Was this a message? A clue? Or was the explanation more innocuous? I mean, it was equally possible that, as she writhed in pain, Bian's fingers had been convulsing on the dashboard.

I leaned forward and looked more closely. No-definitely this was neither arbitrary nor accidental. I yelled for Tirey, who rushed over and stuck his head inside the driver's compartment. I pointed at the dash and asked what he read, and more important, what he thought.

He slipped on reading glasses, then read off C, and H, and A, or maybe O. He stepped back and suggested, "It looks like a message. That's what it looks like. Too bad, though, because it also appears that she ran out of time."

The MP sergeant offered the opinion, "Might be they're the first letters of a license plate. You know, the plates of her attackers."

I kept replaying the combinations inside my head: CHO, CDO, CHA, CHQ, CDQ, and then again, CHA-for some reason that combination popped back into my brain. But why CHA? Think, Drummond. As the sergeant suggested, a license plate? Possibly. Then, out of nowhere, it hit me-CHA, CHArabi.

Tirey was explaining to the MP, "If they are from a license plate… well, too bad. If they weren't stolen, the attackers will change them and…"

He and she continued to chew the wrong possibilities, and I wandered away. I saw Phyllis hanging around by the entrance to the facility, alone. I approached and explained my theory that Bian was still alive-and why-and then in a hushed voice I told her, "In blood, Bian wrote three letters on the dashboard. C-H-A. Name something, or somebody, that starts with those letters."

She pondered this question for a long moment. "I'm not in the mood for games."

"Neither am I. Charabi-Mahmoud Charabi. And the fact that she could write confirms she was wounded, not dead, and now we know who took her."

"Do we? You're sure about the letters?"

"Am I positive?… No."

"And you're sure she wrote them?"

"Handwriting authentication is tough when the victim finger-paints in her own blood." I told her, "The letters, however, are not Arabic, they're Roman."

"Okay… I would agree that is suggestive."

"You shouldn't argue with anything, Phyllis. Nothing else makes sense."

"No, it's the only explanation you've thought of. But it's still speculative, isn't it?"

"Interpreting evidence is always speculation. Footprints, fingerprints, DNA samples-until you ID the criminal, you're guessing what they mean and how they relate to a crime." I said, "Bian was writing something we could interpret. Something she knew we would understand." I added, "She wasn't a random victim. She was hunted down and kidnapped."

"Explain that."

I put my hand on her shoulder and said, "Somebody tipped Charabi about this investigation, and about Bian, and probably about me. That doesn't surprise me, nor should it surprise you-from the start of this thing, everything has leaked." She acknowledged that grim reality with an unhappy nod, and I continued, "The moment Bian drove out the gate yesterday, his people were waiting, they recognized her, and they ambushed her."

"How did they know she was here? At Camp Alpha?"

"How did they learn she was investigating Charabi?"

"You're implying an inside source." She then asked in a skeptical tone, "And who would that source be?"

"I have no idea." Though we both knew I was lying, and we both knew who the prime candidates were: Waterbury, and via him, Tiger-man and Hirschfield. I recalled how Waterbury had fled Camp Alpha the day before. I had assumed he was gaining bureaucratic traction from a failure, but there was an equally plausible reason: As a former cop, he knew absence of presence nearly always equals absence of suspicion.

Clarior e tenebris-literally, the surrounding darkness emphasizes the light. Waterbury, and by extension, his cronies, were worried. About how much Bian and I knew and how much of a problem we were. And about how close we were to the truth. There was only one way to find that out: They needed either Bian or me-alive. And why not? This was the one place in the world where a kidnapped American raised no particular suspicion.

Nothing else made sense. But if I verbalized that connection, Phyllis would terminate this conversation immediately. So I ignored that mystery and continued, "Charabi's people followed her, and as she drove through a Shiite neighborhood, they struck."

"I see. And why would Charabi care about her?"

"How would I know?"

"For an accusation of this scale and repercussion, you had better know." She thought for a moment, then asked, "Do you know what I think?"

I was sure I did, but she told me anyway. "Guilt, Sean. She left without you and you feel responsible. That's natural, and it's wrong. She made a foolish, irresponsible choice, and probably a mortal one.

It was not your fault." She added, "To take it a step further, you're obsessed with Charabi. I warned you about this several times, and that's what worried me from the beginning. Now you're seeing Charabi everywhere you look."

"Where I'm seeing his name is in blood on the dashboard of Bian's car. That's not obsession, that's physical evidence. Were I to present it to any disinterested jury, I assure you they would be persuaded."

"Implying that I am not disinterested?"

"You have to answer that yourself, Phyllis."

She did not reply to my innuendo, but stared at the Toyota with a thoughtful expression. Eventually, she asked, "Were you to take this to a judge, is there sufficient evidence for a search warrant?"

"We're in Iraq. The occupiers make the rules."

"Answer my question."

"It would depend on the judge, and on the lawyer making the argument."

She looked at me a moment and said, "Get Tirey."

I did, and a few moments later the three of us were huddled about a hundred yards from the nearest prying ears. Phyllis looked at him and said, "Jim, I'm about to tell you an explosive story. This is probably the most dangerous secret you've ever heard, and it must remain that way. It involves very powerful people, and if anybody finds out about it, I won't have to destroy you. Because they will."

Jim did not look shocked by this preamble, though he did look concerned. Phyllis then launched into a quick-fire version of Clifford Daniels's death, the relationship between him and Mahmoud Charabi, the investigation we had pursued, and she then made the possible connection to the disappearance of Bian Tran.

When she finished, Tirey did look shocked, surprised, and a little frightened. Frightened for Bian, frightened about this case, and frightened for himself. He asked, "Why are you telling me this?"

"I think you know why," she replied.

"Okay… maybe I do." He looked at her, and then at me. He said, "You understand that Mahmoud Charabi stands a very good chance of becoming the next prime minister. At the very least, he'll be a very senior government minister. This is not a man to mess with."

"Worry less about him," I advised, "than the President of the United States. You now have his balls in your hands. If he finds out, he'll want your balls in his pocket."

Phyllis looked at him and asked, "What do you think about Drummond's assertion regarding Charabi?"

"I think it's an interesting story and a compelling suspicion. Were this the States, I would be talking to a federal judge instead of you."

"About what?"

"About probable cause. About a search warrant. Of course that's never a sure bet-but when the victim leaves such a strong lead…" He let that trail off.

Phyllis looked at me and asked a lawyerly question. "Charabi's office is located inside the Green Zone. It's an international zone, but his office is on U.S. property. Who can authorize a search warrant?"

I replied, "For an Army search, the commander. But the FBI doesn't report to the military. I would guess Jim authorizes himself."