"Where?"

"Sometimes Europe, sometimes the Middle East."

"What did he do on these trips?"

"I think they were putting him in contact with various Arabs. I suppose Iraqis… people willing to help overthrow Saddam."

"Was Cliff freelancing or were these trips authorized?"

"I can only tell you we weren't paying for it. I suppose DIA for some reason authorized and financed his travel."

This was curious, but I thought I understood the underlying reasons. I recalled that in the mid- to late nineties, the previous administration had ordered the intelligence community to engineer an effort to dethrone Saddam. Unfortunately, my knowledge of the details was somewhat sketchy. And, knowing my CIA friends, everybody now had an onset of amnesia. It must be something in the water at Langley. I mean, these people can't even remember what color socks they're wearing.

From news reports around that period, however, I recalled that there had been an effort, sometime in the mid-nineties, to bribe a bunch of high-level Iraqi generals to overthrow Saddam. Saddam somehow got wind of it and the generals were subsequently invited over to his house for a barbecue and swim party-half the generals got put on spits and were barbecued, the other half got to paddle around the pool with Saddam's pet alligators.

I vaguely recalled reading about other attempts as well, mostly halfassed affairs, employing Kurds or Iraqi expats, all of which came to naught and were swiftly and quietly aborted. Usually Agency people are pretty good at this kind of thing-practice makes perfect as they say-so it was a tribute to Saddam's paranoia that, this time, good wasn't good enough. I mentioned some of this to Theresa, then asked, "Was Cliff involved in any of these efforts?"

"I'm sure he was."

"And Hirschfield and Tigerman? Were they also involved?"

"They helped… in the wings, advising him… I think helping him plot and putting him in touch with various Iraqis who might be useful."

"Why? By that I mean why would they become implicated in these affairs? It wasn't their watch."

"Ask them."

"What was Cliff's motive?" I remembered to add, "I can't ask him."

"Isn't that obvious?"

It was, but I needed to hear her say it. "Tell me."

After a moment she said to me, "We're back to ambition, Mr. Drummond."

Bian asked, "Meaning there was a quid pro quo from Hirschfield and Tigerman, right?"

Theresa nodded. "Put it this way. The moment the new administration took over, Cliff was pulled out of DIA, given a promotion, and was hired to work for them at the Pentagon."

"What kind of work?"

"We were separated by then. Talking through lawyers. I wouldn't know."

We were now edging into hearsay, which was informative and even juicy, though not necessarily accurate. I checked my watch-4:30 p.m. If we hurried, it might be possible to arrange an interview with Hirschfield, or possibly Tigerman, or possibly both. But there remained one nagging question, and I asked Theresa, "Can you think of any reason Cliff would kill himself?"

She mulled this over for a long period. Eventually she said, "You remember I told you that Cliff was already dead?"

I nodded.

"About five, maybe six years ago, he began… self-destructing. It wasn't an overnight thing. Just gradually, he changed."

"How?"

"I think… you have to understand, he was essentially a desk jockey at DIA. The most adventurous thing he did was to drive home on the beltway. I know this sounds… maybe crazy, maybe nutty… but Cliff began to think he was a character in a movie. Like James Bond."

She was right, it did sound crazy, and nutty, and I suppose that showed on my face.

She immediately said, "No… not literally, Mr. Drummond."

"Then how about unliterally?"

"The undercover work, the trips, the involvement in espionage, the clandestine meetings in the Kasbah… you know what I'm talking about?"

She was staring at me as though I, a male, would have a proprietary chromosonal insight into this cryptic accusation. Actually, I did know and replied, "He was seduced by the adventure and excitement."

"Seduced?… No-consumed. He changed, became moody, sneaky… but also short-fused, testy, self-absorbed, full of himself. You asked about that pistol earlier." She stared into her drink. "When he brought it home and showed it to me… I knew then he had lost it."

"Lost what?"

"Interest in the house. In the kids. In me. He was so proud of that damned gun." She looked at Bian and confided, "He came back from trips, and I could tell… I could just tell…"

"He was having an affair?" Bian suggested.

"An affair?…" She laughed bitterly.

I gave her a moment to get it out of her system, then asked, "Would you happen to know the names of the women he slept with?"

"You'll need a thicker notebook." She laughed. "If it couldn't outrun him, he fucked it."

Neither Bian nor I commented on this sordid revelation. Sexual betrayal is, of course, the most ubiquitous cause for divorce, and Theresa had already confided to us that infidelity provided the legal foundation filed by her attorney. There are many reasons husbands cheat on wives, and wives cheat on husbands, nearly all of which boil down to boredom, weak libidos, revenge, or narcissistic lust. Well, unless you're French; then the whole reason for marriage is to have illicit affairs. But in English-speaking lands, we tend to have a lot more hang-ups about sex.

This, however, sounded like something more, something deeper, more twisted. Also, Tim, the forensics examiner, had mentioned hair traces from two or possibly three different females. Added to the overall feng shui at the crime scene, it all hinted at some kind of sexual shenanigans.

I tuned back in, and Theresa was confiding to Bian, "I knew it was happening. I followed him one night to a local motel. I got pictures of him with some woman. You know what really hurt? She wasn't even pretty. In fact, she had a big fat butt."

"I'm sorry," I told her, and I didn't mean about the fat butt.

Not to be uncharitable, but as I looked around-at this suffocating house, at Theresa groping her fifth gin, at the unchanging neighborhood-and added to that mixture a stale and frustrated professional life, I thought Cliff Daniels was an accident waiting to happen. I could see a man trapped in this professional and marital quagmire committing suicide. But I could not see a man who had escaped into a new life-who had put this behind him-taking that drastic step.

To a greater or lesser extent, we all lead lives of quiet desperation; metaphysically and, often in reality, we're all lined up at the convenience store counter, praying for that lucky lottery ticket that will change our lives. Men, of course, will settle for a lovely nymphomaniac who's a football fanatic and owns her own beer company. We're pigs.

I asked Mrs. Daniels, "Incidentally, was Cliff left- or right-handed?"

"Right-handed. Why?"

"Just one of those weird statistics we're required to keep about human proclivities." I smiled. "You know the federal government- building a great society one statistic at a time." I added, "Maybe you can help with another statistic. It's… well… a little uncomfortable. Did Cliff ever exhibit any tendency toward homosexuality?"

"Haven't you been listening, Mr. Drummond? The man was a raging heterosexual."

"Of course."

I glanced at Bian. She quietly nodded, and clearly she understood why I asked. Were this murder, the suspect pool had just been cut in half.

After a moment, I again asked Theresa, "Why would Cliff kill himself?"

"You're asking the wrong question." She put her back against the sink and exhaled. "Why wouldn't he kill himself?"