Bian heard what was I saying and commented, accurately, "That would mean they have… well, they have the balls of the President of the United States in their hands."

Phyllis took this in and replied, "Perhaps they do. Were they to leak this, there won't be a need for an election here next week. A coronation will suffice."

Which raised the ever-evocative question. I looked at Phyllis. "Why us?"

"I need my best man on this."

"Where is he?"

"That would be you." She smiled.

This was such utter bullshit, I had to smile back.

She said, "I have my reasons."

"I'm sure you do. I'd like to hear them."

But this was not my game, this was Phyllis's game, and she responded, "Tell me what you think."

"Instead I'll tell you what I know. You're worried about your agency."

"It's your agency as well."

Wanta bet? I expanded on this reasoning and continued, "You don't trust your own people. They might leak this to destroy this President, or they might exploit it to intimidate or blackmail the White House."

"I won't claim there's any love around here for this President. And yes… there is considerable resentment within the Agency toward this administration," she acknowledged. She then observed, "You appear to have a dim view of Agency people."

"I think Agency people are great. I really do. You're the one who seems to have a problem trusting them. That's why us, right? Military people follow orders."

"That thought had entered my mind."

"In fact," I continued, "you and your boss want to be the dealers. You control the information, you control the investigators, and you control the results."

She neither confirmed nor denied this assertion. She didn't need to. Knowledge is power, more so in Washington than most places, and this knowledge was the equivalent of a hundred-megaton hydrogen bomb tucked in your pocket.

I could picture the Director seated beside that handsome marble fireplace in the Oval Office, smiling pleasantly and saying something like, "Mr. President, the Agency needs the biggest budget increase in its history… and yes… I know, I know…" He would pause to shake his head. "Times are hard… what with the national debt exploding… yes, yes, it's certainly difficult to justify, and… but… well, here… Browse through this file I'm putting on your lap. Maybe you'll find it in your heart to support me on this."

Phyllis lifted a paper off her desk, which she handed to Bian, who read it before she passed it to me. It was another of the missing messages, this one from Charabi to Daniels, and it read:

Clifford, my most loyal, truly dearest friend. I am apologizing for this long lapse of time that I have not given you the promised information. Alas, I should have heeded the old Arab saying: To trust a Persian is to trust a snake. Truly, they are the rottenest race of all Allah's followers, dirty beggars, Ali Babas, and thieving miscreants. But they continued to insist, as I have several times repeated to you, that the trail of this bad fellow has been lost, and he needed to be re-found, which now they say has been accomplished. As my Persian friends promised, this is a big fish, the moneyman behind Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, whom you know has killed many of your soldiers and caused much mayhem in this country. This man has the name Ali bin Pacha, a Saudi who stays in the city of Falluja, in a white compound at the end of the Avenue of Ali, near the city center. They say this man can be recognized because he misses his left leg, and they advise you must move swiftly, because a man of such value and cleverness does not grow roots. So you see, my friend, I am not, as you cruelly and unfairly proclaimed in your recent messages, a rotten turd.

Phyllis informed us, "This was the last message in the file." She added, "It was sent only two days ago."

Bian looked at me. "Then this man… this Ali bin Pacha-"

"That's correct." Phyllis finished Bian's thought, "Presumably he's still on the loose, still in Falluja, and still ripe for the taking. But for how long…?" She shrugged.

I said nothing. I hoped she wasn't thinking what she seemed to be thinking.

She was studying me, her left eyebrow cocked expectantly.

When I didn't voluntarily volunteer, Phyllis prodded, "Well, Drummond…?"

So that was what she was thinking. Did I want in? No, absolutely not-this was nuts, or worse.

For one thing, Ali bin Pacha might already have shifted to a new location, or alternatively, this whole thing might be another con by Charabi, and/or by his Iranian pals.

Second, Phyllis was keeping secrets. An operation of this nature is risky even when you know what's happening behind your back and everything is on the up-and-up.

And not insignificantly, now that we were cognizant of criminal activity, if we failed to refer this to the FBI, we were also committing a crime.

I'm not always a stickler for rules and legalities, especially when I think I won't get caught. This was not one of those times.

But before I could answer, Bian leaned forward and responded, "I'm in." After a moment, she added, "Actually, if you think about it, I'm the ideal choice."

"Why would that be?" asked Phyllis, her eyes on me.

"I completed a full tour there. I know the country and culture, I'm fluent in the language, and I have recent operational experience."

I looked at Bian. "Have you ever done an operation like this?"

"I… I spent six months policing some of the most violent sewers of Baghdad."

"Answer the question I asked."

"I've arrested suspects, and I've planned raids on insurgent compounds." Apparently I looked dubious, because she added, "I don't see a difference."

There was a world of difference-her unawareness of that was the first clue that she was the wrong person for this mission. Clue two, there was no right person.

I tried not to sound patronizing and said, "Well… how do I say this? I mean-"

"You don't say it," she snapped. "I'm an MP. You're a lawyer. By training, experience, and inclination, I think I can handle this better than you."

Phyllis cleared her throat and said, "Drummond was in Special Ops before he became a lawyer." She smiled. "He served for five years with a unit that performed operations almost identical to what I have in mind. He might be a little rusty… I'm told, however, that it's like riding a bicycle."

Partly true, and in that statement Phyllis revealed a little more of her thinking, about her intentions and about my favorite subject: me.

What wasn't true was her comforting sentiment about easing back into the profession of arms. Perhaps Sean Drummond had once been a lean, mean killing machine, death from the skies, one hundred and eighty pounds of twisted steel and sex appeal. The new Drummond had packed on a few pounds, a new attitude, and had become a creature of the courtroom, with all that implies.

I couldn't recall the last time I was on a firing range, nor had I run more than ten miles in years. As battlefield veterans will tell you, the key to survival is speed-depending on the day you're having, either toward the enemy or away. I recalled the admonition the Army drills into the thick skulls of all new recruits: "There are two kinds of soldiers on the battlefield-the quick and the dead."

Well, I was quick with my tongue, but my footwork and my survival instincts could stand a little work. Maybe a lot of work.

Bian, who required a moment to absorb this new and interesting facet of my professional background, eventually said, "Oh."

"So you see," Phyllis continued, "he has the ideal resume."

Without the slightest concession of inferiority, Bian replied, "It's irrelevant. I'm offering; he's not."

For a moment nobody said anything.

What could I say? I knew what Phyllis was doing-pitting me against Bian, exploiting my overblown chauvinist instincts, and at the same time engaging in a little emotional blackmail. Phyllis is a world-class manipulator, and usually knows exactly how to push my buttons-but not this time. If Bian wanted a piece of this, she was a big girl. Her life, her call. Welcome to the newly liberated world; equality between the sexes means an equal risk of coming home in a pine box.