"I understand," I a.s.sured him. "And they understand."

I got up and took a few steps toward the door, and he said somewhat weirdly, "You know, Cliff really was my dear friend. I liked him."

I turned around. We stared at each other a really long time, then I said, "What you like, Mr. Charabi, you seem to destroy. You killed Cliff as surely as if you had pulled the trigger yourself. And your scheming, lying, and manipulations have done the same thing for your people. They are still being slaughtered by Sunnis, and you are not the man to save them. That said, I truly do wish you good luck."

I walked out and closed his office door quietly behind me. I approached Jim Tirey and informed him that this was a bust, that Charabi was not in any way implicated in Bian's kidnapping, or in the murder of Clifford Daniels, and it was time to clear out. He gave me a look that combined surprise and confusion with annoyance and said, "You told me it was conclusive."

"I was wrong."

"Wrong . . . ?"

"He had nothing to do with Bian, or with Daniels's murder. Sorry."

"You're . . . sorry sorry?" He asked, "And just how do you know this?"

"Because he had a gun, the perfect legal justification to kill me, and I'm alive."

He stared at me for a long time. Eventually, he called his agents into a knot and informed them, "We had bad information. Time to get out of here--now."

He opened the door and we began quickly filing out.

To our common surprise, however, awaiting us in the hallway was an attractive blonde female reporter with a man beside her holding a reflective light, and a second man hefting a camera on his shoulder.

The reporter was staring at me, though I was sure we'd never met. But in her eyes I was sure I saw recognition, which was odd. Jim Tirey also caught her look, and he stared at me a moment inquisitively.

Then the light flashed on and the lovely female reporter completely ignored me and stepped forward, directly in the path of Jim Tirey. She stuffed her mike into his face and said, "Inside sources tell us that Mahmoud Charabi is under suspicion of pa.s.sing vital secrets to the Iranians. Specifically, that we had broken their intelligence code. Could you comment on what your search turned up?"

Tirey looked at me, and we shared an unspoken thought. He then did something unfortunate and shared that thinking. "Oh . . . s.h.i.t."

So in the interest of getting a more family-friendly comment, the reporter and Tirey tried again, and in true Bureau form, he told her, "No comment."

He shoved the mike out of his face and began walking as fast as his feet could carry him down the hallway and out of the building.

We all walked behind him. The reporter, true to her profession-- i.e., a big pain in the a.s.s--jogged along beside us and persisted in peppering us with relevant questions like, "Is Charabi under arrest? . . . Did you find a smoking gun? . . . Who ordered this search?"

n.o.body commented. We all looked like idiots.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Bad news always has company.

Actually, bad thing number one, the story about how Mahmoud Charabi was suspected of exposing American secrets to the Iranians--including Jim Tirey's awkward screen debut--was not even the lead event in the news trailers.

It was almost totally eclipsed by bad thing number two: the shocking tale about the two Saudi princes who were named as financiers for al-Zarqawi, with an interesting sideline about how the Saudi government might be complicitous, and what this might mean for our already troubled relationship. Obviously there had been another leak, and I was sure people in Washington were very unhappy about that. Maybe this wasn't such a bad thing for the American public to know, but it was profoundly bad news for the two princes, and for Saudi Arabia, and for those in the American government who had colluded in the attempt to cover it up. And, too, it could be very bad for my favorite guy--me. I mean, were I the one searching for the source of these leaks, Sean Drummond would be my number one suspect.

I caught a little of this second story on one of those obnoxious cable news scream shows in my room in the Visiting Officers' Quarters. The anchor was interviewing a p.i.s.sed-off, loudmouth expert on things Middle Eastern, who was haranguing some slick-looking bulls.h.i.tter sent over from the Department of State to try to defuse this thing. Middle East expert was screaming, "The Saudis are not not our friends. Never been our friends. We buy their oil, they buy our terrorists." our friends. Never been our friends. We buy their oil, they buy our terrorists."

Anchorman says to Middle East expert, "Aren't you overstating things?"

