Also, Phyllis and Turki al-Fayef seemed a bit uneasy in Bian's and my presence. Who could blame them? Rapists don't enjoy hanging around for postcoital chats with their victims.

Waterbury seemed like Waterbury-the man had not the slightest moral clue that this was wrong, nor had he ever read anything in his manuals that suggested otherwise. This didn't make him a bad guy. But it was scary.

At the earliest possible moment, Phyllis departed to visit the station chief at the Baghdad field station to discuss what she vaguely referred to as "important matters."

The sheik followed on her heels, presumably to locate a five-star hotel with air-conditioning that worked and better room service.

Waterbury also left, without informing us where he was going. But my CIA country report had explicitly warned that kidnapping rings were rampant in Baghdad, and, well… I crossed my fingers and hoped.

Bian and I were ordered to remain on the plane and guard Abdul while we waited for the military to dispatch a military police team to transport him to Abu Ghraib prison.

She and I shifted to the galley, where we discovered a thick hoard of fresh bologna in the fridge. This struck us both as apropos for the occasion-you know, turkey at Thanksgiving, boiled potatoes for Saint Patty's, bologna after being lied to and fucked. So we made a few sandwiches; I slathered mine with mayonnaise, she loaded hers with mustard, and we adjourned to the big conference table for dinner.

We brought the last four beers with us. It wasn't enough to even get a buzz on, but we already were drunk with powerlessness.

So now we were alone with out first chance to compare notes. Bian kicked it off, asking, "How bad was your lecture?"

"I'll bet yours was worse."

"Waterbury doesn't bother me." She smiled. "He's a big blowhard. Don't let him get under your collar. Do what I always do. Tune him out."

"Seriously, when I told you not to shoot anybody, I didn't mean him."

She held up a forefinger, squeezed the trigger, and laughed.

"They pulled out the rug from under our feet, Bian."

"Why do you sound so surprised? Did you actually believe they'd allow us to take this to full fruition?"

"For all the wrong reasons, yes, I did."

"Well… shame on you."

"What am I hearing here?"

"I mean, I'm upset. I'm disappointed. Of course I am. I just… Look, once we understood what was happening here, the full import, the total scope, the possibilities… I hope this doesn't sound cynical, but I didn't think we'd be allowed to find the full truth."

"Aren't we here because you insisted we had to do this?"

"Was there a choice? You learn that the primary justification behind this war might be a big lie, that the man we sent here to be the next king could be in the pocket of the bad guys, and maybe he exposed to our enemies an invaluable secret. So you have the opportunity to find out and maybe do something about it. Do you say no?" She squeezed my hand and added, "We never had a choice. From the instant we entered Cliff Daniels's apartment, because of who we are, we had to be here, we had to do what we've done, and we had to be told that's enough."

"And you're okay with this?"

"I'm Army. I follow orders."

"That's not what I asked. Are you okay with this?"

"All right… I'm depressed. I'm frustrated. I'm disgusted at my own government." After a moment, she confided, "But I'll deal with it. You'll have to find your own way to handle it."

This submissive babble was the last thing I expected from Ms. Gung-ho. Her stubbornness, after all, was what brought us here in the first place. Well, I had made lots of misjudgments during the past few days, nor, like the three billion other males on the planet, have I ever been particularly good at understanding women.

After a long, thoughtful pause, she asked, "What were Phyllis's instructions to you about Charabi?"

"There is no Charabi. Just a figment of my imagination. What did Waterbury say to you?"

"Yeah, like that. And the intelligence leak?"

"You can't get to one without the other. Besides, Phyllis kept all the relevant e-mail messages."

"Good point. Anything about closing out Cliff Daniels's murder investigation?"

I looked at her.

She looked back and observed with pretended innocence, "I ask only because Waterbury mentioned nothing about it to me."

We both sipped from our beers, and out of nowhere we heard the sound of a loud explosion. The chandelier above our heads actually swayed and shook-a little close to home. The highway from Baghdad to the airport was aptly and horribly nicknamed Suicide Alley, and it sounded like a suicide bomber had just nailed somebody. Maybe it was Waterbury; we should be so lucky.

Without speaking, Bian set up the speakerphone in the middle of the conference table. I dialed the Washington switch, gave the nice operator the number, and a few unanswered rings later heard Detective Barry Enders's voice growl, "Jesus H… Look what friggin' time it is. If this isn't about a murder, there's about to be one."

I identified myself and told Enders that Bian was beside me, listening on the speakerphone, then informed him, "We're calling for an update on the investigation."

There was silence for a moment. Enders then said, "What investigation?"

"Barry, it's me," replied Bian. Sounding slightly annoyed, she said, "Don't jerk us off."

"Who's jerkin' who off? A bunch of Feds came in yesterday. They took everything, jurisdiction, the crime scene log… my files… the lab specimens. They even ripped the pages out of my detective book. Don't even tell me this is a surprise to you."

Bian and I exchanged troubled looks. No wonder Phyllis and Waterbury felt no need to warn us off this venue. Bastards. But smart bastards.

Enders continued, "Now you're calling at this hour to rub it in. What is this, some kind've trap play to see if I'm-"

"Barry," I interrupted, "this is the first we've heard of this."

"Yeah… right."

"Who signed the order?"

"Justice Department. I was also ordered to develop a memory lapse. They were real assholes about it, too."

"Yet this is still an open case for you, is it not? A death in your jurisdiction-isn't it your responsibility to file cause of death?"

"That's not how it works, Drummond. The Feds give the judgment, I write it down, end of story."

I was, of course, familiar with the proper procedures, and we both knew I was testing the waters. The answer was, screw you.

He asked me, "Why do you care? You insisted it was suicide. And you know what? I have a feeling that's what the Feds will conclude: suicide." He laughed.

Bian recognized I had a credibility problem here and said, "I changed his mind. So did you. Now he… actually, we both believe it was something else. Murder."

"Look, I think we're done-"

"What if I offered you insights about why Cliff Daniels was murdered?" I asked.

"Great. I'll give you the number to Special Agent Barney Stanowitz. Big ugly asshole with bad manners. His card's in my office. In fact," he confided, "he warned me that if anybody asked about this case I should call him."

Going on instinct about Barry Enders, I said, "Give me a minute, Barry. One minute. Then make up your own mind about what you're going to do."

He hesitated. Not a good sign.

I nodded at Bian, who is much nicer than me, and she said, "Barry, you're a smart guy. I think you know what's going down. A cover-up. Conspiracy. You don't know why, and maybe you don't care. But I suspect you do care."

Bian and I looked at each other. No reply.

Bian said, "Barry, please."

"Okay… one minute. Drummond, make your case."

This was less than a commitment but more than the phone slamming down.

So I confessed, "Maybe I misled you about the trouble Daniels was in."