Authors: Brian Haig
“No.”
“The Shiites believe the twelfth iman, the last iman, will return to earth from a cave to rule a perfect godly society. For the Sunnis their holy city is Mecca, in Saudi Arabia. For the Shiites the most holy shrines are in Najaf and Karbala, in Iraq. In the seventh century, when Husayn and his Shia followers were slain by the Sunnis, the schism became a blood fued. Only a tenth of the world’s Muslims are Shia, and embedded in their beliefs is a lot of minority anger, the sense of always being repressed by Sunnis, of being part of a religion shaped from injustice. So it remains.”
I looked at him and said, “So this is like a family feud over the old man’s inheritance.”
Don did not seem impressed by my clever simplification, and he instructed me, “It’s no less significant, and no more meaningful, than the feuds that divided Christianity and produced countless wars in Europe. Papal power, the right to divorce, theological interpretations— there are many issues that divide even our faith. Except for one thing: The Muslim schism never subsided, never softened, never healed.” He then shifted back to his larger discussion.
Don eventually summarized, saying, “I explain this so you’ll understand the meaning . . . the full scope of what Daniels gave Charabi, and the relevance of what the Iranians offered in return. As you might suspect, Iranian intelligence has been keeping a close eye on Iraq’s Sunni community. Bear in mind that under Saddam—a Sunni—Iran and Iraq fought a bloody seven-year war. The Iranians do not want another Sunni to rise to the top.”
He paused to see if we had any questions. We did not.
He continued, “Also understand that Iranian intelligence has an excellent read on what’s happening inside Iraq. It’s their primary collection target, they live next door, they’re more culturally savvy than we are,
and
they’ve invested decades developing and refining their sources, particularly among their Iraqi Shia coreligionists. So it’s not just losing insights into what Iranian agents were doing inside Iraq, it’s also getting their take on what’s happening in a country they know better than us.” He let that sink in, then said, “Losing that window was . . . well, it still is an intelligence catastrophe.”
I mentioned, “Like losing the seat next to the smartest girl in algebra class. How do you pass the final? Right?”
Don’s eyes had sort of a patronizing glaze. “I suppose that’s a . . . well, an intelligible analogy.”
It seemed like we were back to questions and answers, and I looked at Don and asked, “What exactly was the nature of the deal between Daniels and Charabi?”
“I wasn’t privy to it, right?”
“Right. So surmise.”
“Okay. Here’s what I think. As you know from the news, even before the invasion, the Pentagon and the White House were touting and backing Charabi as the future prime minister of a democratic Iraq. You read that, right? And clearly, his godfathers were his controller, Daniels and, obviously, Cliff’s bosses, Tigerman and Hirschfield, who had their own long relationships with Charabi and persuaded the White House to make him their man in Baghdad.”
“Right.”
“So, in the middle of the invasion, Charabi and select members of his Iraqi National Symposium were flown over to and prepositioned inside Kuwait. The idea was to rush them in the instant Baghdad fell and place them in charge of the government.”
“So what happened?”
“That
is
what happened. The day Baghdad fell, Charabi was flown in by an Army Black Hawk, where he was met by an Army band and a color guard and given the full pomp and ceremony treatment. And we immediately began screwing up the occupation. It was a big mess, and the administration immediately had reservations about the initial American team sent over to run things, so they replaced it with a new team, and it became an even bigger mess.”
Bian, who had been there during that period, commented, “On top of that, Saddam’s Iraqi government had crumbled, then disintegrated. There was nothing to put Charabi in charge of. It was utter chaos, for months.”
Don smiled and nodded at his prize pupil. He said, “So Charabi was left to sit around Baghdad, cool his heels, and wait for things to settle out. But simultaneously, the prewar intelligence he and his people provided was, piece by piece, being disproven. Search teams fanned out all over the country and checked the sites Charabi and his people had pinpointed—no nukes, no bioweapons sites, no huge stockpiles of chemical weapons. For the White House and for the Defense Department, this was more than embarrassing, this was a strategic fiasco.”
“Buyer’s remorse,” I suggested. “So they all began having second thoughts about Charabi?”
