number two: the shocking tale about the two Saudi princes who were named as financiers for al-Zarqawi, with an interesting sideline about how the Saudi government might be complicitous, and what this might mean for our already troubled relationship. Obviously there had been another leak, and I was sure people in Washington were very unhappy about that. Maybe this wasn't such a bad thing for the American public to know, but it was profoundly bad news for the two princes, and for Saudi Arabia, and for those in the American government who had colluded in the attempt to cover it up. And, too, it could be very bad for my favorite guy--me. I mean, were I the one searching for the source of these leaks, Sean Drummond would be my number one suspect.
I caught a little of this second story on one of those obnoxious cable news scream shows in my room in the Visiting Officers' Quarters. The anchor was interviewing a pissed-off, loudmouth expert on things Middle Eastern, who was haranguing some slick-looking bullshitter sent over from the Department of State to try to defuse this thing. Middle East expert was screaming, "The Saudis are not our friends. Never been our friends. We buy their oil, they buy our terrorists."
Anchorman says to Middle East expert, "Aren't you overstating things?"
State Department guy answers for him, suggesting, "I would say he definitely is. This is not the occasion for histrionics. Our relationship with Saudi Arabia is very complicated."
Middle East expert guy stares with disbelief into the screen. "Complicated? If you pay a whore to bite off your own . . . uh . . . your thing off . . . what's complicated about that? That's stupid!"
Pompous news anchor says, "Please . . . be careful here. Families are watching, and--"
"We are not ignoring this," State Department guy interrupts. "The Secretary is in discussions about this with the Saudi ambassador. We're requesting the immediate extradition of the two princes."
Middle East expert guy laughs and says, "Blah, blah, blah. You know what your Secretary should tell them. We changed our minds. We invaded the wrong pissant--now we're gonna turn Jidda into a big Wal-Mart."
Both guys disappear, and anchorman looks gravely into camera, goes on a bit about what a big deal this is, then closes by noting, "But the big question is . . . what effect these newest revelations will have on the President's poll ratings in this neck-and-neck race."
Which brought up bad thing three. Phyllis was gone, disappeared. She had, however, left behind a brief, perfunctory note addressed to me, that read, "I've been called back to Washington. Close out here, then be on the most ASAP flight. Go straight to Langley, and straight to Marcus Harvey of the Office of Professional Ethics, who will brief you about your rights (nonexistent) and then usher you downstairs for your polygraph appointment. Caveat Emptor; sinners fare better than liars." That could be an excellent new Agency motto, I thought, and below her signature was a brief afterthought: "PS, Truly sorry about Bian."
As I mentioned earlier, you have to read between the lines. Since somebody had leaked and blown the whistle on the princes, somebody needed to be screwed, and a screwee--aka, scapegoat--was needed. Since Bian was kidnapped and beyond suspicion, since neither Phyllis nor Tirey had leaked, and since the Saudis hadn't ratted themselves out, by process of elimination, that left moi. Nor did it matter if they could prove I was guilty or not--I was guilty.
If blowing your cover is the cardinal sin of this business, exposing nasty secrets to the press is the mortal sin. I had no idea how the Agency handles these things. I know the Army policy, however, and it goes like this: What you can't kill, you eat. But maybe the Agency had a different approach. Maybe it just killed you.
Bad thing number four: still no word on the fate of Bian Tran. I had struck out and was out of reasonable suspicions, sensible leads, or even idiotic guesses. It didn't matter anyway. My name was mud with Phyllis. And because of me, Jim Tirey was on a wanted poster back at Hoover City, and his tour had gone from career-enhancing to career-ending.
But since it wasn't Charabi, I was down to the usual suspects: terrorists, people who sell captives to terrorists, or garden-variety ass-holes who kipnap and kill at random, just for kicks. Maybe the MP sergeant was right. Maybe "CHA" referred to letters on a