"Do I?"

"Yes. Mark Kemble was KIA five months ago."

"I think you're mistaken."

"I think not. We lost only two majors this year. I personally handled the corpse evacuation for both officers." He added, "Karbala. That's where Kemble bought it. Bullet through the heart."

I suppose I must've been in shock, because the next thing I knew the major was asking, "Sir… sir… Are you still with me?"

"Uh… yes. An administrative glitch, I'm sure and-" I hung up. All I could do was stare at the floor. Mark Kemble… dead. For the past five months… dead.

Bian had lied. But, why? Further, if her two days in Baghdad weren't spent in the loving arms of her fiance, where had she been, and what had she been doing? The sergeant was staring at me, and I composed myself enough to ask him where the corps G2's office was located-meaning the chief intelligence officer and staff for the ground war in Iraq.

He gave me the directions, and I walked as quickly as my feet would carry me, first out of the building, and then toward the skiff he had described. It was a controlled facility with a buzzer by the door, which I pushed, and there was a camera over the entrance into which I smiled.

Somebody inside electronically unlocked the door and I entered a square building, specifically into a small anteroom that was sparsely furnished. This time, the receptionist was a female buck sergeant who was studying a men's fitness magazine with considerable intensity, for the articles, I'm sure.

I interrupted her education and told her I needed to speak with any senior officer who had been here for six months or longer, and who remembered an officer named Major Tran. She told me she would see who she could find, and left.

She returned about two minutes later, accompanied by a good-looking lieutenant colonel with the emblem of military intelligence on his collar. I introduced myself, he stuck out his hand, and we shook. He said, "Kemp Chester. How can I help you?"

"Do you have an office?"

He shook his head. "Only generals have offices. I have a carrel. That okay?"

"Not okay. Let's walk."

He gave me an odd look, but out of courtesy or curiosity he followed me, first out of the skiff, and then we began walking slowly around the Green Zone compound. There were a lot of ways to get into this, but I needed to cover my tracks, and without preamble I asked, "You knew Major Bian Tran?"

"Yeah. We worked together. She left… oh, two, three months back." He asked, "Why?"

"I'm part of the investigating staff for a 15-6 investigation." He understood that this was a pre-court-martial investigation, the Army equivalent of a grand jury. In response to his raised eyebrows, I assured him, "Relax. She's not the accused."

He seemed relieved to hear this and nodded.

I continued, in my most lawyerly, officious tone, "Major Tran now works in an investigatory agency in the Pentagon. She's a critical witness for what looks likely to turn into a court-martial. The questions I'll be asking are in the nature of a background check." At least this last part was true.

"I see. Well… would a few general observations help?"

"They would. Please proceed."

"All-round great officer. Brilliant. Competent. Honest and hardworking, and-"

"Excuse me… Kemp, I can read her efficiency ratings myself. What did you think about her personally?"

"Well… everybody liked her. Ask around. You won't find a soul with a bad word to say." He smiled at me. "But if you do, give me his name, so I can lump him up."

People get nervous about legal investigations, and I purposely made no response, which usually has the effect of making witnesses nervous and more talkative.

After a moment, he said, "I don't know if you've seen her. Absolute knockout. Incredible body, gorgeous face, and-" He stopped in midsentence and cleared his throat. "That sounds sexist, doesn't it? I'm just saying-"

I offered him a manly smile-"She's hot"-and we ended up manly smiling at each other. I make-believe jotted in a make-believe notebook, and intoned, "Under physical description, the colonel stated, without the slightest innuendo, that the major maintained her body and fitness at Army standards."

"Hah… that's a good one."

So much for guy bonding. I asked Colonel Chester, "What was Major Tran's assignment here?"

"She was assigned to a special cell. Part of G2, the theater intelligence office, but not, if you get my drift."

"Sensitive stuff?"

"Oh… very."

"Like what?"

By his expression, you'd think I had just told him I slept with his mother and then bragged to everybody at school about it. "That's none of your business."

"Unless I have a Top Secret clearance, which I do. And unless it's directly relevant to my investigation, which it is. Please answer my question."

LTC Chester, however, was nobody's fool, and replied, "After I see the written authorization, and after you're read on. I'm not some cherry second lieutenant, Drummond. Don't blow smoke up my butt." He asked, "What's this 15-6 about, anyway?"

"None of your business."

"Typical lawyer. All take, no give."

We did not seem to be bonding, so I took a swing in the dark that wasn't entirely from the dark. "The cell you referred to was an exploitation unit. She was on the receiving end of CIA messages that pinpointed Iranian movements and activities inside Iraq. Her job was to translate those tips into operational requirements and targets, to look for ways to exploit those insights."

He turned and stared at me a moment. He said, "Why did you ask?"

"Confirmation," I replied-and now I had confirmation. "Old trick. We often use throwaway questions to ascertain the veracity of our witness."

"How am I doing?"

"Not good, Kemp. Not good at all." I asked, "How long was she in that job?"

"Can't really say. She was already on the staff when I arrived."

Bullshit. "Colonel, I can just as easily obtain this information from her personnel file."

"Fine. Why don't you do just that?"

I ignored his suggestion and said, "Correct me if I'm wrong. She was the operations officer of an MP battalion during the invasion, then she remained in that assignment a few months after Baghdad fell, then was reassigned here, to G2."

"More like five months in her battalion. It was the G2 himself who pulled her up, if you're interested." He explained, "General Bent-son heard she was fluent in Arabic, had operational experience, and she had a great rep. She cleaned up a very violent section of Baghdad at a time when the rest of city was descending into chaos. Great credentials."

"But as an MP."

"And she had a secondary specialty in military intelligence. Look… frankly-I hope this doesn't alarm you-most of us full-time MI types, we don't know squat about this place, about these people, or about this kind of war." He continued, "Myself, I'm a satellite interpretation guy and this terrestrial stuff is a whole new world." He enjoyed his own bad pun and chuckled. He then added, "My first months in country, I felt like I was just dropped into Oz-just no happy, dancing little munchkins, and in this case, the Wizard's a homicidal asshole."

This jogged something in my mind, and I asked, "So you would say the major was professionally competent?"

"I would say she was incredible… extraordinary… insert whatever superlative you like. She's a cop and she's military intelligence- she was the perfect combination."

"And there's no personal bias in your assessment?"

"Maybe." He thought about it a few seconds, then said, "Terrorism, if you think about it, is closer to crime than war. Typical intel officers can talk for hours about how an Iraqi division arrays itself on the battlefield, and they stare blankly if asked to explain how an insurgent cell infiltrates a city, chooses its targets, and operates." He paused then added, with clear admiration, "Bian knew this stuff. She had… a sense… an intuition for situations. A hunter's instinct, I guess you'd call it. Every morning, a long line formed in front of her carrel, guys like me, seeking advice."