that ranged from sitting on their asses, to resting their derrieres, to loafing on their butts, all functions they could as easily do back in the good ol' USA.
A middle-aged gent in civilian khakis was waiting for us, and he introduced himself as Jim Tirey. He had clean-cut, all-American good looks, serious eyes, and he offered me a firm, businesslike handshake and said, "That will be your last obscene gesture into our cameras.
Understand?"
"You must be FBI," I concluded.
"I must be," he replied coolly. "The Special Agent in Charge in country. Follow me."
So we did, down a short hallway, where we hooked a left, and then down a far longer hallway, at the end of which was a conference room that we entered. The air down here was damp and cool, with yellow fluorescent lighting that was intermittently spaced, as though the contractor had overlooked certain sections--but probably generators powered everything and energy conservation was at a premium. The prevailing ambiance, however, was a little spooky, as were our hosts, if you'll pardon the pun.
The conference room itself was small and stuffy, about ten by twelve, with a scarred, worn mahogany dining room table, unupholstered metal chairs, and hanging on the wall, a huge plasma-screen television with wires running octopus-like to a wall-mounted surround sound system. The room smelled of cigarettes and stale sweat, frustration and desperation. Actually I'm making that up; it smelled like lemon Pledge. But on the screen was a top-down view of a cramped prison cell containing only a metal bunk, no blanket, no sheets, and the proverbial pot to piss in.
My CIA friends call this a surveillance room, and my naval friends an observation deck. Same thing, though there's a world of difference in the mind-set.
Phyllis and the sheik stood in front of the plasma screen, slurping coffee from foam cups. Waterbury leaned against a wall on the far side of the room, and at the moment we entered he was regaling them with a tale about his time as an MP, something about how he singlehandedly cleaned up the nastiest post in the Army.
Retired soldiers manufacture more bullshit than cows, but considering the source, it sounded about right.
Phyllis had endured this guy on the drive down and her face now had the fixed look she gets in the presence of insufferable assholes, so I cut in by pointing at the screen. "Nice room. Is it mine?"
She smiled at me. "Don't give me ideas."
Tirey took that as a cue and said, "What you're seeing is a one-way cable feed from bin Pacha's cell. Agents from Turki's service are already there and set up." He went on for our benefit, "The only people in this facility with knowledge of the detainee's identity are inside this room or inside that cellblock. That's it. Hermetic containment. We employed identical arrangements when Saddam was our guest."
He paused to see if we had any questions. We did not, and he pointed a finger at the screen and continued, "That entire cellblock is isolated, and the interrogation room we'll use is on the same wing. The two cells next to bin Pacha's contain Saudi intelligence agents who will impersonate prisoners, attempt to befriend him, and coax him into sharing confidences. Old trick, but a reliable one. It works more than you would believe. The guards in the wing are all Saudi intelligence."
He looked at Sheik al-Fayef and added, "Due to the sensitivity of this investigation, the video feed from this cell--in fact from the entire cellblock to the main control room down the hall--has been rerouted to this room. Only from here can you observe or overhear the interrogations."
He went on awhile with this nickel tour, about how the prisoner would be fed, given medical care, showers, and so forth.
It sounded like these people really had their stuff together--a foolproof charade, supertight security, all the electronic bells and whistles, and the object of this drill was about to be put into play. What was there not to like?
I interrupted his spiel and asked, "Are there any Americans in the cellblock?"
"No. Why?"
"Why not?"
Tirey chuckled like that was a dumb question, which annoyed me a little. He said, "A number of our staff speak Arabic--none, however, are from Saudi Arabia. I'm told the dialect is distinct to the ears of native speakers and . . . Look, don't worry about it. Everything that occurs in that wing can be seen and can be heard from this room. If a fly bats its wings, we'll