"That's correct," Jim said and then asked, "Shouldn't we… Hey, look… maybe I should contact headquarters. Get a proper clearance. Or… at least notify the embassy. They'll throw a conniption if we do what I think you're asking."

Phyllis said, "Absolutely not. They're not cleared to know."

I added, "This is an in extremis hostage situation, Jim. They could be torturing Bian as we speak. In such situations, as you and I know, the law allows you certain latitude for independent judgment."

"I understand… but…"

"Speed, Jim. The diplomats will write a thousand position papers and hold a hundred meetings, and the answer-if there ever is one- will be yes, no, and maybe."

"Then Bureau headquarters. That can't be-"

"Wrong. In D.C. there are possible coconspirators, some of whom might be involved in the decision. We don't know how far this goes, or how wide. If word leaks to Charabi, Bian's body will be carried out with the morning garbage."

Jim Tirey had suddenly become a visibly conflicted man. He wanted to do the right thing-save an American citizen in distress- and he wanted to do the right and proper bureaucratic thing-save his own ass.

Phyllis took his arm and said, "Under no circumstances will this search leak out. That's best for Charabi and that's best for the U.S. government. Charabi will not be publicly embarrassed, and if offered the option, I am sure he'll want this kept quiet. The embassy and Washington will never know about it." She looked at him and emphasized, "I think that's best for us." She asked, "What do you think?"

This arrangement seemed to assuage his professional and other concerns, and he and Phyllis began hatching a plan for a clandestine raid on Charabi's office, which essentially involved Jim handpicking four or five trusted federal agents, then threatening professional castration if they whispered a word about this to anyone.

I said, "One other condition. I get ten minutes with Charabi. Alone. I have more familiarity with the evidence against him, and thus I have the highest likelihood of convincing him to voluntarily answer a few questions." I noted, "Also, my name will be the only one he remembers."

Jim liked this idea even better.

But it wasn't exactly accurate, since Phyllis probably knew more about Charabi than Charabi knew about himself. But she did not correct my misstatement; in fact she noted, "That makes good sense." Then she said, very seriously, "Don't leave any scars or bruises."

"Fine." I would kill him without scars or bruises.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The receptionist was a gentleman of Arab descent, heavyset, wearing a black Western suit and a skinny black necktie, who looked up with a naive smile as Tirey and I entered the office.

The smile evaporated after five more agents pushed through the doorway and began fanning out around his office-this seemed to clear up any misunderstanding that we were welcome guests. Sounding suddenly anxious, he asked, "How may I help you?"

Tirey stopped about a foot from his desk and flashed a phony piece of paper and a real shield in his face. He identified himself and said very forcefully, "I have reason to suspect that somebody in this office is involved with a kidnapping. This warrant authorizes my agents to conduct a search."

The space we had entered was a large anteroom that was messy and disorganized, with about seven desks, behind each of which sat an Arab gentleman, dressed, as was the receptionist, in severe business attire. It smelled of stale cigarettes and old teabags, and looked like a cross between a ward politician's back room and a busy mortuary. Tirey instructed the receptionist, "Tell your people to leave their desks and stand against that wall." He pointed at a wall. "If anybody touches anything, they'll be cuffed and arrested."

Apparently they all spoke English, or they knew the drill, because they began standing, hanging up phones, dropping pens, and stepping away from their desks.

I asked the receptionist, "Is Mahmoud Charabi in?"

We had checked beforehand and confirmed that indeed, he was at that moment in his office. Still, it was instructive to see the look on this poor man's face. Unlike his boss, this guy must've hung around during Saddam's reign, because the sudden appearance of armed men bearing legal papers and threats put a very worried expression on his face. He replied hesitantly, "I… I do not know this."

I pointed at the phone on the desk. "Tell him Colonel Drummond from the American Army wants a word with him. Now."

He lifted up the phone and punched a number. He spoke in Arabic, but whatever he said took a lot longer than what I said. For all I knew, Charabi's office had a fire escape, and this guy was telling his boss to make tracks.

It was time to make my move; there were two doors on the far side of the room and I walked swiftly toward them. I opened the first door, which turned out to be a toilet, and then I threw open the second door, which turned out to be the devil's lair, and I entered. The door had a switch lock, and to ensure I wasn't disturbed, I shut the door gently behind me, turned the switch, and then turned around and faced my enemy.

A man sat behind a medium-size wooden desk in an office that was neither large nor even well-furnished-it contained only the aforementioned desk, a metal file cabinet, a badly stained wall-to-wall carpet, and Mahmoud Charabi sipping a cup of tea. This was hardly what he had schemed and plotted for decades to end up in, but that was the whole point; this room was a way station, and if things worked out, his next office would be palatial in size and decor, he would have an army at his beck and call, and a nation at his feet.

He stared at me a moment, hung up the phone, started to stand, then changed his mind and fell back into his chair. That moment of indecision aside, he had enough presence of mind to demand, "Why do you wish to see me? You have no appointment."

I moved toward his desk. A rotating chair was positioned in the middle of the floor that looked like, and probably was, U.S. Army property, which I interpreted as permission to sit, and I did.

He suggested, "I think you should leave." After a moment in which I did not leave, he informed me, "Now I am calling the American ambassador to protest." He lifted up the phone and began hitting numbers with angry little punches.

There are two ways to approach a delicate situation such as this; diplomacy is the recommended course for all the obvious advantages that it avoids nasty confrontations, often gets results, and leaves no ugly feelings. And to be fair, the man to my front was perhaps weeks away from becoming the most powerful man in this country, and as such, he deserved my respect and courtesy, if not for himself, then for the office within his grasp. Also he had powerful friends in Washington who could screw up my paycheck, my career, or worse.

That, however, has never been my way and I said, "Put down that phone."

He continued dialing.

I said, "Go ahead, then. It's your funeral."

He stopped dialing. I seemed to have his attention and he asked, "What are you talking about?"

"Well… for starters, who murdered Clifford Daniels? Then, who told the Iranians that we broke their intelligence code? And finally, who shot and kidnapped an American Army major? There's more, but I think that's a good beginning. Don't you?"

Somewhere in there I struck a chord, or several chords. His face went white. He said, "I… I have no idea what you're talking about. W-who are you… and w-who sent you?"

I ignored his questions and said, "Ordinarily, at moments like this, I would read you your rights and advise you to get a lawyer. But today, I'm your lawyer. And today, you have no rights, only options." I paused, then briefly explained why he should pay attention to these options. "I can destroy you with one phone call."