Authors: Brian Haig
“I don’t know. But I’m starting to think that our killer, or whoever sent her, was deliberately arranging a . . . well—a mortal degradation. There are some societies—Ethiopians, for instance—when they took war captives, they castrated them and then sent them home. By turning them into eunuchs, they couldn’t bear children bent on revenge. Ancient cultures thought about those things, right?”
“I’ve met men I’d like to castrate,” she noted, staring at me.
“Also on a practical level, it made men think twice before fighting the Ethiopians. Better than nuclear deterrence, right? But on a more primal level, it was meant to shame and dishonor soldiers who surrendered, who violated an ancient code of warrior courage and conduct—no guts, no manhood. Emasculate them, then send them back to their wives and their girlfriends in shame.” I looked at her. “Who do you think handled the castrations?”
“Let me guess . . . their women?”
“Not only that, this punishment was
conceived
by Ethiopian women. Forgive me if this sounds sexist, but females do tend to be more creatively vindictive.”
“Good point. Remember that.” She smiled for a moment, then said, “And you’re saying this explains why a woman was sent to handle this? Or at least that it offers insights about how a woman chose to handle it?”
“I’m saying she took great risks and went to considerable lengths to choreograph his murder in a way that is certainly unique. We already concluded that she probably went out with him before last night, partly as a reconnaissance, to get to know her victim, to— forgive the pun—to size him up, and maybe to design his murder.” I noted, “The manual calls it staging. In other words, maybe this was more personal, and more stylized, than we assumed.”
“Okay . . . that could be. It might even be a lead.” She thought about this a moment, then suggested, “We should check his charge-card records. See where he went over the last few weeks. Restaurants, movie theaters, that kind of thing. Maybe somebody will remember seeing them together.”
“Yes, we definitely should.”
“It sounds like there’s a ‘but’ behind that.”
I nodded. “But that would be a careless mistake on her part. Too obvious. I have the sense this lady was neat and tidy.”
“As in, maybe she paid? Or they went someplace that didn’t require an expenditure of money?”
“There’s a novel concept. A woman who doesn’t expect an expensive dinner before
amore
.”
She pushed a finger into my arm. “Because she intended to kill him.”
I smiled back. “I mentioned earlier that the method of a suicide often conveys a message. That can apply as well to murder. Serial killers, for instance, usually employ signature methods. Understand that method, and you have insight into the unique pathology of the individual.”
“I’ve read the literature on it.”
“Good. So what message was
she
sending? Re-create.”
“I told you, I don’t think like that.”
“Perversion, cruelty, and lust are your weapons. Think like a pissed-off woman, Bian. This man did something personal, something so infuriating that, for you, or for the person who enlisted you, a simple death isn’t satisfying enough. Something more is required. Eternal humiliation.”
She looked at me a moment, then said, “Then she really hated him. A burning, passionate hatred.”
“Go on.”
“Okay. Here’s what I think. I don’t think she was sent by anyone, I think this was her own vendetta. From the beginning, obviously she was seducing him, not the other way around. The act of seduction was a phase, a necessary act of her revenge. As hateful and repulsive as she found him, she was in control of the situation, and the act of fornication, for her, was just that—compulsory, symbolic, gratifying. They were making love, in his mind; in hers, she was just fucking him.”
“A form of betrayal, right?”
“That might be how she thought of it. What creature is it that . . . that mates and . . . you know?” She shrugged.
“The black widow.”
“Yes, the black widow—it has sex then slays the male.”
“Right. She exterminates her mate from the gene pool, ensuring the male will never cheat on her, will never produce competing offspring.”
“But this is obviously different. That’s sex as genetic survival. Sex can also be a contest for domination.” She went silent for a moment, then suggested, “I would bet she made him beg for it, made him grovel.”
“You think?”
“Why not? Some women do it to men they love.”
“Why?”
“A primal exertion of power. Men are physically stronger, but women have a counterbalance—a vagina, and permission. The pleading, the degradation restores the balance. A sexual yin and yang.
He’s
not in control.
She
is.”
“Wow.”
“You asked how a woman thinks. I’m telling you some women do think, and do act, that way. I’m not saying I approve of it—I don’t—yet it’s not uncommon. Is it abnormal or deviant? What
is
normal and healthy when it comes to sex?”
