Phyllis's left nostril flared and she hissed, "Be clear on this, Turki. You exploited my hospitality, and you humiliated me. You came into my facility and murdered my prisoner. You-"

"Please," he cut in. "I-"

"I speak, you listen, until I finish," she snapped. She drew a long breath, then continued, "The Director's at the White House as we speak, trying to explain this disaster. When I notify him that bin Pacha's dying words implicate the royal family, you will have problems you cannot begin to fathom. A nightmare for your country. A nightmare for you… for you, personally."

He stared at her, a little stunned. Until this moment, Phyllis and the sheik had been operating on spy-to-spy protocols, a sort of feint-and-parry interaction, almost like diplomacy, where the real meanings are cloaked behind tight smiles and evasive wording. The sand had suddenly shifted beneath his feet, now the topic was out in the open, and it was his personal health.

She leaned closer, a mere few inches from his face. "We are at war, fifteen hundred Americans are dead, an election is at stake, and the last thing you want or need is for us to misinterpret where your country stands." She added more menacingly, "The last thing you personally want is me as your enemy."

Phyllis had clipped about twenty degrees from the room's temperature. Even I-for once not the target of her anger, which was a relief-felt a shiver go down my spine. Her fury was real and red-hot, and were I the sheik, I would definitely consider the joys of life in Brazil under an assumed identity after a brief stop-off in Sweden for a sex change, because with Phyllis after you, there are no excessive precautions, only reasonable ones.

Al-Fayef tried his best to maintain his composure, but he lost it. He broke eye contact, he stared at the tabletop, and-perhaps I imagined this-he sucked half his cigarette with one draw.

Phyllis said, "You have one chance to explain what's on that tape. One brief shining moment. Don't miss it, Turki."

I thought of all the times Phyllis had lectured me about tact and diplomacy. I might have mentioned her hypocrisy, but I survived the night in Falluja and wasn't going to push my luck.

For his part, Turki no longer looked bored, flip, or charming, just seriously introspective. The man was obviously weighing the trade-off between exposing a sensitive intelligence operation and pissing off his royals, or keeping his mouth shut and pissing off Phyllis.

This seemed like a ripe moment for a little lawyerly advice, and I interrupted the sheik's troubled thoughts to inform him, "Seven members of your intelligence service are now in custody. They are charged with murder and conspiracy to commit murder. Eventually, there will be more charges-espionage, obstruction of justice, probably others."

"You must turn them over to me," he responded. "They are Saudi. They must face Saudi justice."

"No… I'm afraid this crime occurred in a U.S. facility, they lack diplomatic credentials, and we must follow our laws and try them in our own courts. So, they have the right to a public trial, and I promise you, it will be… an unusually public trial."

Spymasters are allergic to public scrutiny, of course, and the idea of having this murder explicitly exposed and detailed to the American public would cause a world of damage. I was sure he now regretted his abdication from rendition, and it was dawning on him as well that murdering bin Pacha here, in an American facility, was a huge mistake-a public relations mistake, a legal mistake, and a professional misjudgment his bosses would never forgive.

He started to object and I cut him off. "We will, of course, indict you as a coconspirator and an accessory."

"You cannot arrest me. I do have a diplomatic passport."

"I know. And certainly, it is your right not to submit yourself to voluntary custody. So, later, you'll be subpoenaed and we'll request extradition. Should you refuse to appear in an American court, you'll be tried in absentia, and on the front pages of every newspaper in America. If convicted, the next time you set foot outside Saudia Arabia, we'll be waiting." We locked eyes and I noted, "If we don't get you today, we'll get you tomorrow. I think you know this."

"You do not want to do this."

"Can I recommend a good lawyer? You really should consider my cousin. She's expensive and bitchy, and worth every penny."

"This is… You would seriously damage… you would destroy the friendship between our countries."

"I think not," I replied. "Our people need to buy oil and your people need to sell oil. Adam Smith's hidden hand-anybody in the way gets splattered on the windshield of greed and commerce." Again we locked eyes. "Do you really believe the Saud clan will trade their summers at St. Moritz and all those glitzy palaces to protect you? I don't."

To make sure he was clear on this point, I added, "We're expendable, you and me. Says so in our contracts."

This point struck home and he looked away. When he focused again, it was on Phyllis, and he said, "Surely, you know better. This is not professional, Phyllis. It would be… a grave mistake."

She brushed some lint off her shoulder and replied, "I think you should get the name of Drummond's cousin."

A guy with his background and experience, you would think he'd understand this little duet. And on some level, I was sure he did understand it. When it's you on the hot seat, however, counterintuitive thinking is the first thing to go. Between Phyllis's threat to his personal health, my threat to his country's reputation, and his own understanding of the royal family, his inhibitions had just turned very heavy. He growled, "You will not like the truth."

"Perhaps," replied Phyllis. "And if it's not the truth, you won't like the consequences."

The sheik ground out his cigarette on the floor, then announced, "What has happened here… today… this is all America's fault."

I decided to treat al-Fayef as a hostile witness-I mean, he was a hostile witness-and I replied, "Our only fault was trusting you. Why did you order his execution?"

"To the contrary, our mistake was trusting you. By that, I mean America." He looked at me. "Do you know who our main enemy is?"

"Yourselves?"

In spite of the tension, he regained a little of his charm and laughed. He said, "This is not entirely untrue." But this effort did not find a welcome audience, and he stopped smiling. "I will tell you then-the Shia. For thirteen hundred years, the Shia. You in the West believe this is some quaint and irrational quarrel. A shadow of history that will disappear once exposed to the sunlight of democracy. It is not. The Shia are apostates, desecrators of the true faith. How many Americans even know the difference between a Shia and a Sunni? Am I right?"

He looked at our faces to gauge our reactions, and apparently decided to start at the beginning. "You come here, into our region, thinking you can rearrange everything. Fix everything. Mix everything up, make a big happy Arab omelet."

"We brought an invitation this time." I looked him in the eye and said, "Three thousand Americans are dead. Fifteen of the murderers were Saudis. Your unhappiness has become our unhappiness."

He did not want to be reminded of this inconvenient truth. "You know," he continued, "I attended George Washington University. Undergrad and master's. Many Saudis attend school in your country." He looked pointedly at me. "Perhaps you attended a Saudi school?"

"I have not."

"Has your President, the grand architect of our Arab future?"

That required no answer.

He continued, "How many Americans attend Saudi universities?" He paused theatrically, as though we should consider this a serious question, where obviously it was not. "You do not know our culture, our people, our ways. You do not care to know. You prefer your Hollywood stereotypes to true knowledge. Yet you believe you possess the cures to our problems, how to shape our futures."