"Call your unit. You will tell them that three civilian automobiles will be passing through. They will not be stopped, questioned, or in any way harassed." After I beat, I added, "I want each car saluted as they pass through."
"But, sir, I don't even know who you are."
"Son," I replied, using that awful expression, "I'm the guy who can ruin your life. Two seconds. Decide."
Lieutenant Berry used up his two seconds, then raced to his vehicle to radio his Marines while Eric and I walked back to the car and got inside. Eric slammed it into gear, and we quickly drove through the unit, where, I noted, the Marines were holding their weapons at the position of a military salute.
Eric chuckled and said to me, "And I thought he was an asshole."
"He's a bedwetting wimp."
"Are you really a lawyer?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Article 834? There is no friggin' Article 834."
"You're sure?"
"Yeah, I'm . . . Oh . . ." We both laughed.
After a few minutes, Bian urged Eric, "Hurry. The prisoner's breathing is getting shallow."
Just at that instant, to our rear, was a series of loud explosions, and the night sky lit up like a lightning storm sent by a very angry God, a God without pity, though this was just the opening omen, a foretaste of what was coming.
I turned around and peered through the rear window. Falluja had just entered the opening stage of the Marine Corps urban renewal project. Sometimes, as idiotic as it sounds, the old adage is tragically true: You have to destroy the village to save it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The remainder of the drive to the airport took forty minutes, during which bin Pacha lapsed into unconsciousness and his breathing turned unsteady. We passed through only one more checkpoint at the entrance to the airport, manned by a squad of anxious-looking civilian contractors, who allowed us through without a hitch.
Bian then guided Eric to a covered hangar, inside of which was a large, gleaming Boeing Business Jet. The ramp was down and the door was open, so presumably somebody was inside. I walked up the stairs and stepped inside to begin my search for the doctor. The interior of the aircraft was hot and stuffy, and the crew seemed to be off on crew rest, because they weren't present.
To the right, I entered what appeared to be a large lounge area with walls of burled wood, lush blue carpet, a large video screen, a glass conference table, and a combination of lounge and office chairs, with an oversize plush circular sofa. I continued to work my way to the rear and next entered a dining room that was equally extravagant with a long mahogany table, coordinated mahogany chairs, and an impressive chandelier that looked like crystal but was actually plastic. Then there was a private office, a sort of cubicle with a large desk loaded with all the electronic marvels and goodies.
I could not imagine why the Agency needed this flying Queen Mary, much less how it convinced Congress to foot the bill. Well, I guess I had an idea: a sotto voce arrangement with certain members of the Intelligence Oversight Subcommittee who might need to borrow this aircraft for long overseas trips, in the interest of national security, of course.
Anyway, the plane seemed empty, and there were only two doors I hadn't yet opened, both at the rear of the aircraft.
So I opened the first one on the right and stepped into what appeared to be the master suite, a gaudy cage with rococo wallpaper, a mirrored wall, and a small bar, which I absently and unhappily noted was unstocked. Also, on the queen-size bed I saw a gentleman asleep in his underwear. I gave his leg a shake.
He opened his eyes and looked at me, blinking.
He looked fairly intelligent: thick glasses, thoughtful eyes, and all that. I asked, "Are you the doc in the house?"
"It's a plane."
That gift for pedantry nailed it. "And yes . . ." he confirmed as he rubbed his eyes and stuck out a hand. "Bob Enzenauer."
"What kind of doc are you?"
"Well . . . what kind of patient do you have?"
"A gut-shot one."
"Always bad." He sat up. "Allow me a moment. I'll be right out."
I left him and returned through the maze of aeronautic lushness to the hangar.
Bin Pacha now lay prostrate on the cement, and Eric and Bian hovered over him. Also, the silver sedan had arrived and Nervous Nellie was seated on the cement, looking more miserable and