Mahmoud Charabi, incidentally, was in his late fifties, medium height, and a bit on the plump side-pampered and soft-looking, actually-which did not reinforce the tough-guy expression he was trying to give me. He had graying hair around a bald dome, waxy flesh around a formless face, thick lips around a tight mouth, and full cheeks around small brown eyes that were staring at me a little incredulously. The overall impression was a sort of roundness and flabbiness, which might be why people underestimated this man.

Also he possessed excellent English and was fairly well-spoken, but with a discernible accent, and I detected a slight stutter, perhaps a nervous affliction. To tell the truth, nothing about him looked powerful, charismatic, or even slightly imposing. He looked more like an overweight insurance adjustor than the George Washington of this country. Probably this accounted for why he was trying to lie, scheme, and murder his way into power.

Also he had the unfortunate Nixonian reflex of squeezing his hands together at moments of high stress-at that moment, he looked like he was pressing coal into diamonds.

Lest he harbored any doubts, I informed him, "I have Clifford Daniels's laptop computer." His eyes widened, and to confirm his worst fears, I continued, "You're Crusader Two. And yes-Clifford was both stupid and sloppy. Because, yes, he failed to eliminate the e-mail messages. And yes, Mr. Charabi, they were decoded, and they are very… incriminating. Message after message."

"But they-"

Not allowing him to get a word in, I continued, "Imagine, if you will, how those messages will look on the front page of the New York Times." He began contemplating the empty blotter on his desk, and in case he forgot, I reminded him what he had written, saying, "Those unflattering assessments of your fellow leaders here in Iraq. Your whiny complaints about the American Army and the American ambassador-'dickhead'?… Do you think he'll be flattered by that nickname? I don't. And best for last: You and Cliff cooking up that deal to tell the Iranians we had broken their code."

When he made no response, I said, "Wow. I mean, wow. How is that going to look?"

If his face had looked white before, he now was on the verge of disappearing into thin air. He never imagined he would hear these words; he thought Daniels was dead, that his secrets went to the grave. He said, "Uh… w-who… please, who are you?"

"It doesn't matter. Major Bian Tran will be brought to this office immediately. You have ten minutes, or…" I allowed that thought to drag off.

He looked up at me, very surprised. "I… I… w-what? I have never heard of this… major… what did you say is her name?"

I stood up and leaned over his desk. "On your orders, her vehicle was ambushed yesterday evening. She was wounded and kidnapped." We locked eyes. "If she's dead, you're dead. I'll kill you myself." I pointed at my watch. "Nine minutes."

"I have told you the truth. I do not know her… and d-definitely… I have not kidnapped her. Whoever told you this… It is a d-despicable l-lie."

I maintained eye contact and informed him, "Major Tran wrote your name in blood on the dashboard before she was dragged out of her car."

"Oh…" He glanced around his office, tried to compose himself, and a modicum of color returned to his face. He said with surprising coolness, "Why don't you sit? Let us talk this over without further threats."

"Here's a better idea. Why don't you pick up the phone and order your people to get Tran over here. Chop-chop."

"Because I can't. You are wrong." He drew a few breaths, then said, "You come into my office-my office-accusing me of murder and kidnapping. You cannot blackmail me into confessing things that are such big, terrible lies." He had found his voice, apparently, because he then ordered imperiously, "Sit down."

This guy needed a pop in the nose and I leaned forward to give him one, but he did something that slightly upset my plan. His right hand came up from underneath his desk and in it was a Glock with the barrel about six inches from my groin. He repeated himself, saying, "Sit down," more emphatically and, given that the pistol was threatening man's best friend, more persuasively.

I did not sit, but I did back off a few steps. I said, "Half a dozen FBI agents are in your outer office. Listen…" We both took a moment, and you could hear through the walls Tirey's Feds noisily trashing his outer office. "Hand me that pistol and I promise I won't beat the crap out of you."

"I think not. You broke into my office, you threatened me, went crazy, and attacked me. Self-defense-I have justification to kill you."

At moments like this, you have to ask yourself, is he serious or is he bluffing? Well, I had just threatened everything he had schemed for decades to get, I knew he was ruthless, and I had no doubt he was capable of murder. Also he was right; when there are only two witnesses to a murder, the living one has a monopoly on the truth.

But given all that, he hadn't fired yet-that meant I had something he wanted. His curiosity was the only reason I was alive. As long I didn't cure that problem, I had a chance.

You should never take your focus from a man's eyes at a moment like this, but I looked at his gun. "Hey, you know what?" I told him what. "Clifford Daniels died of a gunshot from an identical pistol. A Glock 17 Pro. Right?"

"Is this so? Well… I had no idea."

"I just thought it was, you know, odd. A quirky coincidence."

"Perhaps not such a coincidence. I purchased one for me, and one for Cliff. Matching pistols. Brothers in arms." He smiled at me. "A fitting gift-for all he was doing for my poor, miserable country."

"You give America phony intelligence, and now over a thousand of our soldiers are dead. You give Clifford a present and he dies by that gun. Does anybody ever get gifts from you and live?"

He waved the pistol. "You will not be alive to hear me say this again. Sit down."

I saw that his trigger finger had turned white. I sat.

He came right to the point and demanded, "Where is Cliff's computer?"

Clearly, this was part of what was keeping me alive-probably the only thing. I was sure that if I told him the computer was the property of the CIA, and that I alone did not hold the key to his political survival, I was dead. In summary, he needed me alive long enough to learn how to contain this thing, and I needed to stay alive long enough to get my hands around his throat. So I lied. "Hidden. Major Tran and I, well… once we saw what was on the hard drive… frankly, it was impossible to resist."

"Why?"

"Because there are enough powerful names in those messages to make sure we'll both retire as general officers."

He appreciated my self-serving logic and asked, "So you hid it?"

"I put it in a safe place. Someplace only the major and I know about."

He regarded me a moment, then said, "Who are you?"

"You know who I am."

He repeated his question with his pistol pointed between my eyes, this time adding, "You won't hear me ask again."

"Major Tran's partner. She and I are investigating the death of Clifford Daniels."

"Ah… well, then I am confused. I was informed that my old friend took his own life. So, Colonel…" He apparently had a politician's vanity about glasses, without the politician's gift for name recall, because he had to lean forward and study my nametag. "Colonel Drummond… suicide or murder? Which was it?"

"You don't know me?"

"Why? Have we met before?"

He did look clueless, as if he was totally unfamiliar with my name. But if somebody in Washington had informed him about Bian Tran, surely they had also informed him about me. I found it curious that he felt a need to play games; he had the gun, after all. But, since he was being selective, I decided to be selective, too, and instead addressed his first question. "Cliff's death looked like suicide. Certainly, he had ample motive-a nasty divorce, a disappointing life, and as you know, an order to appear before a congressional investigating committee. He was already professionally ruined; next stop was public disgrace."