I thought it over for a moment. A, or B, or C each looked plausible. But so did A and B and C.

Bottom line: Had the White House ordered this, as I suspected it had, I should start worrying about my next assignment, maybe my next career-and maybe my life. But frankly, I was past caring, which is always a danger point for whoever's pissing me off. Also I wasn't completely out on a limb. The golden rule of Washington was on my side: The party with the most to hide always holds the weakest hand.

I knew this. And Mark Waterbury, too, knew this.

So he drew a few breaths and decided the moment was pregnant for a new approach. He dropped his Lear-like act and gave me a friendly smile. "Sean… Hey, I'm not out on my own out here. You don't… Look, there's strong support for this… in Washington."

"Where in Washington?"

"At high levels. Leave it at that."

He wished. "Fine. Show me the letter of approval signed by the Attorney General."

"I don't…" He looked confused for a moment. "I'm quite confident the Attorney General can be persuaded to issue such an order."

"Well, you never know. Why don't we call him and ask?"

Everyone fell quiet for a moment. Then the sheik looked at me and asked, "What would it require to satisfy you, Colonel?"

I was sure he had heard what I said, and I could only assume that his question was in the nature of a bribe. I was tempted to test his sincerity; I mean, this was the land of genies, and until you rub the bottle a few times you never know. Then again, people who are willing to bribe you are often willing to do other things, too. Like hurt you. Sometimes worse.

So instead, I informed him, "Let me tell you my problem. You people don't share."

He stared back with an icy smile and advised, "You should not believe all the libelous things you read about my country in your newspapers."

"How long have you worked in Saudi intelligence?"

"Over twenty years. This is my career work. Why do you ask?"

I looked him in the eye and said, "In 1996, I worked on the Khobar Towers investigation."

I could see in his eyes that this reference struck home. After Arab terrorists bombed the American military barracks in the Khobar Towers in Saudi Arabia-after nineteen American servicemen were killed and hundreds more wounded-the Saudis quickly rounded up the suspects, and without allowing U.S. investigators a single interview, they were all swiftly beheaded.

As I mentioned, I had a role in that investigation and we smelled Al Qaeda; all we ended up with was two bad smells. I've often wondered how differently the present might look had we interrogated those suspects, had we perhaps gained insights into Al Qaeda and their future plans and plots. That would've been good for America and good for the Saudis.

But the Saudis play their own game in this region, and it goes something like this: We cover our own asses and could care less who stuffs a firecracker up yours. Clearly, the Saudis had an under-the-table treaty of some sort with Al Qaeda, probably involving a covert payoff, and the quid pro quo was that Al Qaeda would stay out of the Saudi sandbox and mess up other people, like us.

Nobody could prove this. But the beheading of the Khobar Towers suspects made it impossible to prove anything, except that nineteen American patriots died without justice. The Saudis believe in burying their embarrassments, literally, and we buried ours, quietly.

Predictably, Waterbury was outraged by my impertinence and informed me, "You're way out of line, Drummond. You'll apologize to the sheik."

"If you can convince me why, maybe I will."

"You're pissing me off. Sheik al-Fayef is an honored guest and has very generously offered his valuable assistance."

Maybe I had misjudged Waterbury. Maybe he wasn't such a bad guy; maybe he was just stupid.

Phyllis cleared her throat and said, "This finger-pointing isn't helpful. Let's see if we can reason our way through this impasse."

If Waterbury was the heavy hitter, Phyllis apparently was sent as the relief pitcher, because she looked at the sheik, then at me, and suggested, "Maybe an alternative arrangement will satisfy everybody's needs and wants."

Waterbury looked unhappy to be losing control of this thing and began to object, before the sheik raised a hand and said, "Please." He looked at Phyllis, "Describe for me… this alternative arrangement?"

I guess I now was calling the shots, because Phyllis bunted that question to me and asked, "What safeguards would satisfy you?"

To tell the truth, I knew from the start that I had no chance of winning this. I could raise obstructions and objections, and make it more painful and time-consuming for all involved. Being a pain in the ass has its satisfactions; in the end, though, I wasn't going to cause any great soul-searching, because the people who ordered this had no souls, just power.

Clearly the big boys in D.C. wanted to avoid taking this case through the Justice Department and up the chain to the Attorney General, because it would eat up time, because actionable intelligence from an interrogation of this nature has a brief shelf life, but mostly because the less people in the know, the less you have to turn into amnesiacs later.

Despite my warning her to stay out of this, Bian butted in. "Why does the rendition have to be genuine?"

Waterbury said, "Shut up."

"But-"

"I said, shut up."

By this point, I think even the sheik seemed to appreciate what the rest of us already knew; Waterbury only opened his mouth to change feet.

The sheik held up a hand and said, "I believe I would prefer to hear about this suggestion."

I thought I understood where Bian was going with this, and on the face of things the idea was very clever; I wished I had thought of it. As I anticipated she would, she said, "I'm suggesting that bin Pacha doesn't need to be rendered. He merely needs to believe he's been turned over."

"Yes, and how would this work?"

"We pump him full of drugs. He'll awaken in a Saudi cell, with Saudi guards, and Saudi interrogators. Sean and I prep him before hand, inform him he's undergoing rendition. I don't care how tough he is. It will scare the crap out of him."

The sheik overlooked this backhanded compliment about his interrogation techniques and nodded thoughtfully.

I slapped on my lawyer hat and quickly offered a few stipulations. "He stays under joint custody. We'll have direct observation and round-the-clock access to his interrogation sessions, and we provide 50 percent of the questions."

Sheik al-Fayef was now stroking his goatee. "And how is this an advantage to me?"

"You know what we know, as we know it," Bian informed him.

I added, "Or you can think of it as avoiding the ugly alternative."

He looked at me. "Alternative?"

I told him, "You can read about it on the front page of the New York Times. I'm not sure what bin Pacha knows that scares you, and I'm not sure you know yourself. But your country has enough of an image problem in America after 9/11. Think about it."

So he thought about it, very briefly, and replied, "I'll grant you your wish."