Somebody kicked my leg.

He replied, "I find it curious that your army sends women and lawyers into battle."

"Really? Is it more curious than your movement using one-eyed cripples?"

"I have read your newspapers on the Internet. I think your army can no longer attract young men to become soldiers. Here we have no trouble finding mujahideen willing to martyr for the jihad. Your young are spoiled, decadent, cowardly. They play their video war games and have no interest in real battles where they might die." He added, "Your President lied, and now he cannot find enough new soldiers to come to Iraq to die."

"Don't believe everything you read in our newspapers," I replied, or maybe anything you read. "We can send cooks and lawyers against you with a hand tied behind their backs. Look who's the prisoner."

"I think not. I think your hired mercenaries caused this."

"Who? Oh . . . them . . . the Bowery Boys' Choir. They were here on a USO tour, got a little bored, so we gave them a night off for a little fun." I winked.

"You are a filthy liar."

"No, I'm a lawyer."

He missed the inside humor. He said, "We study everything about you. The longer you remain in our lands, the more we learn about you, and the more dead you will count. We are willing to die for our cause, you are not."

We locked eyes, and I said, "That's why we're here. To help you you die." die."

"Yes, but you are are dying. Your President loses popularity with each coffin. I think you have a lovely American expression for this--you have bitten off more than you can swallow . . . in the corpses of your soldiers." dying. Your President loses popularity with each coffin. I think you have a lovely American expression for this--you have bitten off more than you can swallow . . . in the corpses of your soldiers."

This was going nowhere. We had all taken our best shots, and now we were merely stoking our mutual resentments. So I changed the tone, and the subject, and told him, "We're here to ask for your cooperation. We want Zarqawi. You're going to help us find him."

He laughed.

As we had discussed beforehand, Bian chipped in to remind him, "There's a twenty-five-million-dollar reward on Zarqawi's head. You've given an eye and a leg to the cause. There's no shame in cashing out now. Surely he considers you expendable and will not mourn your loss. You should return the sentiment."

"I told you to shut up, wh.o.r.e."

I warned him, "There's the nice way, or the hard way."

"Yes?" He looked amused. "Explain for me this hard way. Maybe Abu Ghraib, where your wh.o.r.es will ply their s.e.x perversions and your soldiers will march me around in a hood? Or maybe you will send me to your Guantanamo prison and flush my Koran down the toilet?"

"Do you have a preference?"

"I think not. I think the world knows about the disgusting things your soldiers have done to mujahideen in these places. I think you no longer have a hard way left."

"You can't imagine how much a morality lecture means from somebody who blows up innocent people and slits the throats of helpless prisoners."

"You know of what I am referring, I think."

In fact, I did. I quietly reached down and turned a k.n.o.b; instantly, a small vial of colorless fluid began squirting into his IV tube.

Ali bin Pacha was every bit the overbaked fanatic Abdul had warned us he would be. Like many extremists, he was emotionally limited, those emotions ranging between fury, hate, and chronic self-righteousness. But he wasn't stupid, and surely he was cognizant that under enough torture, everybody breaks. I recalled a former client who had been beaten to a pulp by a dumb, s.a.d.i.s.tic southern deputy sheriff until he confessed to being a bank robber, a child molester, and a serial killer, ending with the astonishing revelation that he was the second man on the knoll at JFK's a.s.sa.s.sination.

Even the sheriff, who was a few quarts low of IQ juice, had trouble with that after learning the confessor wasn't born until 1973. In fact, my client was guilty of nothing except diddling the deputy sheriff's wife. It was criminally stupid, but it was not criminal behavior. The point: Coerced statements introduce reliability issues. That is, unless you begin the process with a man you know know is guilty; usually then you'll get something more credible and useful. is guilty; usually then you'll get something more credible and useful.

