my trousers down to my ankles and did a slow pirouette so he could see I was not wired. He said, "The T-shirt, also," and I pulled it off as well. He informed me, "There is a wonderful Kurdish saying that predates modern electronics. A naked man tells no lies."
"If you think my underpants are coming off, shoot me now."
He laughed, then said, "You can put them back on," and I took a moment and redressed.
Everybody watches cop shows these days, and they presume you can visually detect a listening device, though frankly that perception has long been outmoded by the miracle of miniaturization. My Bureau friends, I knew from personal experience, actually have a bug in a suppository, which gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "talking out your ass." But, to be blunt, yours truly is not that dedicated. Had I been wired, though, Tirey's people would already have busted down the door, I would be pointing the pistol at his head, and he would be answering my questions. On second thought, a suppository up your ass is not that bad.
Anyway, while I buttoned my blouse, I sat and considered my options and he toyed with his Glock and appeared to consider his. Letting me go seemed out of the question, but shooting me and claiming self-defense clearly wasn't off the table. I had something he wanted-- information--and he had something I wanted--the gun. I saw no way that we could meet each other halfway; I don't think he did either.
He eventually said, "Listen to me. I did not kill Cliff--he was my friend--nor did I have him killed." He leaned closer and added, "Nor have I kidnapped this major you keep talking about."
Involuntary sounds sometimes escape from my throat, and I heard somebody say, "Bullshit."
This annoyed him and he reminded me, "I have a gun and you do not. A man in my position has no need to lie."
"You know what? You're right. Boy, I'm glad we've cleared the air, and . . . well . . . I'm sure you're very busy." I stood and got about two steps toward the door.
"Sit! Or I shoot."
"A bullet in my back won't help your self-defense claim," I informed him. I did not like the tone in his voice, and I did stop walking.
"The real issue, Colonel, is what a hole in the back of your head will do for your health."
Good point. I turned around and sat. He waved his pistol. "I do not think the Army sent you here. Who do you work for?"
I decided to tell him the truth. "The CIA." I think he had already put this together, though, because he did not appear surprised or shocked. I told him, "So, this is great. I know you work for Iran, and now you know who I work for." I smiled at him. "Naked men tell no lies, right?"
He asked, "But you are in the Army also? This uniform is real?"
"Yes."
He waved his weapon at my shoulder and said, "You have a combat patch. This means you have been in battle, yes?"
I nodded.
"Have you killed for your country?"
I did not respond.
"How many have you killed?"
"I didn't count."
"This means you lost count. Am I correct?"
I didn't like his questions and said, "What's your point?"
"Do you consider yourself a patriot?"
"I'm a soldier."
"And you have killed for your country--for your people." He looked at me thoughtfully, and asked, "Do you know how many Shiites Saddam Hussein murdered?"
"A lot."
"Is a million a lot? How about two million?" he asked in a mocking tone. "Murdered, Colonel--poison gas, bullets in the back of the head, torture, rape, starvation. Men, women, children, the aged--nobody was given mercy. And I do not even include in this number the four hundred thousand Shia who were forced to fight and die in Saddam's idiotic wars with Iran and America."
"I read the newspapers."
"When so many Jews died at the hands of Nazis, the whole world condemned this. It even was given a name--the Holocaust--as if mass extermination pertains only to Jews. Why does the mass murder of my people not have a name?"
"The murder of your people was a tragedy. And you know we did our best to end it, with food and medical programs, and no-fly zones over southern Iraq to keep Saddam from using his aircraft to slaughter Shiites."
"Your best? I think not. Did the murders ever stop? You knew they did not. In the most merciful years, it was only tens of thousands."
"It