Man In The Middle Part 27

I nodded. Though more concise and picturesque, this accorded with the historical and social synopses I had just perused in the CIA tour guide. Even in America, our cities and regions have their own quirks and idiosyncrasies; so if you're operating there, you need to be sensitive to that and adapt, or you stick out like a zit on the prom queen's nose. I mean, I once wore a Yankees cap and "Nixon's the One" T-shirt in Boston; I barely made it out alive.

As I understood it, the Fallujans were like Iraq's Hatfields and McCoys, ornery, moody, and combustible. They don't like outside interference from any outsiders, and particularly they don't like Christians sticking their noses into their affairs. I recalled that about seven months back the Marines had launched an all-out a.s.sault, and the fighting turned so fierce they were ordered to conduct a hasty withdrawal--aka retreat. The Marines claimed it was to spare civilian lives; the jihadis said that it was to spare Marines. Whatever.

Knowing my Marine Corps friends, this probably wasn't a good time to invest in Fallujan real estate or to open a shopping mall. A mortuary, however, had possibilities.

"Jihadis now run the place," Smith continued. "They got their own police, they got spotters and informers everywhere, and they got reaction squads that land on yer a.s.s in a split second."

"Got it." I noted that we had peeled off from the convoy and left the roadway. We were bypa.s.sing the city center and now were traveling through side streets in what were essentially middle-cla.s.s neighborhoods in this part of the world.

From the sun's position, I knew we were traveling west, and from my CIA binders I recalled that this direction was the eye of the storm--Sunni territory, the nexus of discontentment and bad att.i.tudes toward Americans.

The city center, I knew from newsreels, had wide, glorious boulevards lined with palm and date trees, statuesque luxury hotels, magnificent government buildings, and opulent palaces, all in line with Saddam's effusive vision of turning Baghdad into the Paris of the Mideast, though the effect was more of a Babylonian Las Vegas.

But outside of the glitzy pomposity of this Potemkin city center, where we were now traveling, the streets were narrow to the point of claustrophobic, grubbier; in fact, squalid. The buildings and homes were packed closely together, and nowhere did I see trees, gra.s.s, or shrubbery, which shows that Iraqi homeowners have more sense than Americans--except for the people, nothing here needs to be watered, fertilized, or manicured.

Speaking of fertilizer, what really got my attention was the smell. The city's sewage system obviously wasn't back up to speed, and this was a windy fall day. I couldn't imagine the effect on a breezeless summer afternoon. Were I in charge of this occupation I would worry about people's innate tendency toward mental a.s.sociation; the Americans are here and it smells like s.h.i.t.

Also there was a fair amount of pedestrian and street traffic, small trucks laden with goods and vegetables, and various models of j.a.panese and European cars, most of which looked old, though it's difficult to judge in a part of the world where sun and sand prematurely age paint jobs, and people. We began slowing down and after a few moments, I asked Smith, "Where are you taking me?"

He pointed his finger toward a home at the end of the street, a narrow, one-level house, squat in shape, tan or dirty white in color, constructed of concrete and stucco, with bars on the windows, an orange-tiled roof, and an oversize satellite dish, like a big wart sticking off the side. In the States this would be called a Mediterranean ranch, as would the surrounding homes, which were identical in size and architectural style. The Achmeds had no trouble keeping up with the Bashirs on this block. Usually this is a source of domestic harmony, though apparently not. He explained, "It's a safe house."

A moment later he pulled up to a two-car garage whose double door had been conveniently left open. I deduced from this that our arrival was expected. A squat, ugly, lime green 1980ish Peugeot with Iraqi plates was parked to the right.

I knew that few Iraqi homes have attached garages at all, and a two-car is a very rare indulgence; probably this feature weighed heavily when this house was chosen. Regardless, a military humvee is monstrously wide, and it took Smith a few careful attempts to maneuver it inside the garage without peeling the side off the Peugeot. He parked, turned off the engine, and said, "Get out."

I did, while he bolted behind the car and quickly pulled shut the garage door. He next walked to the Peugeot, opened the rear door, withdrew an armful of clothing, and began separating them.

He withdrew a black chador--a veil--and an abaya--a long, baggy woman's black robe--and tossed them at me.

Without further ado, Smith began stripping off his American Army uniform and then slipped into black jeans, dark sweatshirt, and worn Adidas sneakers. With his jet-black hair and dusky complexion, as he was now dressed, he pa.s.sed for an Arab. I held up the dress and examined it more closely.

He noted, "For one thing it covers your all-American good looks. For another . . . You speak Arabic?"

I shook my head.

"Well, there you have it. n.o.body talks to women 'round here less they're hitched."

Obviously these people had thought this thing through. Carl Smith struck me as competent, meticulous, and well attuned to the local culture; how I struck him was another story.

I pulled the abaya over my head and tried to figure out how to put on the chador. Eventually, Smith grew impatient with my fumbling and reached over, saying, "Like this." He made a few deft adjustments and then tapped my shoulder. "Remember how to do that."

