Authors: Brian Haig
“Do your best,” I told her.
“Well . . . Habbibi had trouble hearing him also—or he
pretended
to have trouble—because his last words to bin Pacha were, ‘I need to hear the phone numbers again. Come closer. Move your head against the opening.’ ” Bian looked up and added, “Then bang—the gun went off.”
We all sat back in our chairs. Nobody said a word. Unlike the others, I had a mental visualization to accompany the soundtrack, and as I replayed the scene in my mind, matching words with deeds, it all became clear: a double cross trumped by a double cross.
In retrospect, Ali bin Pacha had thought he was playing us; I recalled that curious smile back in the hospital bed when Bian and I notified him he was being turned over to the Saudis. A smile. We believed we were telling him the last thing he wanted to hear; he believed he was hearing the sound of salvation.
It was, in fact, a death sentence. Neither Ali bin Pacha nor we understood that, though. This man, responsible for countless deaths, believed we had just pulled the ace from his sleeve for him, even as Habbibi maneuvered him, like a big stupid fish, into the perfect position to blow his evil brains out. It was funny, and it was very sad.
Eventually, I looked at Phyllis and asked, “These two princes, who are they?”
She shook her head. “There are five or six thousand princes. The men of the royal family marry many women, and are atrociously fertile. It’s the national curse.”
I moved on to the next logical questions, which were more in the nature of Socratic statements. “Why would bin Pacha have their phone numbers memorized? And why would he refer Habbibi to them?”
“Protection. He obviously expected some form of intervention.”
“But
why
would they protect him?”
Without answering, she stood and paced to the phone. She lifted it up, punched a number, and after a moment ordered somebody to track down Sheik Turki al-Fayef and escort him to the conference room.
She hung up and said to us, “I will do the talking. You will both remain quiet and polite. Don’t challenge or harass him.”
“I promise,” I told her. I might rip off his head and crap down his throat, but I would neither challenge nor harass him.
Phyllis stared at Bian, who replied with obvious reluctance, “I understand.”
We sat in silence.
A few moments later, there was a knock at the door.
T
he sheik swept into the room. In his hand was a thin valise constructed of buttery leather, on his body the same ash-stained robe, and on his face his customary visage of complacent boredom.
What his expression did not convey was the slightest trace of regret, worry, guilt, or anxiety. Give the man credit, he had panache, which usually I admire; just not this time. I wanted to get my hands around his throat and throttle him.
Phyllis looked lost in thought for a moment, but finally she looked up and said, “Have a seat. We have something you need to hear.”
His quick black eyes took us all in, and settled briefly on the receiver/recorder, which he then made a point of ignoring. I was sure he sensed that he had just entered the lion’s den, that the animals were hungry, and that this mysterious device was part of the seasoning. He coolly lit a cigarette, set his valise on the table, and sat. Phyllis nodded at Doc Enzenauer, who nodded back and pushed play.
The sheik puffed on his cigarette and listened. To his professional credit, not when the princes were named, nor even when the shot exploded through the speakers, did he flinch or show the slightest emotional reaction.
Enzenauer wisely shut it down before Tirey launched into his CYA soliloquy.
So there it was.
We all sat quietly, uncertain who was supposed to make the next move. But for Bian, for Doc Enzenauer, and for me, there were no doubts; this was way over our heads. Whatever happened next was between the bosses.
The sheik suddenly clapped his hands together and erupted in a delighted belly laugh. “Ha-ha. Oh, Phyllis . . . you have, I think, outsmarted me. How did you . . . No, no—let me guess.” He furrowed his brow and playfully stroked his goatee. “A transmitter, yes? Where was it? Sewn into his pants?”
“His body,” Phyllis replied, playing the game.
He looked thoughtful. “Ah . . . yes.” He offered a complimentary nod at Enzenauer. “Ingenious.” He laughed. “Very excellent work, Doctor.”
I had to admit, not only did this guy have balls he had charm. Phyllis, however, was neither warmed nor laughing. She said to Enzenauer, “Would you care to leave now?” which obviously wasn’t a suggestion, and he dutifully stood and left.
“Who are the princes?” she asked al-Fayef.
