The Night Crew, page 23
part #7 of Sean Drummond Series
“Oh, I think you knew I would figure it out.”
“You might be right, Sean. I’ll admit that when General Fister called to ask for you, I had . . . well . . . reservations about releasing you to this case.” That didn’t match Katherine’s account, but Phyllis fingered her teacup and added, “You know, an army of military investigators have been digging through this case for months. You’ve been on this case only a few days, but you’re the first one to smell this out.”
“Rats leave a trail of droppings. Ashad had diarrhea. You’re avoiding my question, Phyllis.”
She tested her tea with a small sip, then withdrew the teabags with a spoon and, with exaggerated care, placed them on her plate. I knew what she was doing: reappraising the situation, and me, and figuring out her next move—in other words, it was time for me to keep my eye out for the moving pieces. She said, “You say you want the truth, and I’m willing to give it to you. But first I need your word.”
“My word about what?” With this lady you never respond to an unconditional request.
“Much of what I’m about to say is classified and extremely sensitive. It cannot be disclosed, under any conditions—certainly not to the public, not in court, not even to your cocounsel, or your client.”
“Phyllis, do I look stupid?”
“No, you’re bright enough, Sean. Maybe too bright.”
“Tell me what I want to know, or I’ll tell 60 Minutes what I do know.”
Phyllis did not look happy with that threat—the CIA enjoys publicity about as much as men enjoy visits to the proctologist, which actually isn’t such a bad metaphor. Anyway, she ground her teeth for a few seconds, then relented. “I don’t think I should have to explain to you, of all people, the importance of reliable and actionable intelligence to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. These kinds of conflicts are settled by who knows what, and when they know it. Early in both conflicts we underestimated . . . or, no, we forgot that, I suppose. The price was awful and getting worse. Both wars going off the rails. Thousands of body bags returning home.”
“Who’s we?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me. Answer the question.”
“The military, this Agency, the Defense Intelligence Agency, senior people in the government, certain opinionated members of Congress. Everybody who matters, and quite a few who don’t. We slid into these wars with an intelligence apparatus built for other purposes. It proved a wrong fit . . . a catastrophically wrong fit.”
“What does this have to do with Ashad?”
“Stop barking at me, Sean, and I’ll get to that. A year into the war, the army was complaining bitterly about inadequate support from the Agency. And the Agency, in turn, was criticizing the army’s intelligence efforts as too amateurish and unsophisticated. The situation became . . . intolerable.”
I didn’t really need this bureaucratic gibberish lesson. “The question was, what does this have to do with Ashad?”
“I’m getting to it, Sean. After the usual symphony of teeth gnashing and fingerpointing, an accommodation was worked out. The Agency would step back from the big picture and get more involved at the granular level. We decided to place certain assets in the army, for example, to advise field commanders on local conditions and channel raw intelligence to them before it sprouted cobwebs being massaged and debated by the bureaucracy here in Washington. We also decided to place some of our more promising interrogators on the front lines . . . at the grassroots level, if you will.”
“And Amal Ashad, was he one of your people?”
“Our people, Sean. And you already know the answer or you wouldn’t be here. About fifteen years ago, we recruited him out of Cornell where he majored in Arabic studies . . . he was fluent in Arabic and Farsi . . . had spent his childhood roaming the streets of Baghdad. He was a perfect catch.” In a transparent attempt at gaining my sympathy she told me, “He was married with three young children, if you’re interested.”
“I’m really not, Phyllis. Why did you disguise him as a soldier?”
“Many reasons, all them good. But protection, for the most part. Some . . . in fact, most of those attached to this program have been NOCs or served in some undercover capacity. We didn’t want them exposed and compromised.”
“So you had them march around like toy soldiers? Did you teach them to salute, and how to use a bayonet? Really, Phyllis.”
She snapped, “You make it sound dumb, and it’s not.” She then took a deep breath—Phyllis prided herself on self-control, and I tended to test it a lot—then continued in a more composed tone, “Take our friend, Amal Ashad. Living in a military prison, associating with the worst scum of Iraqi society, and who knows how many foreign jihadists trying to make their creds by killing Americans. On a daily basis, he was face-to-face with dozens of insurgents. Why hang a sign around his neck that says CIA? His future value in any overseas capacity would be lost forever.”
“So the uniform was intended to hide his identity?” I asked, perhaps allowing a tiny note of cynicism to creep into my tone.
“That was one consideration. Now here’s another. Had the people he was questioning known he was an Agency man, they would’ve been less vulnerable . . . less forthcoming. They would’ve clammed up.”
“I definitely get that.”
She was used to my sarcasm and knew how to react to it—she ignored me and said, “Don’t be insulted, but army interrogators are not particularly feared or respected by the insurgents. It’s not exactly a promising career track in the military. Many of your army interrogators have shallow experience, limited training, and questionable talents. Some can’t even speak Arabic, for God’s sake—they have to rely on interpreters. Ashad not only brought his linguistic and cultural fluency, he also had a masters degree in psychiatry from Johns Hopkins, a degree paid for by the Agency before he spent years interrogating for us. How many of your army interrogators can match such credentials?”
