Everybody thought about that for a moment.

Bian nodded at me, signaling her agreement with this assessment.

The sheik said nothing. He was leaning back in his chair, concentrating with great intensity on the glowing tip of his cigarette. Maybe I misjudged this guy, maybe he had a grapefruit for a brain.

Mr. Waterbury broke that silence and informed us, "In my experience, everybody talks." When nobody picked up on that thread, he said, "You just have to find the right approach."

What did he think we were talking about?

The sheik finally looked up and, in surprisingly good English, said, "The colonel has an excellent understanding of this man."

He poked his cigarette at Waterbury. "Ali bin Pacha descends from many generations of Bedouin warriors. He is not like these people from Jordan or Pakistan or Syria. These men, such as your Jordanian prisoner, they are peasants playing at warriors. Ali bin Pacha was bred differently."

"Is that right?" asked Waterbury.

"He is what we call takfiri. You know this term? They are worse even than Al Qaeda. Very fanatical, very destructive."

"I suppose you would know," Waterbury replied.

"I do know," he confirmed, which I thought was interesting, if not revealing. "And you will be glad to know I can offer a solution."

Everybody craned forward, anxious to hear this loaded announcement.

"Turn Ali bin Pacha over to me," he told us. "He is of us. We understand him."

Waterbury suggested, "You're referring to rendition?"

"Okay. I am not certain of your precise American expression, but I know it is done." He looked around at our faces and added, "I will of course provide you the fruits of whatever our interrogators obtain."

I leaned forward. "Excuse me."

Waterbury ignored my intrusion and said, "An excellent idea." He looked thoughtful for a moment, which is like watching a beauty contestant tell you she dreams of world peace; even when it's sincere, it's the depth of thought that's scary. Eventually, he said, "Sheik al-Fayef's people have expertise and the resources… and well… let's be blunt-the Saudis enjoy certain… exclusive prerogatives."

By prerogatives he meant the Saudis could electrify his gonads until bin Pacha realized that the truth might not set you free; it can, however, literally save your balls.

The sheik, however, looked annoyed by this innuendo. He said, "It is true that we possess certain… resources, and, let me be blunt… certain human and cultural insights that American interrogators lack. However, we are not barbarians. We do not resort to torture. I give you my vow that we will not employ such treatment on this man."

I turned to the sheik and noted, "In fact, U.S. law requires a written assurance of humane treatment from the receiving nation before a prisoner can be rendered."

"Is this so?"

"This is so."

"I had no idea."

"It just seemed strange that you phrased it that way."

"Yes," he noted, "of course it was only coincidental."

Apparently, his English wasn't that good; he meant rehearsed.

I glanced at Phyllis, who was toying with her pen, as though this discussion had nothing to do with her-what it actually meant was that she didn't need to hear it a second time. I was tempted to walk around the table and inspect her elbow to see how hard it had been twisted. I love conversations where everybody's reading from a script.

I looked at Bian. She raised an eyebrow and stared back. Belatedly, we both were coming to the realization that the powers back in Washington had concluded that bin Pacha was a hot potato best passed to our Saudi friends.

I didn't really have time to analyze this. Parts of it, however, weren't all that complicated: bin Pacha was a potential embarrassment to somebody; Bian and I weren't grown up enough to comprehend or manage the subtleties; and definitely, Turki al-Fayef wasn't here as an advisor.

Anyway, Waterbury, showing his usual finesse, was pushing things along, and he declared, "All right, that's settled." He stood, apparently assuming this meeting was over, and said to his sheik friend, "As soon as you bring in a plane, we'll transfer your prisoner. Questions?"

Phyllis raised no objections, so to help her out, I mentioned, "You can't give what you don't have."

"What are you talking about?" asked Waterbury.

"What are we all talking about, Waterbury? Ali bin Pacha. I'm not releasing him."

"You know what, Drummond?" Waterbury replied. "You're an even dumber son of a bitch than I thought. You work for the United States government."

"And why am I having to remind a former MP of the legal definitions of apprehending officer and current custody? As an officer of the court, until I sign a statement of transfer, Ali bin Pacha is my prisoner."

Bian was just opening her mouth, but only one idiot needed to jump off this cliff. I nudged her shin under the table.

"You'll do as you're ordered, Drummond."

"By whom?"

"By me."

"Let me repeat my favorite phrase. I don't work for you, Waterbury." I looked him in the eye and noted, "Tell me who's ordering you and maybe I'll change my mind." My fingers were crossed, of course.

He chose to ignore my query, as I suspected he might. He turned to Phyllis. "Order him to turn over the prisoner."

I had this weird feeling that I was in the movie Groundhog Day, and we were right back where we started, with Waterbury ordering Phyllis to order me to hand over Daniels's computer. This time, though, I did not trust Phyllis to respond appropriately. So before she could comply, I instructed him and her, "I no longer work for Ms. Carney either."

Even Phyllis's jaw dropped an inch over that one, which was a treat.

I withdrew the typed orders from my pocket and held them aloft for everybody to observe. "My boss is the Chief of the JAG Corps. Why don't you call and ask him to order me to turn over my prisoner?"

Waterbury stared at the orders for a moment. "This is preposterous. Jesus H. Christ… we all know those orders are phony."

"I don't know that."

"You're pissing me off, Drummond."

Exactly. And so on; around and around we went for a while.

The sheik's head swiveled back and forth, from Waterbury to me, and he stroked his beard and tried to look like he was following this brouhaha between a high official and a lowly functionary. It has been my experience, however, with officials from-how do I express this politely?-from less than democratic nations, that they are laughably clueless about issues that can't be handled through a barked threat or a visit in the night. At least he no longer looked bored or disinterested.

Anyway, it was time to call Waterbury's bluff; unfortunately he was in the middle of a long-winded homily about my duties as a commissioned officer, the constitutional subservience of the uniformed military to civilian authority, and any second, we'd be into the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

So the first time he paused to catch his breath, I broke in and said, "Here's another legal reality. Rendition requires a signed authorization by the Department of Justice."

"That's ridiculous."

With lawyer logic, I replied, "Yes, and it's the law."

Waterbury gave me a puzzled stare.

This man was entirely clueless regarding the legal aspects of rendition, which opened the tantalizing question of exactly whose idea this was. Three possibilities. Option A, for an unknown reason, was that somebody in Washington wanted bin Pacha buried forever in a Saudi vault. Option B, somebody in D.C. liked the idea of the Saudis beating the crap out of this guy to make him squeal, which, despite being fairly commonplace these days, also violates the United Nations Convention Against Torture, of which the United States happens to be a treaty signatory. Or Option C, the Saudis wanted Ali bin Pacha and offered us a choice: Hand him over or America will never need another highway bill.