As an attorney, I am of course philosophically opposed to torture under any circ.u.mstances, though men like Abdul Almiri and Ali bin Pacha are tempting. On more practical grounds, however, an interrogation ultimately is a form of negotiation--to succeed, there has to be a carrot, and there has to be a stick. Ali bin Pacha was telling me where I could put the stick.

He informed me, "My comrades will know I am a prisoner of your army. You cannot hide or disguise this. They will post my capture on a Web site, and they will notify Aljazeera, and so the world will hear of this. I think your press will be very interested about me."

"Is there a point to this?"

"I think you know my point. Mistreat me, and your press will create for you another big public problem--another embarra.s.sment your idiot President cannot explain."

The Army advises that one should never underestimate the enemy, and here, I thought, was a case in point. Bin Pacha's people had planned for this eventuality, the capture of their moneyman, they were sensitive to the need to shield him from coercive tactics, and they were sure they knew how to do it.

In truth, on any other day it might even have been a workable plan. I turned to Bian. "These people are smart, aren't they?"

"I guess so."

"I mean . . . this is . . . you know . . . ?"

"I know. This guy so much as gets an infected pimple, and the whole world will scream that we're n.a.z.is."

"That seems to be the general idea."

"Very clever."

"Would you ever have--?"

"Nope. Not in a million years."

Bin Pacha's smile now looked a little less certain; it looked wobbly, actually.

Bian grabbed my arm. "Well, he has been unconscious for three days."

Bin Pacha had not a clue what we were talking about, but he was reading our body language and picking up the sarcasm in our voices. I looked at him and said, "Which do you want first, pal? The merely bad news or the c.r.a.p-in-your-drawers news?"

The smile disappeared. But maybe he didn't understand the question.

"Well . . . why don't we ease into it?" I continued, "Bad news first. The morning you were captured, the Army and Marines kicked off a big-time a.s.sault on Falluja. Last report I heard--this was two hours ago--about three hundred of your fellow terrorists are dead, many dozens more are buried in the rubble, and who knows how many have been turned into mist or paste by tank and artillery sh.e.l.ls."

In case he didn't get the message, Bian added, "Your compatriots will never know whether you've been captured, blown to pieces, or just buried in the rubble."

He had asked for it and it was time for the kicker. I said, "Last chance--will you cooperate or not?"

"Rot in h.e.l.l."

I turned to Bian. "Can't say we didn't try."

"Sure did." She glanced at bin Pacha. "Poor soul."

Bin Pacha now looked very interested in this exchange, dealing as it did with his fate. He insisted, "I am more than willing to live the rest of my life in your prisons. You are fools to think I am fearful of this."

"I'm sure you are not." And I was sure it was true.

Bian had endured this guy's abuse with commendable stoicism--well, but for that one minor incident--and it seemed only fair for her to be the bearer of the worst tidings. I glanced at her, and she nodded.

She faced Ali bin Pacha. "You're being turned over to Saudi intelligence. I've never seen them so anxious to get their hands on a prisoner."

I added, "Your countrymen play by different rules. You're aware of this." I added, "If you're interested, they already have your family in custody."

His eyes went a little wide, but he didn't look as upset as I expected. In fact, I thought I saw a faint smile. This guy had more bulls.h.i.t bravado than an Army Ranger, which is saying something.

Bian advised him, "Some parting advice." She may have been an infidel s.l.u.t, but she now had his undivided attention. "Don't hold on to it too long. I've seen prisoners who tried. They were missing body parts, and in some cases, missing family members. And you know what? They all talked."

I a.s.sured him, "You'll talk as well."

Bian added, "How much agony and how many parents and brothers are a few hours or days of silence worth?"

Ali bin Pacha's eyelids were fluttering. You could see he was fighting to maintain consciousness, and you could also see that Doc Enzenauer's magical mickey had already coursed through the IV tube, through his veins, and straight to his evil brain.

He tried to say something and what came out was, "Oh . . . I . . . ugh . . ."

To send him off on the right note, I said, "Ali, you're going home."

His eyes closed.