“They began having what should’ve been first thoughts,” commented Don with his typical self-assured arrogance.
Bian smartly observed, “But not Daniels.”
“No, you’re right,” Don replied agreeably. “Mahmoud Charabi, after all, was his creation. He’d been his faithful controller for all those years, and later his conduit into the U.S. government. He could divorce and run away from his wife. But not Charabi.”
Don leaned across the table and looked at me. He said, “So . . . we come now to the question of . . .
why
? You asked whether there was a deal or an arrangement between these two. And now you’re wondering why Cliff Daniels—a former soldier, a career civil servant—
why
he agreed to betray his country. He was a regional expert, after all. Don’t assume he didn’t understand the damage he was inflicting. He did.” He inched closer and once again repeated, “The question is
why
.”
This sounded like one of those revelatory Sherlockian moments, and I had this strong urge to play Sherlock to his Watson and declare, But isn’t that elementary, my dear Watson? But Phyllis was reading my thoughts and giving me the Look, so instead I limited myself to the observation, “Yes, that
is
the question.”
“Because Daniels was a late-middle-aged civil servant with an undistinguished career, nearing retirement, and his close association with Charabi was about to become the tagline on his professional tombstone. For him, there was one way out, and only one way: Charabi
had
to become prime minister. If that happened, as his closest American confidant, Daniels was looking at a second life, probably a job in the White House, and probably a prestigious title he could eventually carry into retirement.” He looked around to be sure we all understood this brilliant insight. He noted, “Implicitly or explicitly, this was always the deal. Success for one meant success for both. Failure, too, was a collective deal.”
As much as I did not like Don, it made sense. Theresa had as much as said the same thing, and reflecting back to the messages I had read, all that “good friend” and “my brother” crap was merely Charabi reminding his partner in crime that their fates were inseparable, that if Charabi got his big prize, Daniels would ride his coattails.
Since we were now into hypothesizing, I asked, “This Sunni moneyman, was he, or were the Iranians, offering the genuine article?”
“I . . .” Don glanced at Phyllis with a suddenly constipated expression. “I can’t really . . . Phyllis hasn’t shown me that page.”
We all three glanced at Phyllis, who nodded sympathetically as though he were referring to a different Phyllis.
Don quickly recovered his aplomb and said, “However, it’s a good question. Could the Iranians have fed Charabi—and thereby us—a red herring? Possibly . . . sure. That was another amateur mistake by Daniels. This is Tradecraft 101. Due diligence, right? Always force a source to verify
before
the deal. Now we don’t really know, do we?”
I noted, “Then Daniels not only was fed lies by Charabi in the lead-up, but maybe the process continued right through.”
He winked at Bian. “Excuse my French, but yes . . . this could be the proverbial kiss after the fuck. But by the same token, the Iranians
do
have a strong motive for unmasking such an individual to us. Iraq’s future is no trivial matter to any of its neighbors. They all have factions they’re clandestinely backing. The Iranians, for example, would love to use us to clean the clocks of the more potent Sunni insurgent groups.” By way of comparison he mentioned, “Reverse the situation; imagine if Iraq was Mexico. Would we keep our hands out of it?”
Bian asked, “Where is this Sunni money coming from?”
“That’s the billion-dollar question, isn’t it?”
He gave us a moment to ponder this, then continued, “Iraq’s Sunni neighbors—specifically, Saudi Arabia, Jordan, and Syria—none of them want a Shiite caliphate on their borders. Understand that since 1979, when the Iranian revolution ushered the ayatollahs to power, Tehran has been trying to spread its Shia revolution throughout the region. For the Sunni neighbors, Iraq under Saddam had been an invaluable barrier, a buffer zone, if you will. Excluding Iran, Iraq, and Lebanon, the neighbors are all predominantly Sunni, and they are all ruled by Sunnis. But they also have sizable Shiite minorities, who, in many cases, feel politically and religiously marginalized, if not repressed. Also there are particular tinderboxes that could blow up and destabilize the entire region. Take Lebanon—like Iraq, it’s a fragile and unstable melting pot with a large, resentful Shiite population who are aligned with the Iranians, and with the Syrians, who have controlled it for two decades. Ignite problems in Lebanon and those problems spread to Syria, Israel, and Jordan. If Iraq goes Shiite, it . . . well”—he glanced at me—“it will stir up a world of shit.”
