And what jumped out from this narrative arc, in my view, was the moxie of the man. Having escaped a deeply impoverished background, he put himself through college, then was selected by the Army for advanced schooling, then for high-level intelligence work, and the piece de resistance, he bagged a colonel's daughter. Given the Army's fraternization codes, this is akin to a commoner laying wood on a princess and, for Cliff, a big bump up in the social registry. With his entry into the Defense Intelligence Agency, he became a white-collar professional, an educated man in an honorable line of work, which-with luck, skill, and the right breaks-could lead to bigger things.

In the end, as Freudians say, it's all about ego, and in my experience, self-made types are particularly susceptible to an omnivorous sense of self-worth.

So now we were past the early years, the marriage, the house, the two children, and Theresa, now past her fourth gin, was starting to slur and giggle at inappropriate moments. She said, "Throughout the seventies he was on the Iranian desk. In 1982 he was shifted to the Iraqi section, a real backwater. He thought it was the end of the world. Nobody cared about Iraq. Back then, Iran was the career-maker, and as I said, Cliff knew Farsi. He complained bitterly to his bosses and they claimed that's where they needed him."

Incidentally, Bian's questions seemed more oriented toward their marriage and family life, which, I think, is one of those X versus Y chromosome deals. I, being a male, am confident that life's mysteries and puzzles are all rooted in money, power, and lust. Men and women investigators bring different things to the party, but it seems to work out.

Predictably, Bian asked, "How did this affect your marriage?"

"If anything, Cliff became a more attentive husband, a better father. He always worked long hours… he began to scale back. He coached Little League, learned to play golf, spent more time with the kids."

She lit another cigarette and drew a long breath. "The eighties were good for us. Happy years. He was professionally bitter, but our marriage was healthy. No fights, no stresses." After a moment, she added, "Until 1991."

"When Iraq invaded Kuwait," I guessed.

"You've got it."

"What happened then?" Bian asked.

"The beginning of the end… or maybe the end of the beginning. Those thoughts are so interchangeable, don't you think?"

No, I didn't think, and I found it instructive that she would.

"What were those problems?" Bian prodded.

"A lot of things came together. Midlife crisis… job dissatisfaction… I don't know. Something inside Cliff snapped."

Bian, who had obviously been paying attention, suggested, "Or was reawakened."

Theresa took another long sip. "He was one of the few men in Washington who knew anything about Saddam. About Iraq. Ironic, if you think about it. The very thing that got him stuck in quicksand suddenly vaulted him into great demand everywhere. He briefed Schwarzkopf, Powell, and Cheney. He visited the White House a number of times."

She stubbed out her cigarette and immediately fired up another. "Overnight, he was briefing the Joint Chiefs of Staff, eating lunches in the White House mess, being flown on government jets to Tampa and Kuwait, getting calls in the middle of the night from reporters begging for tips and insights."

I remembered a pithy quote and told her, "Our virtues are most frequently but vices in disguise."

This was a little too philosophical for a lady on her fourth gin, and she glanced at me with frustration and maybe annoyance. "I'm just saying he wasn't equipped to handle it. For nine months, he was at the center of the storm… that was the play on words he liked to use. Then it suddenly ended."

"Because the war ended?" I suggested.

"Why else?"

"Was he disappointed?"

"Disappointed?" She contemplated this question a moment, then asked, "Are you an ambitious man, Mr. Drummond?"

"That's a complicated question."

"Is it?" She blew a long plume of smoke in my direction.

Bian commented to her, "He's a man and a lawyer. What did you expect? Introspective questions confuse him."

They both laughed. This was funny?

Theresa stopped laughing, and opined to Bian, "I'll bet that's why he's not married. That's not a criticism, incidentally. Before he marries, a man should understand his ambition." She looked at me. "Do you understand what I'm talking about, Mr. Drummond?"

"Well, I…" No, and I didn't care.

She turned back to Bian. "We had children, for Godsakes. A home, a good marriage. Wasn't that enough?…" and so on for another minute or so.

Suddenly, I found myself trapped in an extended episode of General Hospital. I offered Mrs. Daniels a sympathetic smile and eyed the exit.

Fortunately, Bian changed the channel and got us back to the good stuff. She suggested to Theresa, "You're telling us he had a taste and he wasn't going to relinquish it."

"In his own words, he wasn't going to slink back into the muck of anonymity. He had big ideas, big ambitions… big-shot new friends."

Bian seemed to know where this was going and said, "Albert Tiger-man and Thomas Hirschfield-that's who you're referring to, right?"

Theresa nodded.

Bian explained for my benefit, "Hirschfield and Tigerman both held senior Pentagon jobs during the first Gulf War. When that administration ended, Hirschfield went to a Washington think tank, and Tiger-man returned to his law firm. As you know, now they're back in the Pentagon."

I remarked, "But they were out of power during most of the nineties."

Bian said, "You mean they were no longer connected to a President. They still had Republicans on the Hill, the Republican Party itself, the web of Republican think tanks… Heritage Foundation, et cetera." She observed, "Out of power these days is an illusion."

I guess I knew what she meant. Like musical chairs, the winners take over the government buildings and the losers move a few blocks away into the office space recently vacated by the winners, where they proceed to cash in on their fame, connections, and influence. They collect great gobs of money and connive and hatch plots to get back into power so they can go back to residing in crappier government offices, making less money and working longer hours. How can anybody vote for people who think like this?

Bian turned to Theresa and asked a very good question. "Exactly how did Cliff remain connected to these men?"

"Well… as you might remember, Iraq stayed in the news over those years. There was the attempt on President Bush's life in Kuwait, the UN sanctions, our Air Force planes constantly being shot at… Would you like me to recount the entire history? It dominated our lives for over a decade."

I assured her we would check it ourselves, thank you.

She continued, "Everything became ridiculously hush-hush when he was home. Which wasn't often. But Albert Tigerman called the house a lot."

"Do you know what they talked about?" Bian asked.

"As I said, Cliff never shared it." She waved her glass around the cramped kitchen and house. "But how could I not overhear what Cliff was saying?"

She paused to fire up another cigarette, and Bian and I stared at her expectantly.

Eventually she said, "They were like some silly cabal. They believed Saddam needed to be overthrown. Cliff, as a career civil servant, was still on the inside, still able to influence perceptions and to work actions inside the administration. Tigerman and Hirschfield were the thinkers. Cliff became their tool. They exploited him."

I asked, "They were using him, or was he using them?"

She gave me a look, like I had asked a dumb question. "He was way out of his league with those two."

"How?"

"Well… I wouldn't know the particulars, would I? I'll tell you this, though. Very often, after they spoke, he went on long overseas trips."