CHAPTER THIRTY

In a convoy escorted by a platoon of detached military police, we drove for more than an hour from the Army field hospital and ended up at the entrance of a small military base. A metal sign by the entrance read, "Forward Operating Base Alpha"--in military jargon, FOB Alpha.

The base was entirely encased within ten-foot-high concrete blast walls and concertina wire, and if, say, you had forgotten you were in a war zone, this forbidding exterior reminded you that there were two worlds here--the violent, hazardous one outside the gates, and these highly fortified bases, like Old West cavalry forts.

Directly outside the gate on the roadway were five oversize speed b.u.mps and a series of oil barrels filled with sand or concrete, arrayed in a winding maze so you had to slow to a crawl and make about ten short-angled turns. Also there were two twenty-foot concrete towers, from each of which the worrying snouts of big .50 caliber barrels followed our progress.

This reminded me, as I said, of an old cavalry fort, though the occupation of Iraq wasn't supposed to look like this: I recalled the stories Grandpa told me about his his occupation after Germany surrendered--of round-heeled frauleins, of beery nights in gasthauses, of a fortune in black-market cigarettes and silk stockings--the uniquely American version of rape, pillage, and plunder. Better still, his natives accepted their defeat. Occupations are supposed to be the fun part of war, but I suspected no one would return from this occupation feeling nostalgic. occupation after Germany surrendered--of round-heeled frauleins, of beery nights in gasthauses, of a fortune in black-market cigarettes and silk stockings--the uniquely American version of rape, pillage, and plunder. Better still, his natives accepted their defeat. Occupations are supposed to be the fun part of war, but I suspected no one would return from this occupation feeling nostalgic.

A pair of soldiers cautiously approached the lead SUV, and apparently Phyllis handled the entry requirements. Whatever she said, both guards snapped to attention and banged off crisp salutes, ordinarily a sign of respect--not in a combat zone, though. Might as well hang a fluorescent sign around the neck of the recipient for enemy snipers that announces, "NOT ME, IDIOT--SHOOT HER."

During my own combat tours, we actually used to make a point of saluting senior officers we didn't like. We thought this was very hilarious; they looked very aggravated. Maybe you had to be there, though.

Anyway, the guards signaled for us to enter the compound, and our convoy drove at slow speed over the b.u.mps, through the winding path of barrels, and entered the gate.

I rode in the rear of the trailing vehicle, a military ambulance, with bin Pacha, who remained unconscious, and beside me sat Doc Enzenauer, who occupied himself monitoring his patient's vital signs, adjusting IV fluids, and doing doctorly things.

I looked out the side window as we progressed through the base, which pretty much was what you could infer from the t.i.tle: a small, temporary encampment located in close proximity to the enemy. Inside Iraq, of course, this would be any any base flying the Stars and Stripes. As it was, the weapons clearing barrels outside each building and the sandbags covering the roofs dispelled any illusion of an R&R center. base flying the Stars and Stripes. As it was, the weapons clearing barrels outside each building and the sandbags covering the roofs dispelled any illusion of an R&R center.

To most civilian eyes, all soldiers appear alike, androgynous beings wrapped in camouflage, with their hair closely cropped and an iron rod stuffed up their rear. But here the troopers mostly looked a little older, they sported the most up-to-date body armor, were carrying the coolest, latest gadgetry, and definitely swaggered more than your run-of-the-mill GIs, who generally look like confused high school kids stumbling around in oversize uniforms.

So this was a base for Special Operations warriors, which made sense because the CIA and Special Forces, which have always been close, after 9/11 have become as inseparable as a hunter and his favorite fetching dog.

After about a quarter of a mile, we stopped in front of a small compound within the compound--also surrounded by concertina barbed wire, and containing five small squarish buildings, each constructed of rough, reinforced gray concrete, ugly and utilitarian. I saw no signs, no windows, and definitely no smiling people standing by the stoop waving welcome signs.

