She allowed a few tense seconds to pass, long enough for it to sink in that this truly was her show. Eventually, in a very harsh tone, in English, she asked, "Who speaks English?"

No response.

She scanned their faces and announced, "I demand an answer," and she asked again.

Again no response.

"At least one of you speaks English. We know this. Step forward… now."

It took a moment for me to realize why she was so confident somebody spoke English, much less why it mattered. The artillery shells downstairs meant bombs, either the car-borne or the roadside variety; ergo, somebody inside this room had the engineering faculty to construct such devices. That meant a high level of education, probably at a foreign university, and probably he spoke English. In the pecking order of terrorists, bomb technologists are just below financiers, so taking one off the streets was like winning second prize in the lotto.

Again, though, no response.

Bian glanced at me. She pointed at Sammy Naked and Captain Underpants, and very coolly said, "Separate these two."

I looked at her a moment. She barked, "You heard me. Now!"

I stepped forward and, covering me, Bian elevated her weapon at the prisoners. I grabbed the poor naked man by his arm and flung him forward, then followed suit with the man in undershorts.

The two men now stood in the middle of the room, looking even more dazed, unfortunate, and confused, wondering what made them special and regretting whatever it was.

Bian ordered me, "Take them downstairs. Tell Finder to execute them."

She looked and sounded completely serious.

I stared at her back a moment, and she sensed my hesitance, because, keeping her weapon on the men against the wall, she glanced backward and winked.

She turned back to the prisoners and began speaking in Arabic, probably apprising them that their fellow jihadists were about to become compost.

I used my M16 to prod both men out of the room, through the doorway, and then down the long dark hallway to the stairwell. You aren't supposed to threaten prisoners with death or bodily harm, of course; but neither are you supposed to send human bombers into the streets to murder civilians. And on a more Zen-like note, if they did not speak English, they did not understand the threat, and it's not a threat. I hoped that circuitous logic would sound as good in court as it sounded to me at that moment. We had reached the top of the stairwell and as a precautionary measure, I called out, "Drummond coming down with two prisoners."

I had the prisoners lead the way down the stairs. They moved like sheep, passive, completely clueless. Neither of these clowns had the slightest idea what was going on.

Finder was standing at the base of the stairs and he asked, "Who are these guys?"

"Object lessons."

He looked at me closely. "Meaning what?"

"She's using the shock treatment. Divide and conquer. We culled these two out to be shot."

"For real?"

"No… not for real."

"You're sure? No extra charge."

I stared at him.

He laughed. "That's a joke, Drummond. Lighten up."

I left him with the two prisoners and returned back upstairs. When I reentered the room, Bian was still loudly haranguing the prisoners in Arabic. They were paying rapt attention to her and ignored me.

She halted her monologue and glanced at me.

I told her, "That second guy, the naked one, took three slugs. Boy, was he hard to kill." After a moment, I added, "He kept screaming in Arabic, begging to be put out of his misery."

A bit subtle, maybe, but I could see from her expression that she picked up the message-neither man spoke English.

She glanced again at her prisoners and commented to me, "I'll give you one or two more in a second."

"No hurry." I leaned casually against the wall. "Finder's guys are busy castrating them, and finding a place where their bodies face west. A good hidey place where nobody will ever find their corpses." I laughed.

Bian also laughed.

This coarse allusion referred, of course, to the dual Muslim and extremists' beliefs that a corpse must be cleansed and buried, facing east, soon after death for a suitable entrance to heaven; and those who enter as martyrs are met and pleasured by a flock of beautiful virgins, which, without your equipment, falls into the category of an empty blessing.

And, through the corner of my eye, I noted that the second prisoner from the left registered an expression of mild outrage. He heard, and more important, he clearly understood, what we were saying.

Bian picked up on it as well. She pointed at the man. "You… step forward."

He stared straight ahead, as if she was talking to somebody else.

Bian stepped directly to his front and positioned herself maybe two feet from his face. Joe Cool stood to the man's right, and the relative complacency and indifference on his face made this man's anxiety all the more palpable: Nervous Nellie.

Bian stared into Nellie's eyes and said, "Well…?"

He shrugged like he was clueless. Then, out of the blue, Bian's weapon went off. In such a confined space, the loud bang sounded like a cannon, and we were all, I think, surprised and stunned.

I took a step toward Bian, but she turned to me and said, "Oh, shit. It was an accident."

"Accident?"

"My weapon… it was off safe, and… I… well, I guess my finger… Oh, shit."

Nellie Nervous had crumbled to the floor, and he lay there gripping his left knee, writhing, bleeding, and moaning something in Arabic.

I took a step toward the wounded man, but Bian said, "Sean, please, what's done is done-let me handle this."

I looked at her, and she did appear surprised and shocked that she had shot the man. She looked down at him and pronounced something in Arabic. But her tone sounded a bit harsh for an apology; in fact it sounded like a threat, and he quickly muttered something in reply that resembled a wounded animal mewling.

I said to Bian, "Whatever you're doing… stop now."

She ignored me and prodded the man on the ground with her boot. She said something with a harsh undertone in Arabic.

He said, "Okay… yes, yes… I speak English. Not good, though. Do not shoot me again, please."

Bian stepped back from him and asked, "Which of these men is Ali bin Pacha?"

"Uh, oooh, you have ruined my knee… Ow, I am in great pain… I-"

"Answer me. Which one?"

"Who… who is this name?"

"Ali bin Pacha. Point him out."

The man rocked around a bit, holding his knee and contemplating his pain, which appeared to be considerable. Finally he said to her,

"Me. I am this man you search for… this Ali bin Pacha."

"Liar."

"No, American lady. This is truth. Please, not to shoot me again. Please-"

"You're not bin Pacha. If you don't point him out, I'll blow your brains across the floor."

On the one hand, I should yank her out of the room; on the other hand, I wanted to hear this guy's response. Possibly, his shooting was an accident, and while that act was unfortunate, sometimes good comes from bad. On the other hand, what if it wasn't an accident? Was she really ready to blow this guy's brains out?

She jammed the barrel of her weapon down hard on the man's wounded knee. He cringed and howled with pain.

That answered it. I quickly stepped toward her, intending to take the weapon out of her hands.

But Hardy Hardass had the same idea, and he was closer. He lunged at Bian, who was ignoring him, and had carelessly allowed herself to get too close to the prisoners.

Before I could take a step, his arms were wrapped around Bian, and he had her M16 across her throat.

He was pulling it upward, screaming, "Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar." Bian's feet were off the ground. She was struggling and kicking, but he was large and strong, and she looked a rag doll being shaken in a mad dog's mouth.