While he placed my duffel and legal briefcase in the car trunk, I regarded myself in the Peugeot's side mirror. Smith could pa.s.s for a native, as I said; the problem was me, and even the veil didn't fully hide my whitebread looks. But at least an observer would have to be close to pick up on my blue eyes and untrimmed eyebrows, and if they got that close, probably the jig was up anyway.

He slipped an earphone into his ear, from which extruded a mouthpiece, and spent a moment adjusting a few k.n.o.bs. He said into the microphone, "Smith here. Ready to roll." I had not a clue whom he was speaking with, though the lack of verbal foreplay suggested the call was expected, and further, that we were under the eye of somebody. He listened for a moment, "Uh-huh . . . okay. Yeah, I'll avoid it."

I said, "Avoid what?"

"None of your business."

"If you want your fifty thousand bucks, make it my business."

He studied my face. "You're not gonna be trouble, are you?"

"Avoid what what?"

His stare turned cold. "A suicide bomber nailed a bunch of people on our planned route. The Army's got roadblocks up. We don't wanna git caught up in it."

"Right." This wasn't my first clue that Iraq sucks, but it was a potent one.

He continued to stare at me. "From here on, we're operational. Understand? The slightest d.i.c.k-up, the tiniest mistake . . . and we're dead."

"No problem." I walked around the Peugeot, opened the pa.s.senger-side door, and started to get in.

He looked at me, and said, "Hey, pal . . . Arab women don't never ride in the front."

"Right." I climbed into the backseat, he opened the garage door, slid into the driver's seat, and we quickly backed out into the mean streets of Baghdad.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Complete darkness.

We drove north through more suburban streets and ended up traveling west, on Highway 10, which connects Baghdad with Falluja.

The earpiece remained in Smith's ear, and occasionally he conversed with his compatriots, brief little conversations, all business. There appeared to be a car ahead of us, running interference, and another to our rear, securing our tail.

This reinforced my impression that these people had their act together. Somebody better--I didn't.

Athough Falluja is a mere thirty miles from Baghdad, the traffic was fairly dense, princ.i.p.ally due to more slow-moving American military convoys that completely clogged up the highway. Smith informed me at one point, "Lots of military traffic tonight. Weird. Most Iraqis and even the Army like to be home when the lights go out. The goblins come out."

A few moments later he pointed to our right and said, "Abu Ghraib prison. Over there . . . See it?"

I looked and saw nothing except a few lights from industrial buildings. Maybe I would come back during daylight when I could view Iraq's most famous landmark in all its splendor. Maybe not.

After we departed Baghdad proper, I noted, the towns and cities looked poorer, run-down, virtual slums. And according to the CIA guide, we were traveling through the more prosperous, better-developed part of Iraq--the Sunni Triangle--where Saddam threw money and favors at his Sunni coreligionists and Tikriti tribesmen. Where the Shiites live, in the towns and cities of the south, must really suck.

I checked my watch: nearly nine. "When does this thing go down?"

I observed him observing me in the rearview. "Thought you knew that."

Not wanting to reveal how grab-a.s.s this was, I replied, "Update me."

"Tonight."

Tonight? "I . . . I meant what "I . . . I meant what time time tonight?" tonight?"

"Usually best to go in about two in the morning."

I thought I knew, but asked, "Why?"

"'Cause by then most of the jihadis are asleep. They're pretty halfa.s.sed that way. That gives us an hour to get in, an hour for the s.n.a.t.c.h, an hour to get out. Maybe thirty minutes of wiggle room in case the s.h.i.t hits the fan. Understand?"

"What happens if it takes longer?"

"If we're still there by five, best to lay over till tomorrow night. The hajis set up checkpoints, looking for American spies." He added, "Don't worry. We got safe houses inside Falluja."

After a moment, he informed me, "The target could move anytime. Some of these people, they don't never sleep in the same place twice." He looked me in the eye through the rearview mirror. "We expected you fifteen hours ago. That was your prep time. You okay with that?"

"Do I have a choice?" I suggested, "Maybe he moved yesterday."

"Maybe."

"I was sort of hoping he had an attack of conscience and turned himself in while I was en route."

He smiled thinly. "Well, you never know." He said, "We got a two-man team observing the target building."

"And what does this team see?"

"There's jihadis in there, all right. Maybe five. Maybe more. They don't hang about in big groups. Seems somebody keeps tagging their hideouts and blowing them to h.e.l.l, and now they disperse as best they can. No way to know if your particular a.s.shole's there."

A few minutes later, Smith took a right turn off the highway, and we traveled for another five minutes before he switched off the headlights and we drove for a while in blackout mode. He turned left onto a dirt trail and drove for about a hundred b.u.mpy yards before stopping and turning off the ignition.

He twisted around in his seat and looked at me. "The others will get here in a few hours. You should nap." He slipped night-vision goggles over his head and stepped out of the car, where he began spinning in slow circles on his heel, observing our surroundings.