State Department guy answers for him, suggesting, "I would say he definitely is. This is not the occasion for histrionics. Our relationship with Saudi Arabia is very complicated."

Middle East expert guy stares with disbelief into the screen. "Complicated? If you pay a wh.o.r.e to bite off your own . . . uh . . . your thing off . . . what's complicated about that? That's stupid!"

Pompous news anchor says, "Please . . . be careful here. Families are watching, and--"

"We are not ignoring this," State Department guy interrupts. "The Secretary is in discussions about this with the Saudi amba.s.sador. We're requesting the immediate extradition of the two princes."

Middle East expert guy laughs and says, "Blah, blah, blah. You know what your Secretary should tell them. We changed our minds. We invaded the wrong p.i.s.sant--now we're gonna turn Jidda into a big Wal-Mart."

Both guys disappear, and anchorman looks gravely into camera, goes on a bit about what a big deal this is, then closes by noting, "But the big question is . . . what effect these newest revelations will have on the President's poll ratings in this neck-and-neck race."

Which brought up bad thing three. Phyllis was gone, disappeared. She had, however, left behind a brief, perfunctory note addressed to me, that read, "I've been called back to Washington. Close out here, then be on the most ASAP flight. Go straight to Langley, and straight to Marcus Harvey of the Office of Professional Ethics, who will brief you about your rights (nonexistent) and then usher you downstairs for your polygraph appointment. Caveat Emptor; sinners fare better than liars." That could be an excellent new Agency motto, I thought, and below her signature was a brief afterthought: "PS, Truly sorry about Bian."

As I mentioned earlier, you have to read between the lines. Since somebody had leaked and blown the whistle on the princes, somebody needed to be screwed, and a screwee--aka, scapegoat--was needed. Since Bian was kidnapped and beyond suspicion, since neither Phyllis nor Tirey had leaked, and since the Saudis hadn't ratted themselves out, by process of elimination, that left moi. Nor did it matter if they could prove I was guilty or not--I was guilty.

If blowing your cover is the cardinal sin of this business, exposing nasty secrets to the press is the mortal sin. I had no idea how the Agency handles these things. I know the Army policy, however, and it goes like this: What you can't kill, you eat. But maybe the Agency had a different approach. Maybe it just killed you.

Bad thing number four: still no word on the fate of Bian Tran. I had struck out and was out of reasonable suspicions, sensible leads, or even idiotic guesses. It didn't matter anyway. My name was mud with Phyllis. And because of me, Jim Tirey was on a wanted poster back at Hoover City, and his tour had gone from career-enhancing to career-ending.

But since it wasn't Charabi, I was down to the usual suspects: terrorists, people who sell captives to terrorists, or garden-variety a.s.s-holes who kipnap and kill at random, just for kicks. Maybe the MP sergeant was right. Maybe "CHA" referred to letters on a license plate. Or maybe Bian, out of her mind with pain and fear, had been doodling gibberish in her own blood.

I felt as bad as I had ever felt. I had missed something, a clue, a brilliant revelation, a magical key that could unlock the truth and save her life. Yet, irrational and superst.i.tious as it sounds, a feeling, an instinct, some primitive premonition was telling me that Bian was still alive.

But if I couldn't save her, it was time for the last thing I wanted to do, and the one thing I had to do. Somebody needed to notify her loved ones, and that kind of bad news is best delivered by someone who knows and cares for her. So I walked to the office of the corps G1--the head personnel weenie--where a staff sergeant sat behind a short desk directly inside the door.

Personnel clerks have more power in a single finger than all the generals and colonels in the Army. With a single keystroke they can have your paycheck sent to Timbuktu, or you you sent to Timbuktu, or alter the religious preference in your personnel file to Muslim, which is not the best faith to have before a promotion board these days. So I smiled courteously and said, "Good afternoon, Sergeant. Major Mark Kemble, First Armored Division. Can you please tell me how to get hold of him?" sent to Timbuktu, or alter the religious preference in your personnel file to Muslim, which is not the best faith to have before a promotion board these days. So I smiled courteously and said, "Good afternoon, Sergeant. Major Mark Kemble, First Armored Division. Can you please tell me how to get hold of him?"