The question was obviously rhetorical, and I gave her the rhetorical courtesy of not answering.
She acknowledged my nonresponse and continued, “The people Ashad interrogated at Al Basari had no idea they were being massaged and manipulated by a pro. That army uniform . . . well, you might say it put a wolf in sheep’s clothes.” She was into the metaphorical analogies now. “Think of a grandmaster playing chess against a rank amateur, an amateur who has not a clue who he’s up against.”
I looked at Phyllis and wondered if she was talking about Ashad and his targets, or herself and me.
“But, in fact,” I noted, “it also gave the Agency perfect deniability. Any abuses would be blamed on the army. I’m sure your people considered that. I’m also sure they loved that part.”
“Stop saying your people, Sean. We’re on the same side.”
“Are we?”
I saw a little squirming from Phyllis, an uncharacteristic show of emotion. “I’m telling you that wasn’t the intent, Sean. Nobody was playing the blame game.”
“If not the intent, it is, in fact, the reality. The army is caught in a shit storm, and Ashad flushed the toilet.”
Phyllis smiled condescendingly. “You don’t know that.”
“Don’t I? My client and her friends—”
“Your client? Oh, for God’s sake, Sean, don’t tell me this is the first time you ever had a client lie to you.”
“Maybe, for once, I don’t believe my client is lying.”
“Then grow up. She and her friends will say anything to wriggle out of this. And Ashad’s death makes him the perfect fall guy. He’s not around to deny or refute their accusations, is he?”
“Ashad knew what they were doing, he encouraged it, he provided instructions and advice, and on several occasions, he even dropped in for a visit.” I added, “He gave them a camera. If he missed the evening matinee, he enjoyed drooling on the pictures over his morning coffee.”
“Just because your client and her friends say so, you expect me to believe that? Don’t take me for a fool.”
I didn’t know if Phyllis believed what she was saying herself—she was the ultimate institutional chameleon, able to lie so adeptly and with such certitude and conviction that even she believed it. Maybe.
But it was time to put a new piece on the board, so I reached into a pocket, withdrew one of the incriminating pictures, and tossed it on her desk.
Phyllis lifted up the photo, carefully using the tips of only two fingers, as though it might carry a sexually transmittable disease, and casually examined it. Her face formed a really distasteful scowl. “Is that your client?” she asked, pointing at Lydia, who, with a particularly stupid look on her face, was fondling a man’s dick.
“Forget about her. Upper left corner . . . the guy lurking in the shadows. Recognize him?”
Oozing disbelief, she asked, “You’re saying that’s supposed to be Amal Ashad?” She peered closer at the picture. “This man has no face . . . no name on his uniform . . . no identity I can detect.”
“He disconnected the lightbulbs, and tried to hide, but yes, that’s the pride of the CIA taking in the sights.” I stretched the truth a bit in time, and informed Phyllis, with a dose of unbridled optimism, “This picture, as well as a few others, is in a lab right now having the pixels expanded and clarified to get a clearer look at our voyeur.” I then offered, “Let’s make a bet. Is Mr. Ashad smiling or drooling?”
She put the picture face down on her desk. I didn’t know if Phyllis was aware that somebody had clipped certain pictures from the original computer file, and I didn’t know if the CIA had a hand in that clipping, but if they had, and she did know about it, she was probably saying to herself at that moment, Oh shit, how did those morons let this one slip by?
She fixed me with a severe look. “Even if that is Ashad—and I don’t for a moment believe it is . . . but even if you can show beyond reasonable doubt that he was present, what does it prove or disprove?” She then answered her own question. “Nothing, not a damned thing.”
“Thank you. When I want opinions on courtroom strategies, I’ll go to somebody with a law degree.”
“What do you think it will accomplish?”
“How about showing the world that the army doesn’t have a monopoly on perverts and sadists?”
“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm.”
Nobody does, Phyllis. I looked in her eyes. “Ashad was there. He was present for some of the worst of the nightly depredations—he not only knew about it, he witnessed it, and he actually offered advice on some very peculiar perversities he thought would be helpful.” I then asked her, “Would you care to hear some of his suggestions?”
Apparently not, because she snapped, “And will that get your client off?”
Obviously she, or a team of Agency lawyers, had thought this through. I decided it was best not to answer that question.
She said, “Expose him, Sean, and you will unmask and thereby undermine the entire program. And for what? The program will almost certainly have to be scrapped. You know the mood in Congress. They go after the CIA like a pool of convicted rapists at an orgy. You’ll be building a scaffold for them. What will that accomplish?”
“Justice.”
“Justice?” she asked as if it were some vulgar foreign word like menage à trois or fick dich, which roughly corresponded to my sentiments at that moment.
“Sounds fair to me.”
“Fairness has nothing to do with this.”
“Sure it does. The army might even enjoy having a little company as it’s getting the crap kicked out of it on every front page in the world.”
“Don’t be crazy.”
“It’s lonely at the top.” I added, “Hey, we could carpool to the congressional investigations. Save gas.”
Phyllis hesitated, then leaned forward and said, “Sean, let me offer you some good advice.”
I looked at Phyllis.