It required a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the night, and around us, I saw, were flat, open fields with no growth, no stalks or seedlings, though off two to three miles in the distance were several small, dimly lit villages. All in all, a good location for a meeting. Smith could observe anybody approaching from at least a mile away, a range that exceeds even the most sophisticated sniper rifles. You have to think of these things.

I closed my eyes and spent a moment thinking about what was next. a.s.suming we made it intact into Falluja, a.s.suming bin Pacha was inside the building, and a.s.suming we actually caught him--which, by my count, involved thrice ignoring the old Army dictum that a.s.sumptions make a.s.ses out of everyone--there was still the vexing matter of what to do with this guy once we had our hands on him. Smith and his team were supposed to transport us back to Baghdad, where I would rendezvous with Bian, who, if all was on schedule, was already cooling her heels in a specially chartered aircraft at Baghdad Airport.

Accompanying her would be an Agency doctor, a totally unnecessary precaution, Phyllis had calmly a.s.sured me--though it never hurts to plan for the worst. Knowing Phyllis, the doc was named Mengele and his toolbox was packed with truth serum, electric shocks, pliers, toothpicks for fingernails, et cetera. But maybe my imagination was running away with me. Or maybe you had to know Phyllis.

Anyway, as I had implied to the first sergeant on the plane, Bian was cleared into the airport on the pretense of picking up an American military prisoner, with his lawyer, and then transporting them back to the States. That pa.s.senger would of course be Mr. bin Pacha, his esteemed attorney would be yours truly, and the destination would not be America--where bin Pacha would acquire the protective shield of U.S. legal rights--but a location where he would have no rights and might feel more amenable about ratting out his colleagues and betraying his cause.

So the question was, what then? I didn't think bin Pacha was the type of guy who would voluntarily spill the beans. These were hardened terrorists, people who enthusiastically drive cars piled high with explosives into civilian crowds and military convoys.

That wasn't my problem--my job was to deliver bin Pacha to Bian; her job was to make him open up and squeal. But I hoped she and Phyllis had come up with a few better recipes than the ones I heard them tossing around before I departed. With that rea.s.suring thought, I dozed off.

The next thing I knew, somebody was pounding metal on the car window. I must've been jumpy, because Smith said, "Relax. It's Finder."

My rear door was opened and I stepped out. I glanced at my watch and saw I had slept for hours: 1:15. I could sense but not see Finder's eyes examining me in the darkness, then he said, "Welcome to Iraq, Colonel. You've traveled a long way."

"And you've picked a lousy way to make a living."

"Don't kid yourself. The money's d.a.m.ned good."

"But of course that's not why you do it."

He laughed. "Bulls.h.i.t. Why else would I do it?"

Although it was dark, I could make out a man: short, perhaps five and a half feet in height; age, late thirties; color, black; build, slight; with facial features that looked improbably fine and delicate. On the battlefield, of course, it's not about the size of the man; it's all about the size of the gun. His voice, on the other hand, was deep baritone and commanding.

He informed me, "Your partner beat you here. She linked up with me five hours ago."

"Partner?"

"Yeah, Tran. Major Bian Tran. She's your partner, right? She's in my car."

Maybe she had had been in his car, but nearby, out of the darkness, Bian's voice said, "Change of plans, Sean. I'm accompanying you." been in his car, but nearby, out of the darkness, Bian's voice said, "Change of plans, Sean. I'm accompanying you."

I looked in her direction. "No, you're going back to the plane."

"It's good to see you, too."

"In seven or eight hours it will be even better. In Baghdad, as we planned."

"Phyllis and I talked it over after you left. And we--"

"Am I or am I not still in charge of the s.n.a.t.c.h?" I asked.

"Well . . . yes. That hasn't--"

"Good." I looked at Finder. "The lady wants to go back to Baghdad. Now."

She looked at Eric Finder and stated very firmly, "The lady does not." She then turned to me and suggested, even more firmly and less pleasantly, "We should have this discussion alone."

In the darkness, I couldn't observe Finder's expression, but I didn't need to see his face to know what he was thinking: Here I am on the cusp of a dangerous and difficult mission, and those idiots from Washington send me Lucy and Ricky. Here I am on the cusp of a dangerous and difficult mission, and those idiots from Washington send me Lucy and Ricky.

I took Bian's arm and marched her until we were fifty feet from Finder.

I spun her around and said, "This isn't working for me."

"You're right. It's the abaya. You look ridiculous." I should note here that she also wore an abaya and a chador, and she looked good; actually, she looked great. Her eyes were really beautiful. Mysterious-looking.

"Bian, I'm not in the mood. Okay? I--"

"How do I look?" she interrupted.

"I'll tell Finder--"

"I can't imagine how women wear these all day. They're hot, c.u.mbersome, and unattractive. On the other hand, no need to shave your legs, wear stockings, or bother with your hair. Plus if you put on a few extra few pounds, n.o.body notices. Maybe they're smarter than we are."

"Stop ignoring me."