“Why does it matter?”
“It matters. Tell me.”
“Inconsequential men. Minor figures in the family. You know how our royals are. A big, horny rabbit farm.”
Phyllis stared at him a long time, then asked, “But bin Pacha expected their protection—why?”
Until this moment, I think, al-Fayef had been testing the waters to see if Phyllis had put this together. Well, she had—obviously, we all had—and now the brain behind those clever black eyes was flailing for an angle, a ruse, a bluff. He tried to stall for time with another of those charming chuckles, and said, “Phyllis . . . Phyllis . . . how long have we known each other?”
Phyllis’s left nostril flared and she hissed, “Be clear on this, Turki. You exploited my hospitality, and you humiliated me. You came into my facility and murdered my prisoner. You—”
“Please,” he cut in. “I—”
“I speak, you listen, until I finish,” she snapped. She drew a long breath, then continued, “The Director’s at the White House as we speak, trying to explain this disaster. When I notify him that bin Pacha’s dying words implicate the royal family, you will have problems you cannot begin to fathom. A nightmare for your country. A nightmare for you . . . for you,
personally
.”
He stared at her, a little stunned. Until this moment, Phyllis and the sheik had been operating on spy-to-spy protocols, a sort of feint-and-parry interaction, almost like diplomacy, where the real meanings are cloaked behind tight smiles and evasive wording. The sand had suddenly shifted beneath his feet, now the topic was out in the open, and it was his personal health.
She leaned closer, a mere few inches from his face. “We are at war, fifteen hundred Americans are dead, an election is at stake, and the last thing you want or need is for us to misinterpret where your country stands.” She added more menacingly, “The last thing you personally want is me as your enemy.”
Phyllis had clipped about twenty degrees from the room’s temperature. Even I—for once not the target of her anger, which was a relief—felt a shiver go down my spine. Her fury was real and red-hot, and were I the sheik, I would definitely consider the joys of life in Brazil under an assumed identity after a brief stop-off in Sweden for a sex change, because with Phyllis after you, there are no excessive precautions, only reasonable ones.
Al-Fayef tried his best to maintain his composure, but he lost it. He broke eye contact, he stared at the tabletop, and—perhaps I imagined this—he sucked half his cigarette with one draw.
Phyllis said, “You have one chance to explain what’s on that tape. One brief shining moment. Don’t miss it, Turki.”
I thought of all the times Phyllis had lectured me about tact and diplomacy. I might have mentioned her hypocrisy, but I survived the night in Falluja and wasn’t going to push my luck.
For his part, Turki no longer looked bored, flip, or charming, just seriously introspective. The man was obviously weighing the trade-off between exposing a sensitive intelligence operation and pissing off his royals, or keeping his mouth shut and pissing off Phyllis.
This seemed like a ripe moment for a little lawyerly advice, and I interrupted the sheik’s troubled thoughts to inform him, “Seven members of your intelligence service are now in custody. They are charged with murder and conspiracy to commit murder. Eventually, there will be more charges—espionage, obstruction of justice, probably others.”
“You
must
turn them over to me,” he responded. “They are Saudi. They must face Saudi justice.”
“No . . . I’m afraid this crime occurred in a U.S. facility, they lack diplomatic credentials, and we must follow our laws and try them in our own courts. So, they have the right to a public trial, and I promise you, it will be . . . an unusually public trial.”
Spymasters are allergic to public scrutiny, of course, and the idea of having this murder explicitly exposed and detailed to the American public would cause a world of damage. I was sure he now regretted his abdication from rendition, and it was dawning on him as well that murdering bin Pacha here, in an American facility, was a huge mistake—a public relations mistake, a legal mistake, and a professional misjudgment his bosses would never forgive.
He started to object and I cut him off. “We will, of course, indict you as a coconspirator and an accessory.”
“You cannot arrest me. I do have a diplomatic passport.”
“I know. And certainly, it is your right not to submit yourself to voluntary custody. So, later, you’ll be subpoenaed and we’ll request extradition. Should you refuse to appear in an American court, you’ll be tried in absentia, and on the front pages of every newspaper in America. If convicted, the next time you set foot outside Saudia Arabia, we’ll be waiting.” We locked eyes and I noted, “If we don’t get you today, we’ll get you tomorrow. I think you know this.”
