She smiled patiently, as if she was humoring me. "That's a lot of possiblys. What would you have us do?"
"What the law requires. Call in the FBI. Let them chat with a federal judge, and do what they do best-read people their rights, threaten, bust nuts, kick down doors, cut deals, until somebody squeals. It might surprise you, but regarding federal crimes, there actually are laws and tested procedures that usually get results."
My sarcasm apparently struck a nerve, because she replied, "I believe I have a little experience in these matters, having lived through it three or four dozen times."
"And may I say that this agency has a wonderful record of handling it right every time."
Her eyes narrowed. She took a long breath, then said, "Use your critical faculties as an attorney-how would you describe the evidence?"
"I don't understand the question."
"I think you do."
"Then why ask me?"
"Weak and inconclusive, right?"
"Well… yes, and-"
"And to compensate for that lack of material evidence, I'm sure you have a long list of willing and credible witnesses."
"You know I-"
"And you should know that the instant anybody calls the FBI, the administration will throw a shield of executive privilege over everything involved in this matter. Of course it will be challenged, and of course the courts-after all, we are at war-will uphold the administration's claim. In twenty-five or fifty years, the classifications will expire and we'll finally get to the bottom of this."
I said, "Maybe."
Phyllis looked annoyed. "Where are the maybes?"
Bian, who had been sitting and listening to us bicker and debate these weighty issues of right versus wrong, of legal procedure versus seat-of-your-pants bullshit, chose this moment to observe, "I think she's right."
This statement annoyed me a lot, coming as it did at such a pivotal moment; no less from a military police officer; no less from a comrade in arms; and last and not least, from my putative partner.
Partners are supposed to back each other up. Right? I was really pissed and I looked at Bian. "I don't remember asking what you think."
"Don't use that tone with me," she snapped. "I told you before, I don't like to be condescended to."
I studied her a moment. Now she was really pissed. I could tell.
"I'm sorry."
"Try it again and you'll be sorrier."
My goodness. But Phyllis quickly swooped down on her new ally and asked Bian, "Why am I right?"
Bian looked at me and answered, "Even if you apply the most optimistic standard, there is only one person we could even hope to charge with a crime." She added, "He's dead. Beyond that we have only suspicions that would sound outrageous to any rational person."
Phyllis nodded at her prized pupil. "But do you believe these suspicions are… do they hold water?"
Bian stared back at her.
Phyllis said, "This is important. For instance, when was the relationship between Clifford Daniels and Charabi first formed?"
"About ten years ago," Bian replied. "Don mentioned the year… 1993 or 1994."
"The fifteenth of December 1994, according to the report he was required to file after that meeting. But until this administration came to power, their partnership was meaningless-inane and silly, to tell the truth. The previous President had no intention of invading Iraq. It did not become fully empowered until after Hirschfield and Tigerman returned to the Pentagon, and it really gained legs post-9/11."
She stood up and began quickly pacing around the room. "The information and sources fed us by Charabi were pivotal to the President's decision to go to war. And, of course, they were included in the public justification for the invasion. Believe me, I know. Were it not for this information…"
She let that statement drag off, and I nodded. That's what it said in the news reports, and Phyllis, who had been on the inside, had a firsthand view of the decisions that led to war, and now she was confirming the reportage.
Phyllis continued, "Don surmised that Daniels prodded or drove Charabi into the arms of Iranian intelligence." She looked at me. "What do you think about that?"
"Inter canem et lupum," I replied.
For Bian's benefit, Phyllis translated my Latin: "Between the dog and the wolf. The more up-to-date expression is that he placed him between a rock and a hard place." She focused on Bian and asked, "Do you believe that? Is it the only explanation?"
Bian played with her pen for a moment. "I don't… There's an unproven assumption here, isn't there?"
Phyllis stopped her pacing and leaned across the table, facing Bian and me. "We're assuming that Daniels drove him into Iran's arms. But there's another possibility, isn't there?" I could almost hear the game clock ticking.
So I eliminated that assumption from my logic train, and thought about it… and…
And holy shit.
Eliminate that assumption and you arrive at a whole new theory- that maybe Charabi didn't need a shove, or even a nudge or nasty threat, because he already worked for Iran. And from there, it was a hop, skip, and a jump to the slightly more expansive proposition that Charabi was-from the beginning-working either with or for Iran's intelligence service. Bian also pieced this together, because she looked at me, her eyes large.
Phyllis said, "Possibly Mahmoud Charabi was… well, in the intelligence lexicon, an agent of influence. He may even have been an Iranian plant to feed us disinformation." She started to say something else, thought better of it, and, with a regretful pout, instead suggested, "I'm surprised we never considered this before. It is the oldest gambit in the business."
I thought I had seen everything. But the hypothesis, the idea, the supposition-or whatever it was-that Iran, via its agent Charabi, had recruited first Tigerman, then Daniels, then the entire Pentagon, and then the White House, was almost beyond belief. Almost.
Phyllis understood this. She said, "Hard to digest, isn't it?"
I made no reply to that understatement. I was still caught up in the idea that the whole reason behind a war might be a con job by the Iranians, who wanted Saddam gone and who duped Uncle Sam into handling the dirty work for them. It made sense, and it didn't make sense.
Bian suddenly stood up. "I might be sick."
I looked at her. Her face had gone pale and her legs a little wobbly. She placed her hands on the table and began drawing deep breaths.
Never personalize things-that's the golden rule. But Bian, because of her direct personal investment in this war, was more emotionally upset by this suspicion than Phyllis or I. To learn that it might all have been the result of some geostrategic hustle clearly unnerved her. Or perhaps she was responding as any normal person would to such a shocking theory; maybe I had become more like Phyllis than I pretended, too jaded, too cold-blooded. Whew-there was a frightening thought.
I played it back and forth inside my head a few times. Deductively, Charabi and the Iranians shared a common goal-Saddam gone and a Shiite in his place-and better yet, from Iran's perspective, a malleable Shiite who owed them a big, unspeakable favor. Further, what could be better than having the U.S. take the flack and casualties for a preemptive war most of the world, and a growing percentage of the American populace, regarded as unjustified, unnecessary, and strategically dangerous? This gave a whole new meaning to killing two birds with one stone.