"Professional or personal?" he asked. "Sorry. Gotta ask."

"Both. His fiancee was kidnapped."

"I'm on it, sir," he replied, and began punching b.u.t.tons and at the same time eyeing his computer screen. After a few seconds, he articulated, "Kemble . . . Kimble? An 'e' or an 'i'?"

"Why do you think the Army sewed this nametag on my uniform?"

"Uh . . ."

"So I can remember how to spell it."

Old joke--bad joke--but he laughed anyway. "I'll try both," he suggested, then did a few more keyboard punches, and he asked, "The rank and unit . . . you're sure?"

"Why?"

"Well . . ." He bent forward and pressed his nose an inch from his screen, "I've got three Kembles with 'e's . . . and wow, one with an 'i' . . . you know . . . same as that guy with the missing arm in that old TV series, and . . . hey. Look at that . . ."

I leaned forward. "What?" "What?"

"He's a Richard also. Personal hobby . . . sorry. You know we got two William Clintons in theater? A George Bush, too. How'd you like to be that poor schlub? I'll bet he takes a world of s.h.i.t, and--" He saw my face and said, "Sorry. I get carried away." He added, "Our Kembles and Kimbles are all enlisted--no Marks, no majors."

"Is your system inclusive?"

"It's connected directly to unit SIDPERS," he explained, referring to the Army's computerized personnel system, which I knew was updated daily. "But maybe your guy DEROSed," he hypothesized, meaning he rotated back to the States. "Or," he suggested, frowning, "could be he's in a cla.s.sified a.s.signment. I've run into this before. These black unit types--Delta Force, Task Force 160, various snake-eaters-- they think they're too good for the theater database."

I could see that this upset his clerkish sensibilities. I said, "So those are the possibilities. What do we do?"

"What I always do." He giggled. "Kick it downhill." He picked up the phone, read off the number for his counterpart in the First Armored Division from a sheet on his desk, dialed, and then we waited. He identified himself to whoever answered, and handed me the phone. I explained to whomever I was talking to who I was looking for. After a few moments, the voice said, "There's no Mark Kemble in the division."

"This is a notification issue. Help me out here."

He said, "Let me talk to my boss. Hold on."

A new voice came on, a major named Hardy, who said, "Sir, could you tell me what this is about?"

"As I informed your sergeant, notification. Major Mark Kemble's fiancee was kidnapped in Badhdad yesterday."

There was a long pause. Mention the word "notification" and even the most bloodless military bureaucrat turns into a human being. As military people, we are all sensitive to, and sympathetic toward, the need for speedy notification, not for the soldier, who is beyond caring, but for the families left behind. The Army tends to treat living soldiers like dirt--it may screw up their pay, short them on body and vehicular armor, force them to spend their careers in places they don't want to live, working for bosses they hate, abusing their families with pay and housing that are a joke--but die, and the Army turns on a dime into the most sensitive, caring organization on earth.

I have often wondered if the Army doesn't have it backward-- treat the living well and short-shrift the deceased--but honoring our dead is part of our tradition, and in an eerie way, it is a comfort for the living soldiers as well. "You know what . . ." he finally said. "You got bad info."

"Do I?"

"Yes. Mark Kemble was KIA five months ago."

"I think you're mistaken."

"I think not. We lost only two majors this year. I personally handled the corpse evacuation for both officers." He added, "Karbala. That's where Kemble bought it. Bullet through the heart."

I suppose I must've been in shock, because the next thing I knew the major was asking, "Sir . . . sir sir . . . Are you still with me?" . . . Are you still with me?"

"Uh . . . yes. An administrative glitch, I'm sure and--" I hung up. All I could do was stare at the floor. Mark Kemble . . . dead. For the past five months . . . dead.

