The Command

Bob Diehl was the size of a soft drink machine. His face was droop-cheeked and saggy-eared, like a basset hound’s. Tentlike slacks draped over cordovan loafers. Bahrain was his last station, his last tour. An old-line agent, he both impressed and repelled her. He and Kinky were always telling each other jokes, worn-out puns and remarks about faggots and women. On the other hand, she’d seen him in operation a few times, like when he’d “counseled” a petty officer who’d been stalking a girl at the Desert Dome.

Diehl had been in submarines before joining what was then the NIS. He had been an agent for twenty-four years, as long as she’d been alive. Sitting in on that interview, she’d realized how many times he’d done this and how well he knew the screwed-up young sailors that made up most of their clientele. First he intimidated the kid, letting him glimpse the big .357 Magnum revolver the older agents carried. Then he told a joke, about what you called an Arab with a hundred girlfriends. The answer was: a shepherd. Then he clarified exactly what the kid had been observed doing, characterizing it in the most rancid and dismissive terms possible.

And then scared the shit out of him, laying out what would happen if anything like this happened again. He made the process look effortless. Made the suspects, usually petrified and sometimes not too bright to begin with, say what he needed them to say. In fact, she had the feeling he could make them say anything he wanted, true or not.

The senior agent hesitated, then went around to the passenger side and opened the door for a tall, hook-nosed officer in tropical whites. Aisha pulled her purse out of his way. When he slammed the door, and she heard her partner’s door slam, too, she turned the key.

* * *

Today was the monthly security liaison committee meeting, where the local police and counterterrorism people shared information with the resident intelligence community. The Ministry of Justice and Islamic Affairs was also headquarters of the SIS, the Bahraini security police. Brigadier General Bucheery would chair. Commander Hooker, as head of security at the Naval Support Activity, was invited, as were the security liaisons from the various embassies. He’d asked her to come along to listen to the side conversations in Arabic — he wanted a typed report afterward — and Diehl had invited himself.

She was leery of Hooker. He didn’t say much, and his expression never changed. The agents didn’t work for him — their chain of command went separately from that of the military up to the director, who worked for the secretary of the navy — but they had to work together, and they all had to work with the lawyers. Hooker sat quietly for the first mile, then said, not turning his head: “Anything on the thefts in 138 yet, Bobby?”

Diehl rumbled cigar-phlegm from the back. “Not yet.”

“I hoped you’d have something by now. The captain was on me about it again this morning.”

Neither agent said anything. “Nothing?” Hooker persisted. “Do I need to take this investigation?”

“No, sir,” Aisha said. “We’re working on it.”

“What else have you got going but that?” Hooker persisted.

Diehl took that question, and she concentrated on driving. The Bahrainis had abandoned the British habit of driving on the left years ago, but unfortunately they’d kept the roundabouts. You had to stay sharp on the free-for-alls on Palace Avenue and King Faisal. She steered the heavy vehicle expertly as Diehl explained the theft was only one of several investigations in progress. One was a credit card scam. Then there was the guy they were hoping to turn into a cooperating witness and catch whoever was selling hashish on base.

“I’m not interested in those now,” Hooker interrupted. “The pressure’s on about this shortage. That’s dangerous stuff to have wandering around.”

He was referring to a recent theft of explosives and small arms.

Building 138 was the wire-ringed, high-security armory area that held equipment for SEAL detachments and other high-security items. The day before yesterday, a routine inventory had revealed four nine-millimeter pistols, fifteen fragmentation grenades, and at least forty kilos of demolition explosives missing.

“We dusted for prints and took pictures of the locked area,” Diehl began. “The locks weren’t cut, so it wasn’t a penetration from the outside.”

“Who has access?”

“The officer in charge, the NCO, four storekeepers. We’ve interviewed them all, with negative results.”

“Interviewed how?”

“The usual. Drill ’em and grill ’em. I gave them a good working over.”

Aisha had been there. He’d had one of the kids crying. But none had confessed to knowing anything about the missing weapons and explosives.

“These are military members? Marine or navy?”

“Two marine, two navy. Their NCO’s a gunnery sergeant. He reports to a supply corps lieutenant. You probably know him.”

“The NCO, the OIC, they have access?”

“Not alone. It’s a two-key system.”

“So you’ve got absolutely nothing?”