“You do not want to do this.”
“Can I recommend a good lawyer? You really should consider my cousin. She’s expensive and bitchy, and worth every penny.”
“This is . . . You would seriously damage . . . you would destroy the friendship between our countries.”
“I think not,” I replied. “Our people need to buy oil and your people need to sell oil. Adam Smith’s hidden hand—anybody in the way gets splattered on the windshield of greed and commerce.” Again we locked eyes. “Do you really believe the Saud clan will trade their summers at St. Moritz and all those glitzy palaces to protect you? I don’t.”
To make sure he was clear on this point, I added, “We’re expendable, you and me. Says so in our contracts.”
This point struck home and he looked away. When he focused again, it was on Phyllis, and he said, “Surely,
you
know better. This is not professional, Phyllis. It would be . . . a grave mistake.”
She brushed some lint off her shoulder and replied, “I think you should get the name of Drummond’s cousin.”
A guy with his background and experience, you would think he’d understand this little duet. And on some level, I was sure he did understand it. When it’s you on the hot seat, however, counterintuitive thinking is the first thing to go. Between Phyllis’s threat to his personal health, my threat to his country’s reputation, and his own understanding of the royal family, his inhibitions had just turned very heavy. He growled, “You will not like the truth.”
“Perhaps,” replied Phyllis. “And if it’s not the truth, you won’t like the consequences.”
The sheik ground out his cigarette on the floor, then announced, “What has happened here . . . today . . . this is all America’s fault.”
I decided to treat al-Fayef as a hostile witness—I mean, he was a hostile witness—and I replied, “Our only fault was trusting you. Why did you order his execution?”
“To the contrary, our mistake was trusting you. By that, I mean America.” He looked at me. “Do you know who our main enemy is?”
“Yourselves?”
In spite of the tension, he regained a little of his charm and laughed. He said, “This is not entirely untrue.” But this effort did not find a welcome audience, and he stopped smiling. “I will tell you then—the Shia. For thirteen hundred years, the Shia. You in the West believe this is some quaint and irrational quarrel. A shadow of history that will disappear once exposed to the sunlight of democracy. It is not. The Shia are apostates, desecrators of the true faith. How many Americans even know the difference between a Shia and a Sunni? Am I right?”
He looked at our faces to gauge our reactions, and apparently decided to start at the beginning. “You come here, into our region, thinking you can rearrange everything. Fix everything. Mix everything up, make a big happy Arab omelet.”
“We brought an invitation this time.” I looked him in the eye and said, “Three thousand Americans are dead. Fifteen of the murderers were Saudis. Your unhappiness has become our unhappiness.”
He did not want to be reminded of this inconvenient truth. “You know,” he continued, “I attended George Washington University. Undergrad and master’s. Many Saudis attend school in your country.” He looked pointedly at me. “Perhaps you attended a Saudi school?”
“I have not.”
“Has your President, the grand architect of our Arab future?”
That required no answer.
He continued, “How many Americans attend Saudi universities?” He paused theatrically, as though we should consider this a serious question, where obviously it was not. “You do not know our culture, our people, our ways. You do not care to know. You prefer your Hollywood stereotypes to true knowledge. Yet you believe you possess the cures to our problems, how to shape our futures.”
Bian mentioned, accurately, “If a Christian wears a cross in your country, it’s a crime. If a woman drives a car or fails to hide her face, or flashes a little bare leg, she’s arrested by your religious Nazis. Your schools and universities are known for nothing but teaching religious intolerance and chauvinism. If you want Americans at your universities, accommodate us.”
“When I was in your country, I wore your clothes, I ate your foods, and I sent my children to your schools.”
I mentioned, “And probably also, you drank like a virtuoso, screwed lots of American ladies, and engaged in all the other fun and liberating activities you don’t dare do at home. Acting like an American is a blast. You had the time of your life.”
He wisely chose not to confess his sins and indulgences, and instead insisted, “If you want to live among us, live like us. To understand our ways, walk in our shoes. Did not Jesus Christ say something like this?”