The Army has an umbilical addiction to signs--even the uniform is a billboard of data--so this was not an Army facility, and the absence of windows suggested that these airless dwellings were either ammunition storage facilities or jails. If you were wondering, by the way, only a fool would place an ammo dump in the middle of a troop compound.

As I dismounted from the rear of the ambulance, Bian approached me and said, "When I was stationed here, I heard stories about this place."

"Tell me about those stories."

"Whenever we got our hands on high-value detainees--HVDs, we called them--we of course reported that up the chain. Often, that same night, a group of serious gentlemen in civilian clothes would show up with transfer orders and spirit them away. We jokingly called this the Ministry of Truth."

As Bian explained this, I kept the corner of my eye on Phyllis, who was leading the sheik and Waterbury past the concertina wire and straight to the first building. She opened the door and the group disappeared inside. She appeared to be at home, and something about the sheik's movements and gestures suggested this wasn't his maiden visit either. Why did this not surprise me? I asked Bian, "CIA operation?"

"I believe the FBI is here as well."

"Are they the prisoners?"

She laughed.

I looked around for a moment, then said, "I'll bet one of these buildings has a bar."

"You know what, Sean? You're like one of those guys marooned in a desert. There's no oasis and there's no f-ing alcohol in a combat zone. Get used to it."

"Wanna bet?" Smart as she was, she was a slow learner--Agency people create their own rules, and I couldn't imagine them spending a year, anywhere, without a gin mill. I said, "First round?"

"You're on." She stuck out a hand and we shook.

I looked around again and asked, "Did you ever see any prisoners return from here?"

"That's part of the rep. Once you land here, you disappear into a black hole. Except Saddam. Word is he spent time at Alpha being wrung dry before he was transferred to Camp Cropper in Baghdad. A lot of the prisoners who come here, I think, eventually end up at Gitmo or are renditioned to their own countries."

Supposedly, prisoners apprehended in Iraq are not subject to rendition. But as I was learning with Ali bin Pacha, exceptions are made, especially when they think n.o.body's looking.

Also the buildings did not appear expansive enough to hold more than one or, at most, two prisoners apiece. I didn't see a graveyard or a large incinerator, so maybe Bian was right. I said, "We'd better go inside before Phyllis cuts a deal and we end up in cells."

We followed the same path Phyllis took, through the concertina wire and the same doorway into the same building, and ended up inside a cramped, rectangular room with a receptionist behind a gray metal desk, but otherwise devoid of furniture and, more mysteriously, of Phyllis and her playmates. I looked around for another door. None. I wondered if we had entered the malicious lair of Dr. No, and at any moment the sly villain behind the desk would break into an evil cackle, push a b.u.t.ton, and the floor would drop out beneath us, revealing a pit of snapping alligators.

The receptionist did not look particularly demonic, but you never know. Actually, he was a nice, earnest-looking sort in a white short-sleeved dress shirt, without tie, who very pleasantly asked, "Can I help you?"

I gave him our names, flashed my Agency ID, and informed him we were part of Ms. Carney's party.

He smiled. "Oh . . . right." The floor did not drop, and he said, "She instructed me to tell you to wait here. She'll be back up in a minute."

So Bian and I leaned our b.u.t.ts against the wall and cooled our heels. The room was hot and stale, with that pungent, unpleasant odor of damp earth. The young man behind the desk had said "back up"--ergo, there was a hidden stairwell or elevator that led to a subterranean facility, and probably there was a control device on his desk, and for sure there was a gun under the desk for unwelcome visitors. I smiled at him and tried to look welcome.

It was all coming together--an underground jailhouse. Actually, it made sense. No visible footprint, the noise and activity would be m.u.f.fled, belowground facilities are fairly secure from breakout, or from break-in, and better yet, are largely bombproof. Ironically, the prisoners here were probably in the safest place inside a country they had made incredibly unsafe. I mentioned to Bian, "I'll bet there's a camera inside that light fixture."