While still scratching his ass on the dock in New York harbor, he promptly accepted one hundred greenbacks from a prosperous New Yorker to take his place in the Civil War draft. He spent three years as an infantryman in a war he understood nothing about, killing people he felt no animus toward, at the behest of somebody who deserved to be there, and decided America truly was the Promised Land.
Great-grandpa Seamon served nearly a year in the trenches as an infantryman in the War to End All Wars--subsequently renamed the First World War, after that turned confusing. He insisted to his grave that he shipped out without the slightest idea the Germans, whom he had no particular feelings toward, were killing the English, whom he truly detested, and the French, whom he regarded as uppity bastards who would benefit from a Hun boot on their throat. At least Seamon read the newspaper, cover to cover, every morning the rest of his life.
Grandpa Erasmus waded ashore at Normandy, got lost in the Huertgen Forest, and spent the final months of his war cooling his heels in Stalag Eighteen. Afterward, he swore those were the most relaxing and luxurious years of his life. But maybe you had to know Grandma Mary.
My own father became a lifer, and made a full-blown career of fighting wars in hilly and jungled places with obscure and unpronounceable names. He battled the commies in Korea and completed nearly two full tours in Vietnam--the former referred to as the Forgotten War, and the latter as the War Everybody Wishes They Could Forget.
But as I look back on this extended family chronicle, it strikes me that the Drummonds make good infantrymen--at least we survive--though, as they warn about mutual funds, past successes never guarantee future returns.
Also the wars that five generations of Drummonds have fought have become increasingly less popular, less fashionable, and more morally confused. I myself was an infantryman before I became a lawyer and saw action in Panama, the first Gulf War, Bosnia, and Mogadishu--messy war, good war, utterly confused war, total fuckup.
As I grow older, I find myself less tolerant of people with well-expressed causes they want Sean Drummond to fight for.
Anyway, Phyllis must have been reading my thoughts, because she suggested, "So you're familiar with Mr. Charabi?"
I allowed that question to linger in the air, then said, "What was . . . or what is, the Agency's relationship with Charabi?"
"None. He approached us many years ago. We did some back-grounding and didn't like what we saw."
"I know the official line. Try the truth."
"I'm telling you the truth. We took a pass." She emphasized, "Charabi was, and is, the Pentagon's creature. Start to finish."
"And how did the dead guy on the bed end up as Charabi's . . . as his what?"
"Technically, his controller. But it's more complicated than that . . . Before he moved to the Pentagon, Cliff Daniels was a career officer at the Defense Intelligence Agency. About a decade ago he befriended Mahmoud Charabi, or possibly vice versa." She concluded, "That's it. As far as I can go on an unsecure line."
I thought about this a moment. From the news reports, I had read that Charabi spent about twenty years peddling his plans and scams for a free Iraq. I'll bet he thought his train had come in when this President decided that Saddam needed the boot, if only somebody could help him justify why.
I wasn't sure why or how Charabi became that go-to guy; but he did, and apparently the dead guy on the bed played a big hand in it. Also, as I recalled from the news reports, Charabi was supposed to be the Pentagon's man to run Iraq after the invasion, though obviously that hadn't worked out exactly as planned, since nobody seemed to be in charge in Iraq now, at least no Iraqis, and possibly not even the
U.S. military.
Then, somehow, Daniels himself ended up as a target of intelligence interest, with an invitation to explain his activities in front of a congressional panel. Interesting.
Anyway, Phyllis repeated herself, saying, "I really can't go any deeper on the phone." She added, "I've told you more than you should know, as it is. Unless you're part of the investigation."
"I didn't know there was an investigation."
"With Daniels dead, it's now imperative to learn why. An investigation is how we usually handle these things."
"Maybe it was suicide. Sure looks like suicide."
"Maybe it was. But knowing what you now know, the alternative