many royal princes decide they want to play spymaster. I've known him for many years, and with Turki around that's all they do: play. It's perfectly harmless."
"But he's not harmless."
"Don't blame him. Turki does what's best for his country, as we do what's best for ours."
"Then hire him. He does it better."
"Stop acting naive, Sean. It doesn't sit well on you."
"Excuse me for thinking we were here to do the right thing."
"How do you know we're not doing the right thing?"
Regarding Phyllis, she's not shameless, but she has that annoying Washington syndrome, a stunning inability to blush, no matter how raw the lie or how awful the embarrassment. I asked, "What does Ali bin Pacha know that's scaring everybody?"
"Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot. But he's a Saudi, and his own countrymen can handle this better than we."
"I know you don't believe that."
An Air Force C-130 began sprinting down the runway, and she said something, but it was drowned out by the roar of the noisy engines. We stood, sharing a moment in silence, and watched the big plane lift off, and our eyes stayed on it as the pilot began a series of corkscrew maneuvers intended to elude ground-to-air missiles. This place sucked.
The passengers in the rear of the aircraft were probably tossing their lunch; I was feeling a wave of nausea myself. "What about Charabi?"
"Who?"
I looked at her. "You can't allow this."
"I follow orders." After a moment she observed, "Needless to say, you also will follow orders."
"He betrayed us."
"Do you know that for sure? You have a suspicion based on a flimsy circumstantial foundation. A few e-mails in a computer that belonged to a seriously troubled, contemptible man who perhaps committed suicide. Were you the defense attorney, would you allow that to be entered into evidence? I think not." She didn't need to state the obvious, that her question was as abstract as it was specious, since I would never be allowed within ten miles of that computer or the incriminating e-mails. She did add, however, "You have no tangible proof that Charabi passed any secrets to the Iranians. He's not even a U.S. citizen. That's a requirement for an indictment for treason, is it not?"
"He's a suspect in the murder of Clifford Daniels. That's an extraditable offense."
"You said the murderer was a woman."
"I also told you I believe she was a hired assassin. She was the murder weapon, not the murderer."
"There's that 'possibly' word again. I thought the law dealt with facts, and I thought innocence is presumed."
These weasel words had a lawyerly ring, as if Phyllis was parroting the stupid rationale cooked up by the nameless powers that be back in D.C.
You can imagine how much I enjoy legal lectures, and I informed her, "Investigations always begin with vague and uncertain suspicions, you dig a little, and you decide which suspicious assholes need a second look. And, if you're interested, the presumption of innocence pertains to jurors, not investigators. To the cop everybody is a suspect until proven otherwise."
She did not reply.
"He's a suspect. He needs to be questioned."
"He is an Iraqi citizen. This is Iraq. You have neither the legal basis nor the authority, nor the access to question him."
"No problem. I'll just walk into his office and ask a few questions. Perfectly harmless. Man-to-man. See where it goes."
"I was instructed to convey three words: Forget about him."
We locked eyes for a moment.
She said, "The Iraqi people are scheduled to have their first election in January. This is a critical milestone to victory in this war, a necessary step for bringing our troops home. Mahmoud Charabi--maybe you read this in the papers--is a leading contender for future prime minister."
"And that's why he needs to be investigated. What if he's elected, and what if he's working for Iran, and what if he's behind the murder of Cliff Daniels? That won't be good for America, and that's not what my comrades in arms are fighting and dying for."
"Why is irrelevant. Pay attention. Neither you nor I are allowed to carry this any further." She pointed a finger, daggerlike, into my arm and invoked those sacred words: "That's an order."
"What's going on here?"
There was silence for a moment. Eventually, Phyllis said, "Two words, this time: Martin Lebrowski."
"Who?"
"The man you know as Don."
"Am I going to dislike Martin as much as I dislike Don?"
"More." She added, "The leak of the Iranian operation occurred on his watch. He was responsible for all aspects of that operation. Especially, operational security. Lebrowski was