As tempting as it was, I let that one alone and asked, “But there’s more, isn’t there?”
“Well . . . give me a moment.” She looked thoughtful for a while, then said, “Okay, let’s deal with the final act. She got him excited . . . erect, actually, and then she killed him, and positioned him to appear like he was engaged in masturbation. Perhaps there’s a message there.”
“Another act of domination?”
“I . . . I don’t think so. I think her need for domination was culminated when they first had sex. This was . . . well, I think she was, as you suggested, choreographing his humiliation. Perhaps she did make him beg a little, but if so, it was no longer for her own enjoyment, her own fantasy fulfillment. Now she was manipulating his lust as a sculptor shapes clay before the carving.” She looked at me. “I don’t know what he did to her, but in her mind, his final death scene may have equated with that act.”
“His nakedness . . . his erection . . . death on a bed . . . the bullet through his head . . . what?”
“Without knowing what he did to deserve this, I have no idea.” It was interesting that she used those words—“to deserve this”—yet that went to the heart of the motive, and that was what we needed to focus on. His killer, or whoever sent her, was enacting a retribution. Like the Ethiopian woman lopping off the Mr. Johnsons of their enemies, this was the killer performing her own idea of castration. Bian looked at me and added, “There’s really no way of telling, is there?” She asked, “Where do you think she is now?”
It was a good question and I considered it a moment. “If I had to guess, probably she left the country the morning after Cliff’s murder. Maybe from Dulles, or maybe she drove to Baltimore or Philly to widen the trail.”
Bian concluded, “Then we’ll never find her.”“They all make mistakes, Bian. You just have to find that mistake.” “You really believe that?” “I know it.”
W
e reentered the office, and Dandy Don was chatting with Phyllis, something about a trip to Paris and a restaurant on the Avenue de Who-gives-a-shit where he enjoyed something that in his words was exquisite, called
fwa grass
, which apparently is not something you mow; it’s something you eat. Why did I not like this guy? I held out the coffee cup to Don. “I thought you might want coffee.”
He looked taken back by my generosity, but accepted the cup. “Well . . . uh, sure.”
Before Bian could get out a warning, he took a long sip and— “Shit!”—gooey black stuff sprayed out all over the tabletop. He slammed down the cup and stared at me. “You’re not as funny as you think, Drummond.”
Wanna bet?
An odd sound exploded from Phyllis’s throat, a hiccup or maybe a choked laugh. Evidently she didn’t like Don either. This was good to know.
After an awkward moment, she explained to Don, “Drummond takes a little getting used to.”
This might have been the understatement of the day.
Bian was giving me a look that said, “Grow up.” I mean, I’m trying to protect her virtue, to show her what a phony putz Donny Boy is before he starts humping her leg.
I smiled at her. She looked away.
Don, however, had now concluded that Sean Drummond was the class clown, which was what I wanted him to believe. I often do this to witnesses on the stand. I never cease to be amazed at the stupid things people will say when they think you’re stupid.
Trying to restore a modicum of seriousness, Bian said to Don, “As an expert on Iraq, what do you make of this exchange of information between Daniels and Charabi?”
Don swallowed a few times and regained his composure. He turned to Bian and said, “Be more specific.”
Prick.
Bian replied, “Were you aware Daniels was giving Charabi this secret?”
“No.”
“Was this . . . officially sanctioned?”
“Why ask me? I thought that’s what you and Drummond—”
“It was not sanctioned,” Phyllis quickly interjected. “The Director alone had authority to bless this release.”
I turned to Phyllis. “And you’re sure he didn’t?”
“Better yet, he’s sure.”
“Who knew we broke the Iranian code?” Bian asked. “After all, a breakthrough of such vital sensitivity and intelligence value . . . wasn’t this compartmentalized?”
“Of course it was.” Phyllis explained, “A small team from the National Security Agency handled the deciphering, and from within the Agency we handpicked a small cell to manage the use of the fruits.”
Don added, “Decoded interpretations of the transcripts were hand-delivered by an Agency courier to a military exploitation cell in Baghdad. But the military, including this exploitation cell, were kept in the blind about where, or how, this knowledge was obtained. They didn’t need to know where it came from to know how to use it.”
