"A bullet through the brain is timeless."

"In your case it wouldn't make a difference."

Bitch. "Bian, listen. This is not a job for any MP-male, female, or anything in between. I was trained for this, I've done it half a dozen times, and I'm out of my league here. Also, Finder and his people are a team. Rule one, the team always looks after the team first."

"Then you should be glad I'm going. I'll watch your back. Promise."

When I made no reply, she observed, "Maybe I need to look after you." Anticipating my next thought, she added, "And don't even think about pulling rank. Phyllis approved this."

"Did she?" I looked at her and asked, "Why? What changed?"

"Nothing, per se. You need an interpreter."

"I have an interpreter. Some of Finder's men are fluent in Arabic and-"

"Exactly-and we don't really want them to know what's going down."

"That's ridiculous. Even if they find out about bin Pacha, they can't make the connection to Charabi or Daniels."

"What if they find out who we have our hands on? They lack the appropriate security clearances, they haven't been vetted, nor are they accountable. And think about this-a twenty-five-million-dollar bounty is on Zarqawi's head. Should they figure out who bin Pacha is, they might choose the bonus over you." She added, "You're going into Falluja. The perfect place for a perfect murder."

"This sounds like Phyllis talking. People she can't control give her gas."

"It was her brainchild. I'll admit that. But the longer bin Pacha's apprehension is kept under wraps, the more vulnerable his financial network is to exploitation. Hours make a difference. You see that, right?"

In fact, I did see that. Were word of bin Pacha's capture to become public, his contacts in the insurgency would shift locations and his financial sources would head for the hills, or at least cover their tracks.

Bian informed me, "Unless you have a better option, I'm going." She added, "You know what, Sean? I need to be there. You don't."

"I'm going," I informed her.

"Why? I see no reason for you to take that risk."

Neither did I. But I hadn't traveled this far to sit on my ass. This wasn't a valid reason but it was a good one. "I need to be there."

"You really don't. Take a moment and think about it."

I took that moment. The easy answer was that despite not doing this my way, destroying Zarqawi's supply of money might shorten the war, might save American lives, and if nothing else, would take one more jihadi asshole off the street. It matters not what branch you wear on your collar, what matters are the words printed on your chest: U.S. Army. Killing bad guys is what soldiers do.

But I knew there was an answer that was more complicated, and probably less noble. Two words: Bian Tran.

She looked at me a moment in the darkness. I couldn't read her thoughts; I didn't need to, to know what she was thinking: Why isn't this schlub taking this excuse to get off this runaway train?

She then did something that took me completely by surprise. She leaned forward and kissed me. She backed away, and we stared into each other's eyes a moment. She said, "You're nuts."

I was, indeed, nuts. She took my hand and led me back to Finder, who was conferring with two other men who had materialized out of the night.

Smith, still standing vigil beside the car, continued to spin on his heels and scan our surroundings. This was one paranoid citizen.

Finder introduced the new gentlemen and we shook hands. They were named Ted and Chris, and they looked like inflated balloons from World Wrestling Entertainment, large, immodestly muscular, and unlike their boss, these guys looked like they were manufactured to be here. They also were dressed in dark civilian clothing, which let them blend in with the locals, and also happened to be the right wardrobe for night action.

Chris smiled and said, "Nice to meet you." Ted grunted.

Finder said to Bian and me, "Have you straightened out your… difficulties?"

Bian allowed me to do the talking. I replied, "A minor misunderstanding. Here's the deal, Mr. Finder. We go in together."

"No problem."

"Major Tran is fluent in Arabic, and she will be the only one to speak with the prisoners. You need to tell your men this."

He smiled. "You mean we can't tell them to drop their weapons or you're dead, motherfucker?"

"Does that work?"

"Fire a few warning shots into their head first and… yeah, usually." He laughed.

Bian clarified, "The colonel is referring to any form of interrogation about their identity. Once the occupants of the house are in your custody, your men will leave us alone with the prisoners. There will be a brief interrogation to confirm their identities, and I'll handle it."

He thought about that a moment. "I'll pass the word." After another moment he announced, "My turn." He looked at me and asked, "Are you really a lawyer?"

"Are you really here voluntarily?"

He shook his head. "I don't understand why you're here, and I won't ask." He continued to shake his head. "A lawyer and an MP. I should've held out for a hundred grand each."

"We can handle ourselves," Bian informed him.

Finder acknowledged the absurdity of this statement with an easy smile. "Let me be blunt. My priority is my people. I will not let you put them at risk. If need be, I'll shoot you, or leave you in Falluja, which is worse. Are we clear?"

His tone sounded perfectly reasonable, which made it a little scary, like he meant every word. Oxymoronically, I was starting to like Finder. He seemed intelligent and businesslike, certainly there was no confusion where he was coming from, and I noted that his men treated him respectfully, if not affectionately. With the best leaders, loyalty up is matched by loyalty down, and the bottom line of loyalty down is to take care of your own first. This would be great if we were only part of his unit.

He allowed us to ponder this warning, then informed us, "You don't need to know how this is going down, and I won't waste an explanation. Here's what you do need to know. If you get separated, you're on your own. The target building is in the industrial section, on the west side." He looked at me. "Carl told me you have maps. Bring them. It's a small city, head due east, and if you walk fast, you'll make the outskirts within twenty minutes. Stay in your costumes till then. But once outside, ditch those Arab clothes. The city's surrounded by Marines, they've lost a lot of people, and this has put them in an ugly mood. They shoot first and sort it out later. It will be good for your health for them to see those American Army uniforms. Understand?"

I looked at Bian and she nodded. He continued, "I told the Agency you need to have compasses and a thousand dollars each in your pockets." He said, "Show me," and we did.

He said, "The money is life insurance. The Fallujans are less bribable than most Iraqis, but you never know. If you run into a terrorist, the money won't help; you're just tipping your own killer. If it's an ordinary citizen, on the other hand, five hundred bucks could buy a few minutes of silence. Start by insisting you're a reporter-they all know that word-then press money into their hands as fast as you can."

"Has this ever worked?" Bian asked.

He looked thoughtful, then said, "Not that I know of." He laughed.

He handed us each napkin-size American flags. "If you see American troops, wave these. It helps." He said, "My people will handle the assault and apprehension. You'll stay with the fire support element. Do you have a problem with that?"

Ordinarily I don't like being told what to do, but one should always make an effort to oblige his host. Also, on a more noble note, the assault element is definitely where the risk is. I said, "No problem."