Bian had lied. But, why why? Further, if her two days in Baghdad weren't spent in the loving arms of her fiance, where had she been, and what had she been doing? The sergeant was staring at me, and I composed myself enough to ask him where the corps G2's office was located--meaning the chief intelligence officer and staff for the ground war in Iraq.

He gave me the directions, and I walked as quickly as my feet would carry me, first out of the building, and then toward the skiff he had described. It was a controlled facility with a buzzer by the door, which I pushed, and there was a camera over the entrance into which I smiled.

Somebody inside electronically unlocked the door and I entered a square building, specifically into a small anteroom that was spa.r.s.ely furnished. This time, the receptionist was a female buck sergeant who was studying a men's fitness magazine with considerable intensity, for the articles, I'm sure.

I interrupted her education and told her I needed to speak with any senior officer who had been here for six months or longer, and who remembered an officer named Major Tran. She told me she would see who she could find, and left.

She returned about two minutes later, accompanied by a good-looking lieutenant colonel with the emblem of military intelligence on his collar. I introduced myself, he stuck out his hand, and we shook. He said, "Kemp Chester. How can I help you?"

"Do you have an office?"

He shook his head. "Only generals have offices. I have a carrel. That okay?"

"Not okay. Let's walk."

He gave me an odd look, but out of courtesy or curiosity he followed me, first out of the skiff, and then we began walking slowly around the Green Zone compound. There were a lot of ways to get into this, but I needed to cover my tracks, and without preamble I asked, "You knew Major Bian Tran?"

"Yeah. We worked together. She left . . . oh, two, three months back." He asked, "Why?"

"I'm part of the investigating staff for a 15-6 investigation." He understood that this was a pre-court-martial investigation, the Army equivalent of a grand jury. In response to his raised eyebrows, I a.s.sured him, "Relax. She's not the accused."

He seemed relieved to hear this and nodded.

I continued, in my most lawyerly, officious tone, "Major Tran now works in an investigatory agency in the Pentagon. She's a critical witness for what looks likely to turn into a court-martial. The questions I'll be asking are in the nature of a background check." At least this last part was true.

"I see. Well . . . would a few general observations help?"

"They would. Please proceed."

"All-round great officer. Brilliant. Competent. Honest and hardworking, and--"

"Excuse me . . . Kemp, I can read her efficiency ratings myself. What did you think about her personally?" . . . Kemp, I can read her efficiency ratings myself. What did you think about her personally?"

"Well . . . everybody liked her. Ask around. You won't find a soul with a bad word to say." He smiled at me. "But if you do, give me his name, so I can lump him up."

People get nervous about legal investigations, and I purposely made no response, which usually has the effect of making witnesses nervous and more talkative.

After a moment, he said, "I don't know if you've seen her. Absolute knockout. Incredible body, gorgeous face, and--" He stopped in midsentence and cleared his throat. "That sounds s.e.xist, doesn't it? I'm just saying--"

I offered him a manly smile--"She's hot"--and we ended up manly smiling at each other. I make-believe jotted in a make-believe notebook, and intoned, "Under physical description, the colonel stated, without the slightest innuendo, that the major maintained her body and fitness at Army standards."

"Hah . . . that's a good one."

So much for guy bonding. I asked Colonel Chester, "What was Major Tran's a.s.signment here?"

"She was a.s.signed to a special cell. Part of G2, the theater intelligence office, but not, if you get my drift."

"Sensitive stuff?"

"Oh . . . very."

"Like what?"

By his expression, you'd think I had just told him I slept with his mother and then bragged to everybody at school about it. "That's none of your business."

"Unless I have a Top Secret clearance, which I do. And unless it's directly relevant to my investigation, which it is. Please answer my question."

LTC Chester, however, was n.o.body's fool, and replied, "After I see the written authorization, and after you're read on. I'm not some cherry second lieutenant, Drummond. Don't blow smoke up my b.u.t.t." He asked, "What's this 15-6 about, anyway?"