Don, anticipating our next question, informed us, “And no . . . Daniels was not read on, nor was he part of this operation. Nor did he have the security clearance to be in the loop.”
I thought about that a moment. I asked, “Do you know for sure that Charabi revealed this news to the Iranians?”
Don studied me for a moment. Eventually he said, “You think like a lawyer. You’re wondering if the cocked pistol was actually fired, if there is a victim, if there was a crime.”
He turned to Phyllis, who nodded. He informed us, “About three months back, we saw . . . yes . . . there were definite signs of compromise, that the Iranians knew what we were up to. But frankly, we were in disbelief. At first. We had no idea how this could have happened.”
“And now you know. Describe these signs.”
“Ask another question.”
“All right. These signs—they were irrefutable?”
After a moment, Don replied, “Yes.”
“How? Why?”
“You’re probing into areas that are . . . Look, for the purpose of your investigation, you don’t need to know about this. Okay? It was a huge loss. Leave it at that.”
“Got it.”
“Good. The point is—”
“Why was it a huge loss?”
“You don’t back off, do you?” He looked at Phyllis, who nodded again. He turned back to me and said, “Okay, I’ll tell you this much. Because the Iranians had, and still have, their fingers deeply inside Iraq. It’s a long, porous border with smugglers’ routes that have existed for a thousand years. They’ve been moving large amounts of money, weapons, and people to various Shiite parties and factions. Put two Army divisions on that border and it wouldn’t make a dent. They can’t be stopped physically. Just electronically.”
“And using these decoded transcripts you were tracking all this?”
“Yes . . .
were.
Once they learned their code was compromised, they’ve taken the appropriate steps and devised an alternative communications structure that, so far, has been foolproof.” He looked at Bian. “You have a combat patch. You were there, right? I think you appreciate firsthand how invaluable this information was, militarily and politically.”
Bian leaned back in her chair and thought about this. Eventually, she leaned forward and said, “The timing . . .” She paused. “This disclosure occurred near the start of the Shiite uprising, right?”
Don nodded. “None of Daniels’s messages are dated. You know that. However, this message was sandwiched between e-mails that place it within a few weeks—perhaps days—before Muqtada al-Sadr’s Shiite uprising. In fact—”
“In fact, that’s enough on that topic,” Phyllis interrupted.
Don and Phyllis exchanged quick glances. An important piece of this story was being withheld, and I wondered what that part was. More important, why were Bian and I being kept out of the loop?
You can go crazy asking yourself these questions with these people—they won’t even tell their own kids where they hid the Easter eggs.
Anyway, Don shifted gears and began speaking extemporaneously, without questions or prompting, which was sort of refreshing. Clearly he was an expert on this subject, and he offered us a rich and fairly informative tutorial about the shifting situation on the ground in Iraq.
Essentially, within a year after the invasion, the country had become embroiled in a civil war—more accurately, several concurrent civil wars—between Shiites and Shiites, between Shiites and Sunnis, between Sunnis who wanted to return to Baathist ways, Sunnis with different designs, and three or four splinter groups that nobody understood, probably including themselves. Tossed into that potpourri were foreigners pouring across Iraq’s borders because it was a shooting gallery with American troops as targets. In short, what we had was Uncle Sam trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle with pieces that didn’t fit together and that wouldn’t sit still.
I interrupted at one point and asked, “So what’s the problem between these Shiites and Sunnis? They’re all Muslims, right? Don’t they believe in the same faith?”
Don looked like he could not believe I asked this. “Yes, they are all Muslims. The theological differences are small, almost irrelevant. For all Muslims, Mohammed is the prophet who received the word of God from the angel Gabriel and gave it to his people. The major differences stem from after Mohammed died, over who should inherit his mantle. His cousin Ali or his best friend, Abu Bakr. The Shiites believe only Mohammed’s bloodline can be caliphs, and the Sunnis believe it was Mohammed’s intent to pass it to Abu Bakr. Over this issue, the Muslims divided into two opposing sects, each side accusing the other of perverting Islam, of being apostates. Eventually, the first leader of the Shiites, Husayn, and his followers were killed by Sunnis in a battle in Iraq. Clear?”