CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Turki al-Fayef departed the plane to call his superiors in Riyadh with the news that the old deal had just become the new deal.

Phyllis wanted a word with me, alone. So she and I marooned Bian with her boss, who looked a little frustrated and in the mood to browbeat a subordinate.

The inside of the plane was, as I said, a sauna, and my uniform was pasted to my body. Even Phyllis, who has the physiology of a lizard, sported a light coat of dew on her upper lip.

Neither she nor I said a word as we left the plane, or as we walked together through the hangar and out onto the airfield, where there was a brisk breeze, hot yet refreshing.

Eventually, we were far enough away and I said, not softly, "You screwed us and you betrayed us."

"Harsh words. You look tired. So how are you?"

"Didn't you promise to watch my backside?"

"She's a very attractive woman, don't you think?"

"She's a good soldier."

"And very beautiful, too. Do I sense something developing between you two?"

"I didn't even realize she was female until she walked into a ladies' latrine." I wasn't going to let her change the subject, and I asked, "Why, Phyllis? Why did you cave?"

"Incidentally, you handled Turki brilliantly. He's a tough negotiator. You ran a nice bluff, though you nearly drove it off a cliff." She gave me a long stare and added, "Still, you squeezed a better deal out of him than we got."

"Maybe you didn't push hard enough. Who's 'we'?"

She looked away from me. "Powerful people. You don't need to know their names and I wouldn't tell you anyway."

"Tigerman? Hirschfield? Do those names fit?"

She chose not to answer directly, but did say, "Even three years ago, the Agency could have stood up to the whole lot of them. We've lost so much prestige, clout, and influence since 9/11. Did you know the President is considering a new Director?"

"So what? The old Director will make a bundle off corporate boards and speeches and books. The new Director will learn that he needs you more than you need him. The bureaucracy is forever, and the bureaucracy always prevails."

"I'm not so sure. Washington is changing. The Agency is due for changes also. It has to… and maybe that's not a bad idea."

"Who is Turki al-Fayef?" I asked.

"Turki is the number two or three or four in Saudi intelligence."

"Which one?"

"It depends on how many royal princes decide they want to play spymaster. I've known him for many years, and with Turki around that's all they do: play. It's perfectly harmless."

"But he's not harmless."

"Don't blame him. Turki does what's best for his country, as we do what's best for ours."

"Then hire him. He does it better."

"Stop acting naive, Sean. It doesn't sit well on you."

"Excuse me for thinking we were here to do the right thing."

"How do you know we're not doing the right thing?"

Regarding Phyllis, she's not shameless, but she has that annoying Washington syndrome, a stunning inability to blush, no matter how raw the lie or how awful the embarrassment. I asked, "What does Ali bin Pacha know that's scaring everybody?"

"Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot. But he's a Saudi, and his own countrymen can handle this better than we."

"I know you don't believe that."

An Air Force C-130 began sprinting down the runway, and she said something, but it was drowned out by the roar of the noisy engines. We stood, sharing a moment in silence, and watched the big plane lift off, and our eyes stayed on it as the pilot began a series of corkscrew maneuvers intended to elude ground-to-air missiles. This place sucked.

The passengers in the rear of the aircraft were probably tossing their lunch; I was feeling a wave of nausea myself. "What about Charabi?"

"Who?"

I looked at her. "You can't allow this."

"I follow orders." After a moment she observed, "Needless to say, you also will follow orders."

"He betrayed us."

"Do you know that for sure? You have a suspicion based on a flimsy circumstantial foundation. A few e-mails in a computer that belonged to a seriously troubled, contemptible man who perhaps committed suicide. Were you the defense attorney, would you allow that to be entered into evidence? I think not." She didn't need to state the obvious, that her question was as abstract as it was specious, since I would never be allowed within ten miles of that computer or the incriminating e-mails. She did add, however, "You have no tangible proof that Charabi passed any secrets to the Iranians. He's not even a U.S. citizen. That's a requirement for an indictment for treason, is it not?"

"He's a suspect in the murder of Clifford Daniels. That's an extraditable offense."

"You said the murderer was a woman."

"I also told you I believe she was a hired assassin. She was the murder weapon, not the murderer."

"There's that 'possibly' word again. I thought the law dealt with facts, and I thought innocence is presumed."

These weasel words had a lawyerly ring, as if Phyllis was parroting the stupid rationale cooked up by the nameless powers that be back in D.C.

You can imagine how much I enjoy legal lectures, and I informed her, "Investigations always begin with vague and uncertain suspicions, you dig a little, and you decide which suspicious assholes need a second look. And, if you're interested, the presumption of innocence pertains to jurors, not investigators. To the cop everybody is a suspect until proven otherwise."

She did not reply.

"He's a suspect. He needs to be questioned."

"He is an Iraqi citizen. This is Iraq. You have neither the legal basis nor the authority, nor the access to question him."

"No problem. I'll just walk into his office and ask a few questions. Perfectly harmless. Man-to-man. See where it goes."

"I was instructed to convey three words: Forget about him."

We locked eyes for a moment.

She said, "The Iraqi people are scheduled to have their first election in January. This is a critical milestone to victory in this war, a necessary step for bringing our troops home. Mahmoud Charabi-maybe you read this in the papers-is a leading contender for future prime minister."

"And that's why he needs to be investigated. What if he's elected, and what if he's working for Iran, and what if he's behind the murder of Cliff Daniels? That won't be good for America, and that's not what my comrades in arms are fighting and dying for."

"Why is irrelevant. Pay attention. Neither you nor I are allowed to carry this any further." She pointed a finger, daggerlike, into my arm and invoked those sacred words: "That's an order."

"What's going on here?"

There was silence for a moment. Eventually, Phyllis said, "Two words, this time: Martin Lebrowski."

"Who?"

"The man you know as Don."

"Am I going to dislike Martin as much as I dislike Don?"

"More." She added, "The leak of the Iranian operation occurred on his watch. He was responsible for all aspects of that operation. Especially, operational security. Lebrowski was facing a serious career crisis."

"Lebrowski never should have had a career in the first place."

"Whatever. He has more savvy than I gave him credit for. Right after Martin departed our meeting he called a few friends, on the NSC staff and at the Defense Department. He disclosed what we knew." She added, "The details were off, but it didn't matter."

"What happened next?"

"What do you think happened next?"

Her response was as rhetorical as my question. This was Washington-a meeting happened next. The bright boys scrummed around a long mahogany table in a lushly carpeted back room and collectively they realized that, with a seesaw election mere days away, the opposition could begin picking out Secret Service nicknames and contacting their real estate agents. One meeting always begets the next, and this time Phyllis and her boss were invited, not as guests but as factotums to hear their marching orders. I asked her, "And what was Martin's reward?"