"Guilt, Drummond. Plain guilt. So heavy, so overbearing, so painful, it simply shattered her into pieces." He looked away for a moment and said, "Imagine, if you will, how it must feel to be responsible for the death of the person you loved. What this would do to your insides?"

"Why did she feel responsible?"

"I didn't say she felt responsible. She was responsible."

"How? Why?"

"The CIA courier brought us a message that tipped us off to a large load of weapons and trainers coming from Iran into Karbala. This was during the midst of the Shiite uprising… you might remember… Sadr's Shiite militia had taken over the city, his people were killing our soldiers, and we all knew a major operation would have to be mounted to restore control. So preventing those weapons and trainers from linking up with Sadr's people… well, that would be a real coup. Less guns, less bombs, less American deaths."

"And Bian was in charge of this operation?"

"That's not how it worked."

"Okay. How did it work?"

"Bian was the analyst assigned to shape a response. As I said, the CIA never told us how they knew, or about their sources, but they informed us that the Iranian shipment and trainers were going into the city of Karbala, in a sector assigned to the First Armored Division. Bian provided the division operations shop with an order. A description of what was coming, when, and where to intercept it."

The lights were now coming on. I said, "And the division assigned this mission to her fiance's… to Mark Kemble's battalion."

He stared at the ground a moment, and the man was clearly in pain. Finally, he mumbled, "It was the worst coincidence I've ever seen or heard."

"Because Mark Kemble, being the battalion operations officer, decided he would personally oversee this high-value operation."

He nodded. "Great officer, I was told. Real hoo-ah, lead-from-the-front type. Highly decorated, loved by his men… all-around great guy. But something went wrong, tragically wrong-the shit hit the fan, three soldiers were killed, and obviously, Mark was one."

"What went wrong?"

"If you ever learn that, be sure to let me know. Understand that the CIA, they kept our entire exploitation unit completely in the dark about the source of these intelligence insights. Every week or two, some lady courier flew over from D.C., she'd drop off some cryptic crap, she'd leave, and we had to run with it." He added, "I have no idea."

I thought about this. It did not compute. After all, these were military intelligence people, and I said, "But you had suspicions, right?"

After a brief silence, he said, "Of course we had suspicions. Pretty obvious what the Agency had, right? A mole in Iranian intelligence or inside Sadr's movement. Somebody very high up."

Close, Kemp. But not close enough. I asked, "Is that what you thought? What Bian thought?"

"We all thought that. This stuff we were getting was dead-on. Priceless."

"Except this time."

"Yeah. There was no weapons shipment. No Iranian trainers either."

I paused to consider my next question, which was a big mistake. Because, suddenly, it all came together-Bian had literally been turned into the instrument for her lover's death. Kemp did not have the details just right, but he was close enough. Daniels had informed his pal Charabi about the compromised code, Charabi passed it to his friends in Tehran, and they, in turn, decided to be vindictive, sending disinformation they knew was being intercepted, decoded, and read, offering the Americans a target that was too tempting to pass up; in effect, luring an American unit into a trap. Bian ended up near the end of that long chain, and her fiance ended up in a coffin.

War is filled with ugly twists and bitter ironies, but this cruelty was almost incomprehensible. And before I knew it, something heavy was stuck in the back of my throat. Poor Mark. Poor Bian. I swallowed a few times and tried to dislodge the lump, but it only moved higher until it lodged behind my eyes. Chester was looking at me strangely. "Hey… you okay?"

"I'm… uh… getting over a cold." I coughed a few times and, after a moment, said, "Last question. What do you think went wrong?"

"You know what? I've thought about that a lot. We all did. Mark's unit, what they ran into, that was a prepared kill zone, an ambush. I don't know, maybe the CIA's source was a double agent. Or maybe the Iranians caught on to him and used him to plant false information. Whichever… Sadr and the Iranians knew we were coming, and they decided to make us pay."

A knot of staff officers carrying briefing folders crossed paths with us and we both fell silent. After they were out of earshot Chester said to me, "There was an investigation. Afterward. But by the CIA, not us. We were even forced to take polygraph tests. But you know what? If there was a compromise, those bastards never shared anything." He paused and then said, very unhappily, "A month after Bian left, the whole exploitation cell was disbanded."

"You're a smart guy, Kemp. What's your best guess?"

"My best guess?"-he stopped walking-"All right, sure." He turned and faced me. "You're not here about any damned 15-6 investigation."

I started to deny this, then thought better of it.

He said, "I have no idea why you're lying to me, Drummond, or what trouble Bian is in. But I promise you"-he looked me in the eye- "if you hurt her, I'll find you, and I'll hurt you."

We stared at each other a long moment. I put out my hand and said, "It's not my intention to harm her, Kemp. That's a promise."

He stared at my hand, but never shook it. "Leave her alone. She's been through enough."

I did not say, "More than you'll ever know," though, in truth, I now knew more about Bian's problems than I wanted to. I felt a deep, deep sadness for her. At the same time, an alarm bell was making loud dings in the back of my head.

I left Kemp Chester standing in a courtyard, fuming. I walked back to the office of the G1, where I ordered the same clerk to find me a private office with a phone, which he did.

I called Phyllis's cell phone and didn't get an answer, so I chose the message option.

I left a brief and unexplained message to immediately place bodyguards around Hirschfield and Tigerman, or better yet, get them both out of town, or barring that, make arrangements for two funerals. I hung up and thought about my next move.

It was time to go home.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Jim Tirey kindly gave me a lift to the airport.

As I mentioned earlier, the route from the Green Zone to the airport includes Iraq's deadliest roadway-known with grim unaffection as Suicide Alley-so Jim's favor wasn't in the true spirit of generosity. He wanted to see me climb on the plane, and be 100 percent sure I ended up seven thousand miles out of his hair. Really, who could blame him?

We pulled up before the terminal, and Jim pulled up to the curb and slammed the SUV into park. I went around to the rear, withdrew my duffel, and looked around for a moment. The hour was late, yet the terminal was crowded and bustling with soldiers; from their gleeful expressions, they all were outgoing, not incoming. This was the first place I'd been inside this troubled land where people looked happy, and maybe the only place where they were sure tomorrow would be a rosier day. Tirey came around and we ended up, face-to-face, on the road.

He said, "Enjoy the flight."

I said, "Enjoy Iraq."

"Hey, my bags are already packed. Any day now, the long arm of OPR-that's the Office of Professional Responsibility, our Gestapo- will have me on a plane back to D.C. for a long discussion about how this shit went down."

"D.C. is filled with idiots," I told him. He gave me a blank stare and I explained, "They think it's a punishment to boot you out of here."