He paused to see if we had any questions. We did not, and he pointed a finger at the screen and continued, "That entire cellblock is isolated, and the interrogation room we'll use is on the same wing. The two cells next to bin Pacha's contain Saudi intelligence agents who will impersonate prisoners, attempt to befriend him, and coax him into sharing confidences. Old trick, but a reliable one. It works more than you would believe. The guards in the wing are all Saudi intelligence."

He looked at Sheik al-Fayef and added, "Due to the sensitivity of this investigation, the video feed from this cell-in fact from the entire cellblock to the main control room down the hall-has been rerouted to this room. Only from here can you observe or overhear the interrogations."

He went on awhile with this nickel tour, about how the prisoner would be fed, given medical care, showers, and so forth.

It sounded like these people really had their stuff together-a foolproof charade, supertight security, all the electronic bells and whistles, and the object of this drill was about to be put into play. What was there not to like?

I interrupted his spiel and asked, "Are there any Americans in the cellblock?"

"No. Why?"

"Why not?"

Tirey chuckled like that was a dumb question, which annoyed me a little. He said, "A number of our staff speak Arabic-none, however, are from Saudi Arabia. I'm told the dialect is distinct to the ears of native speakers and… Look, don't worry about it. Everything that occurs in that wing can be seen and can be heard from this room. If a fly bats its wings, we'll hear it. Everything."

The sheik looked happy but not surprised to hear this, and nodded approvingly. One of his French cigarettes was already dangling between his lips and the ashes fell off and left a big mark on his white robe. He asked me, "You spoke with bin Pacha in the hospital?"

"I did. Major Tran and I prepped him."

Bian chipped in, "He'll believe he's awakening in a Saudi prison."

"Yes, yes, this is important." He studied my eyes a moment. Despite, or perhaps because of, our earlier unpleasantness, he seemed to regard me as interesting. He asked me, "And now that you have spoken together, what are your thoughts about him?"

"A tough guy. He enjoys his work, he hates America, and has no fear of spending his life in jail." After a moment, I noted, "I wouldn't want my career hanging on whether he'll talk."

"So you do not believe he will confess his sources?"

"I do not." We locked eyes and I couldn't tell what he thought about this.

Bian helpfully informed him, "I spent six months interrogating suspects and captured mujahideen. Typically, the higher-level ones are superbly trained and conditioned for counter interrogation. Many proved very difficult to break. Some, impossible."

"Is this so?"

"Well, there are the lucky few who immediately blurt everything. But there are others, prisoners at Guantanamo, for instance, who required over a year of exhaustive effort. Some of those we have broken, we suspect their testimony was planted disinformation."

He offered her a faint smile. "We have never experienced this problem."

Waterbury announced, "There he is," and we all turned and observed the video screen. Doc Enzenauer led a pair of gentlemen in civilian khakis who carried bin Pacha on a stretcher into the cell. They gently hoisted him by his feet and shoulders off the stretcher and onto the metal cot. Enzenauer then bent down and efficiently withdrew the IV from the prisoner's arm, a necessary precaution against suicide.

Enzenauer straightened up and stared up into the camera, which, like the one on the top floor, was apparently planted in the light fixture. After a moment he asked uncertainly, "Can you hear me?"

The sound was locked on full blast and it sounded like he was howling through a megaphone; it was a one-way feed, though, and there was no answer. After a long hesitation, he informed us, "He should remain unconscious for perhaps another hour." He stared awkwardly into the camera, like a stagestruck actor wondering if the scene was over.

Then he and the two men backed out of the room and closed and locked the cell door behind them. We all stared for a moment at the unconscious prisoner resting on the bed, and we shared the same unspoken thought-inside that skull was knowledge that could change the course of this war, that could lead us to the architect of countless killings, that could expose the names of people and groups who were funding the wholesale destruction of an entire society. Unlock those secrets and a world of invaluable knowledge would land in our laps.

Bian whispered to me, "You realize the only thing you and I might've accomplished here depends on whether he talks."

I whispered back, "And it will be worth it."

She nodded and we shared an unspoken agreement: We were going home empty-handed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Phyllis and party left to grab dinner in the dining facility, leaving Bian and me to observe Ali bin Pacha.

To kill the boredom, Bian and I made small talk for a while before I very suavely inched into what really interested me. I said, "So, how was Baghdad?"

"You stayed in Baghdad also."

"Airports aren't in countries. They're all part of the Twilight Zone."

She smiled. "Baghdad was wonderful. The jihadis took a breather. Very few bombings and I heard gunshots only half the time."

I smiled back. "And did you see Mark?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Am I being too personal?"

"It's…" After a long pause, she informed me, "Yes."

"Yes, it's too personal, or yes, you saw Mark?"

"Yes… I saw Mark. We got a room at the Visiting Officers' Quarters inside the Green Zone. We spent two wonderful days together."

"Good… I'm glad… really… it's… Hey, did you catch the Redskins game?"

"Do you want to talk about this or not?"

"I…" Not.

She looked at me.

I started to say something, but she beat me to it. She said, "I've made this awkward for both of us, haven't I? Are you mad at me for leading you on? Don't answer that. I know it's my fault… and my… my responsibility to clear the air. So I'll just say it-I do now, and I will always love Mark. I remembered that the instant I laid eyes on him. I'm sorry if I became confused." She added, in a quiet voice, "I'm even sorrier if I confused you."

"I understand."

"Good. Because I don't." She gave me a sad smile.

"Bian, what happened… This is a war zone, a lot of bad memories are flooding back for you, this case is tapping into your emotions, and-"

"Okay, I've got it. What I did… in the shower… it was a careless lapse, an excusable stupidity."

"Well…"

"I… That came out wrong, didn't it? I didn't mean it that way, Sean. Seriously… I'm incredibly fond of you." She was struggling to find the right words, and eventually said, "If there was anybody in the world I would enjoy cheating on Mark with, it would be you."

"That's-"

"I know. I did it again. I'm a little tongue-tied here. I haven't experienced this before."

"I hope not." I looked at her and asked, "Did you tell Mark about us?"

"I did not. What was there to tell? Nothing really happened, did it? I owe that to you. I doubt many men would've… you know."

"Don't remind me."

She smiled. "Believe it or not, I appreciate it."

Mercifully, our little Days of Our Lives episode came to an abrupt end, because the door opened and in stepped Jim Tirey, the FBI SAC. I mean, in my line of work, I can and do talk freely and intelligently with hardened killers, pissed-off judges, skeptical juries-but when it comes to heart-to-heart discussions with women…

Anyway, for about ten seconds Tirey casually watched bin Pacha on the screen, then he informed us, "We're about to start the treatment. Our welcome concert for all new internees. Thought I'd better alert you."