He tried to say something and what came out was, "Oh… I… ugh…"

To send him off on the right note, I said, "Ali, you're going home."

His eyes closed.

CHAPTER THIRTY

In a convoy escorted by a platoon of detached military police, we drove for more than an hour from the Army field hospital and ended up at the entrance of a small military base. A metal sign by the entrance read, "Forward Operating Base Alpha"-in military jargon, FOB Alpha.

The base was entirely encased within ten-foot-high concrete blast walls and concertina wire, and if, say, you had forgotten you were in a war zone, this forbidding exterior reminded you that there were two worlds here-the violent, hazardous one outside the gates, and these highly fortified bases, like Old West cavalry forts.

Directly outside the gate on the roadway were five oversize speed bumps and a series of oil barrels filled with sand or concrete, arrayed in a winding maze so you had to slow to a crawl and make about ten short-angled turns. Also there were two twenty-foot concrete towers, from each of which the worrying snouts of big.50 caliber barrels followed our progress.

This reminded me, as I said, of an old cavalry fort, though the occupation of Iraq wasn't supposed to look like this: I recalled the stories Grandpa told me about his occupation after Germany surrendered-of round-heeled frauleins, of beery nights in gasthauses, of a fortune in black-market cigarettes and silk stockings-the uniquely American version of rape, pillage, and plunder. Better still, his natives accepted their defeat. Occupations are supposed to be the fun part of war, but I suspected no one would return from this occupation feeling nostalgic.

A pair of soldiers cautiously approached the lead SUV, and apparently Phyllis handled the entry requirements. Whatever she said, both guards snapped to attention and banged off crisp salutes, ordinarily a sign of respect-not in a combat zone, though. Might as well hang a fluorescent sign around the neck of the recipient for enemy snipers that announces, "NOT ME, IDIOT-SHOOT HER."

During my own combat tours, we actually used to make a point of saluting senior officers we didn't like. We thought this was very hilarious; they looked very aggravated. Maybe you had to be there, though.

Anyway, the guards signaled for us to enter the compound, and our convoy drove at slow speed over the bumps, through the winding path of barrels, and entered the gate.

I rode in the rear of the trailing vehicle, a military ambulance, with bin Pacha, who remained unconscious, and beside me sat Doc Enzenauer, who occupied himself monitoring his patient's vital signs, adjusting IV fluids, and doing doctorly things.

I looked out the side window as we progressed through the base, which pretty much was what you could infer from the title: a small, temporary encampment located in close proximity to the enemy. Inside Iraq, of course, this would be any base flying the Stars and Stripes. As it was, the weapons clearing barrels outside each building and the sandbags covering the roofs dispelled any illusion of an R amp;R center.

To most civilian eyes, all soldiers appear alike, androgynous beings wrapped in camouflage, with their hair closely cropped and an iron rod stuffed up their rear. But here the troopers mostly looked a little older, they sported the most up-to-date body armor, were carrying the coolest, latest gadgetry, and definitely swaggered more than your run-of-the-mill GIs, who generally look like confused high school kids stumbling around in oversize uniforms.

So this was a base for Special Operations warriors, which made sense because the CIA and Special Forces, which have always been close, after 9/11 have become as inseparable as a hunter and his favorite fetching dog.

After about a quarter of a mile, we stopped in front of a small compound within the compound-also surrounded by concertina barbed wire, and containing five small squarish buildings, each constructed of rough, reinforced gray concrete, ugly and utilitarian. I saw no signs, no windows, and definitely no smiling people standing by the stoop waving welcome signs.

The Army has an umbilical addiction to signs-even the uniform is a billboard of data-so this was not an Army facility, and the absence of windows suggested that these airless dwellings were either ammunition storage facilities or jails. If you were wondering, by the way, only a fool would place an ammo dump in the middle of a troop compound.

As I dismounted from the rear of the ambulance, Bian approached me and said, "When I was stationed here, I heard stories about this place."

"Tell me about those stories."

"Whenever we got our hands on high-value detainees-HVDs, we called them-we of course reported that up the chain. Often, that same night, a group of serious gentlemen in civilian clothes would show up with transfer orders and spirit them away. We jokingly called this the Ministry of Truth."

As Bian explained this, I kept the corner of my eye on Phyllis, who was leading the sheik and Waterbury past the concertina wire and straight to the first building. She opened the door and the group disappeared inside. She appeared to be at home, and something about the sheik's movements and gestures suggested this wasn't his maiden visit either. Why did this not surprise me? I asked Bian, "CIA operation?"

"I believe the FBI is here as well."

"Are they the prisoners?"

She laughed.

I looked around for a moment, then said, "I'll bet one of these buildings has a bar."

"You know what, Sean? You're like one of those guys marooned in a desert. There's no oasis and there's no f-ing alcohol in a combat zone. Get used to it."

"Wanna bet?" Smart as she was, she was a slow learner-Agency people create their own rules, and I couldn't imagine them spending a year, anywhere, without a gin mill. I said, "First round?"

"You're on." She stuck out a hand and we shook.

I looked around again and asked, "Did you ever see any prisoners return from here?"

"That's part of the rep. Once you land here, you disappear into a black hole. Except Saddam. Word is he spent time at Alpha being wrung dry before he was transferred to Camp Cropper in Baghdad. A lot of the prisoners who come here, I think, eventually end up at Gitmo or are renditioned to their own countries."

Supposedly, prisoners apprehended in Iraq are not subject to rendition. But as I was learning with Ali bin Pacha, exceptions are made, especially when they think nobody's looking.

Also the buildings did not appear expansive enough to hold more than one or, at most, two prisoners apiece. I didn't see a graveyard or a large incinerator, so maybe Bian was right. I said, "We'd better go inside before Phyllis cuts a deal and we end up in cells."

We followed the same path Phyllis took, through the concertina wire and the same doorway into the same building, and ended up inside a cramped, rectangular room with a receptionist behind a gray metal desk, but otherwise devoid of furniture and, more mysteriously, of Phyllis and her playmates. I looked around for another door. None. I wondered if we had entered the malicious lair of Dr. No, and at any moment the sly villain behind the desk would break into an evil cackle, push a button, and the floor would drop out beneath us, revealing a pit of snapping alligators.

The receptionist did not look particularly demonic, but you never know. Actually, he was a nice, earnest-looking sort in a white short-sleeved dress shirt, without tie, who very pleasantly asked, "Can I help you?"

I gave him our names, flashed my Agency ID, and informed him we were part of Ms. Carney's party.

He smiled. "Oh… right." The floor did not drop, and he said, "She instructed me to tell you to wait here. She'll be back up in a minute."