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 kidnap and kill at random, just for kicks. Maybe the MP sergeant was right. Maybe "CHA" referred to letters on a license plate. Or maybe Bian, out of her mind with pain and fear, had been doodling gibberish in her own blood.

I felt as bad as I had ever felt. I had missed something, a clue, a brilliant revelation, a magical key that could unlock the truth and save her life. Yet, irrational and superstitious as it sounds, a feeling, an instinct, some primitive premonition was telling me that Bian was still alive.

But if I couldn't save her, it was time for the last thing I wanted to do, and the one thing I had to do. Somebody needed to notify her loved ones, and that kind of bad news is best delivered by someone who knows and cares for her. So I walked to the office of the corps G1-the head personnel weenie-where a staff sergeant sat behind a short desk directly inside the door.

Personnel clerks have more power in a single finger than all the generals and colonels in the Army. With a single keystroke they can have your paycheck sent to Timbuktu, or you sent to Timbuktu, or alter the religious preference in your personnel file to Muslim, which is not the best faith to have before a promotion board these days. So I smiled courteously and said, "Good afternoon, Sergeant. Major Mark Kemble, First Armored Division. Can you please tell me how to get hold of him?"

"Professional or personal?" he asked. "Sorry. Gotta ask."

"Both. His fiancee was kidnapped."

"I'm on it, sir," he replied, and began punching buttons and at the same time eyeing his computer screen. After a few seconds, he articulated, "Kemble… Kimble? An 'e' or an 'i'?"

"Why do you think the Army sewed this nametag on my uniform?"

"Uh…"

"So I can remember how to spell it."

Old joke-bad joke-but he laughed anyway. "I'll try both," he suggested, then did a few more keyboard punches, and he asked, "The rank and unit… you're sure?"

"Why?"

"Well…" He bent forward and pressed his nose an inch from his screen, "I've got three Kembles with 'e's… and wow, one with an 'i'… you know… same as that guy with the missing arm in that old TV series, and… hey. Look at that…"

I leaned forward. "What?"

"He's a Richard also. Personal hobby… sorry. You know we got two William Clintons in theater? A George Bush, too. How'd you like to be that poor schlub? I'll bet he takes a world of shit, and-" He saw my face and said, "Sorry. I get carried away." He added, "Our Kembles and Kimbles are all enlisted-no Marks, no majors."

"Is your system inclusive?"

"It's connected directly to unit SIDPERS," he explained, referring to the Army's computerized personnel system, which I knew was updated daily. "But maybe your guy DEROSed," he hypothesized, meaning he rotated back to the States. "Or," he suggested, frowning, "could be he's in a classified assignment. I've run into this before. These black unit types-Delta Force, Task Force 160, various snake-eaters- they think they're too good for the theater database."

I could see that this upset his clerkish sensibilities. I said, "So those are the possibilities. What do we do?"

"What I always do." He giggled. "Kick it downhill." He picked up the phone, read off the number for his counterpart in the First Armored Division from a sheet on his desk, dialed, and then we waited. He identified himself to whoever answered, and handed me the phone. I explained to whomever I was talking to who I was looking for. After a few moments, the voice said, "There's no Mark Kemble in the division."

"This is a notification issue. Help me out here."

He said, "Let me talk to my boss. Hold on."

A new voice came on, a major named Hardy, who said, "Sir, could you tell me what this is about?"

"As I informed your sergeant, notification. Major Mark Kemble's fiancee was kidnapped in Badhdad yesterday."

There was a long pause. Mention the word "notification" and even the most bloodless military bureaucrat turns into a human being. As military people, we are all sensitive to, and sympathetic toward, the need for speedy notification, not for the soldier, who is beyond caring, but for the families left behind. The Army tends to treat living soldiers like dirt-it may screw up their pay, short them on body and vehicular armor, force them to spend their careers in places they don't want to live, working for bosses they hate, abusing their families with pay and housing that are a joke-but die, and the Army turns on a dime into the most sensitive, caring organization on earth.

I have often wondered if the Army doesn't have it backward- treat the living well and short-shrift the deceased-but honoring our dead is part of our tradition, and in an eerie way, it is a comfort for the living soldiers as well. "You know what…" he finally said. "You got bad info."