Long story short, Don had not a clue where the money was coming from.
Bian asked, “But what was Charabi’s motive? He had our backing, or at least the Pentagon’s support. Why risk betraying us and getting close to the Iranians?”
“We read the same messages. Right?”
Bian nodded.
I wasn’t so sure we did, but in the interest of moving things along, I also nodded.
Don said, “Put yourself in Charabi’s shoes. You’re in Iraq, the Sunnis have put a price on your head, you’re in a life-or-death struggle with all these other Iraqi Shiite factions for political power . . . and this guy—your handler—suddenly, he begins threatening to cut you off at the knees.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “How would you respond?”
I said, “I’d fly back here and knock his teeth in.”
He smiled derisively. “I’ll bet you would.” He continued, “Daniels was an analyst, not an operator. Handling a field asset is an intricate and demanding art. They’re under terrific psychological stress, many are pathetically conflicted, and most are phobic. What I’m suggesting is this: He flipped his own asset into Iran’s arms.”
Bian had obviously given this some thought and suggested back, “Alternatively, Charabi became worried that he would lose our support and decided to make the Iranians his insurance policy. So he passed along what Daniels gave him, and now, as a quid pro quo, the Iranians owe him a favor. At the very least, they won’t actively oppose his rise as a Shia leader.” She added, “And with Daniels dead, we would never know.”
He replied, “That could be what you’re seeing in these messages. Charabi has begun playing both sides against the middle—us against Iran. For him, the best of both worlds.”
Bian noted, astutely, “Except it only works as long as the U.S. remains blind to this deal between Daniels and Charabi. After all, he betrayed us.”
This seemed like an appropriate moment to ask, and I did. “Do you think Charabi had Daniels murdered?”
Don replied without hesitation, “He would be my number one suspect. As Bian said, with Daniels dead, so was the secret. But don’t rule out Hirschfield and/or Tigerman either. They may have been privy to this exchange between Charabi and Daniels—they might even have been behind it—and maybe they were frightened about what Daniels might say before the House investigating subcommittee.” As if we needed to be reminded, he said, “They are hyper-ambitious men. Don’t underestimate how far they might go to keep his mouth shut.”
Once again, Don and I were in agreement. In fact, I was about to ask another question when Phyllis stood and walked around from behind her desk. She approached Don, saying a bit curtly, “Thank you for dropping by. I’ll pass on to the Director how helpful you were.”
Don looked a little surprised at this abrupt dismissal. He checked his watch. “I have a little more time. If they have more questions—”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Don’s face registered a shifting mixture of bewilderment and frustration, and eventually settled at resentment. He got to his feet and stood a moment. “I’d like to be kept in the loop about this investigation. Actually, I . . . I need to be kept aware. This is important to us . . . to me. You know that.”
Phyllis replied, somewhat cruelly, “You’ll hear from me at the appropriate moment.”
The confidence seemed to drain out of him. For a long moment he maintained eye contact with Phyllis. He opened his mouth and started to say something, thought better of it, and then spun around and left.
Bian and I remained perfectly still as the door closed loudly behind Don, and as Phyllis returned to her seat behind the desk. She folded her hands in front of her and stared at her desktop, sphinxlike.
Eventually she deigned to speak. “Which of you would like to hazard a guess at what this is all about?”
B
ian rose to that challenge and replied, “Don is . . . No, he
was
the head of the exploitation cell for the Iranian transcripts.”
Phyllis nodded. “Yes. On both counts.” She looked at me and said, somewhat crossly, “You shouldn’t have taunted and humiliated him that way.” She added, “We’ve put him through hell these past three months. The poor man has virtually walked around with a lie detector connected to his tail.”
“I handled him as I would any witness who might be lying, quibbling, and withholding.” I added, “People without last names bother me.”
“I know
why
you did it. That’s why I’m having doubts about you. This is not a criminal case, nor can it be treated in a legalistic manner. I really—”