He nodded that this was a good insight. In fact, he said, "That's all you need to know. This here's one of them things where a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Just do everything we tell you; don't even think you know what the heck's going on." He glanced at me and confided, "We get into Falluja a lot."

"No kidding. Where can I buy some postcards?"

He ignored my nervous sarcasm and informed me, "The Agency hires us to tag buildings."

"Which means what?"

"What we do, we hang around inside the city and sort of watch out for hajis. We see one, we follow 'im back to his nest. We tag the building with an electronic marker, call it in, and wait around to make sure the a.s.shole stays put."

"And then?"

"Then . . . well, 'bout an hour later, an F-16 comes along, launches a big missile, it locks onto the electronic signature from the tag, and boom. No more a.s.sholes."

This sounded like an interesting job, and I wanted to know a little more, but he continued, "Point is, Falluja's a.s.shole central. They're Sunnis, right? . . . Only they're Wahhabis, like the Saudis. Big-time fanatics. Got it? They don't even get along with other Sunnis, and even Saddam had trouble with this place. He finally said f.u.c.k it, problem too hard. Gave up."