“Drop it. Forget everything about Ashad.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’ll return to my opening query—which Sean am I speaking with?”
“There never were two Seans, Phyllis. I took an oath to look after the interests of my client, and I took an oath to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States, not the CIA,” I told her. “Have I made myself clear?”
It was time for a fresh approach, and she rolled her eyes. “Your client’s behavior was so abhorrent it can’t be justified by anything Ashad did, or said. This picture tells the whole story.” She held up the picture and directed a finger at Lydia. “Look at her face, Sean. Look closely . . . she’s having the time of her life. This was all about her and her sick desires.”
I was getting tired of having the pictures rubbed in my face. “I’m not so sure about that.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Surely you’re not serious?”
“It doesn’t matter whether I’m serious. It’s irrelevant, here, between you and me, but it becomes very relevant in a court of law. Ashad, as you said, was the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing. I have no idea how well his guise worked with the prisoners, but I know it worked wonders with five easily corrupted American soldiers. He manipulated these five soldiers into the behavior you so colorfully described as wicked and abhorrent. He gave them the ticket to act out their darkest fantasies, to see the prisoners as playthings, as objects for their sexual gratification. Worse, he led them to believe it was in the national interest, that the more twisted and perverted they became, the more they were helping win the war.”
Phyllis got up from behind her desk and she walked around it, then sat in a chair at the conference table, ending up right beside me. She placed her hand on my arm and, in a soft, maternal voice, said, “One of the things I most like and admire about you, Sean, is your soldier’s ethics and sensibilities. So here we have a young man who died defending this country. He died in a horrible way, on a lonely street, in a terrible war. My God, there weren’t even enough pieces left to bring home. Right now, his grieving family . . . his wife, and his three young children, have only one thin solace to hold on to, one irreplaceable thought: Amal Ashad died a hero.” She tightened her grip. “Think of his family, Sean. Don’t ruin that memory.”
“That has got to be . . .” I paused to shake my head. “Really, Phyllis, couldn’t you at least arrange a little Wagnerian background music to accompany your bullshit?”
The hand fell off my arm. She smiled and shrugged. “Not working, I take it?”
I did not smile back. Phyllis is not a sentimental person and that she had resorted to such a mushy, saccharine stab at changing my mind indicated she was reaching the end of her repertoire. That meant either that she was done, or it was time for the threats.
She leaned back in her chair and said, “All right, there are . . . other considerations.”
“There always are, Phyllis. I really don’t care.”
“But you should, Sean. You really should. You’re getting in way over your head. A great deal more rides on this than you know. There are people who will go to some length to keep you from exposing this.”
“Who are these people?”
“I don’t know.” My expression might’ve indicated some skepticism about her claim because she felt the need to reassert, “I’m telling the truth—I really don’t.”
“Are you one of those people?”
“I’m not part of this effort, no. And it goes much higher than me.”
I wasn’t sure where Phyllis stood in the Agency’s line chart, but I knew her direct boss was the director himself. By extension this meant the big honcho himself was involved, and possibly his boss, the occupant of the White House.
I looked at Phyllis and, as usual, I couldn’t tell if this was total bullshit, or if she was being perfectly sincere. Her face did convey an expression of worry and concern, like one of her children was about to do something terribly stupid that would bring a world of hurt and misery down on his head. But this was Phyllis; more likely, she was fretting about her tea getting cold.
Still looking at her, I asked, “Is this a threat?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Let me simplify it. There are already two dead defense attorneys. Is there going to be a third?”
“Don’t be silly. Nobody’s contemplating anything so drastic.”
That reassurance aside—with its understated yet implied threat—the question was, what did the CIA consider less drastic? A quick trip to the most Taliban-infested archipelago in Afghanistan? A plane that takes off and never lands? The thing about paranoia is, it’s a game two people can play: your worst nightmare might understate their favorite option. I gave Phyllis a hard look. “I’m trying to decide where you’re coming from.”
“I’m your boss and . . . I’d like to believe I’m also your friend.”
“Friends don’t let friends get hurt.”
“It’s out of my hands, Sean. I’m just passing on a warning. I told you I’m not part of this.”
“Then give your other friends a message from me. If I find the slightest evidence of obstruction or tampering with this case, I’ll blow the top off this agency.”
Phyllis made no reply to this macho claim, but she did get up and return to her desk, and her tea. I had the feeling that she’d done her job, which was figuring out how Sean Drummond was feeling that day.
As both an army officer and a temporary employee of the Agency, I had just made it clear which side of my split personality I came down on; it wasn’t hers, and it definitely wasn’t theirs, whoever they were. She sat quietly and sipped from her tea, while I sat and watched her sip and contemplate what to do about her favorite recalcitrant employee.
But also, I wondered if Phyllis was now in some jeopardy because of me. I was her subordinate, after all, and it was Phyllis who had voluntarily released me to serve as cocounsel for Lydia. Her agency, in retrospect, would consider that a miscalculation, and her inability to enlist my cooperation now would be perceived as a failure to correct that misjudgment. Like most government institutions, the CIA can, and regularly does, forgive failure in the course of routine business, but it draws the line when that mistake tarnishes the reputation of their beloved Agency.
