"I'm tired of the games, Phyllis."

"Humor me about the fish, anyway," she replied. "I was first introduced to it in Vietnam. Did you know I spent five years there? During the war, of course. I loved the country, and especially, I loved the people."

Phyllis is not much for small talk, so she was leading up to something, and I had to let it play out.

She looked at me and said, "I wish I could say I look back fondly on those years. I don't, though."

I was obviously expected to ask why, and I did.

"I could say because it was such a horrible and ill-conceived tragedy for our nation. That's how Americans look back on it. We lost fifty-eight thousand lives. I knew some of those people . . . I knew very many of them, actually."

"One of my uncles is on the wall. As are the fathers of several of my friends."

"Not many fathers are on the wall. They were mostly so young." She looked away for a moment, then said, "At least we were able to fit all our dead on a wall. They lost two million lives, and we left millions of southerners to a h.e.l.lish fate. What about them?"

Usually, Phyllis's ulterior meanings are more nuanced and subtle than this. What it boiled down to was this: The two people at this table knew enough to possibly force a premature end to this war as well. She wasn't going to insult my intelligence by lecturing me about American honor, or the geostrategic stakes, or even my security obligations. I appreciated that. I know my duty, and I do it--most of the time. I would've told her to screw off, anyway.

So I told her something she already knew. "You knew about Bian from the beginning."

"I knew more than you knew."

"Then why?"

"Why did I let Bian into the investigation in the first place? Why did I allow her to go with it? Why didn't I confide in you?" She paused, then asked, "Or why did I let her slip away?"

She sipped her tea, obviously pleased that I had figured out this much. After all, no boss likes to think they hired a complete idiot--it makes them them feel stupid. At the same time, she was testing me. feel stupid. At the same time, she was testing me.

"Start with how how you knew." you knew."

"Well . . . like you, I wondered why an MP officer was at a civilian murder scene." She added, "When I saw how very determined she was to become involved . . . Let's just say that aroused my curiosity all the more."

"Because, unlike me, you knew this was the second related murder."

She did not reply.

"Reason to be suspicious, right?"

"At least reason to dig a little deeper," she acknowledged. "From a background check at Army personnel I learned about her former job in Baghdad. General Bentson is an acquaintance. I called, and he told me the whole sad story."

"And you already knew how her fiance died?"

"Did I forget to mention that I'm in charge of that investigation, too?"

"In fact, I think you did fail to mention it."

"Well, I'm mentioning it now. We spun our wheels for two months, Sean. All the resources of the Agency, and we couldn't figure out who compromised this very sensitive and important operation, or who murdered Diane. How frustrating. Embarra.s.sing, too."

"But then, you were pretty sure you had your murderer."

"I thought I had a reasonable suspect."

"Why didn't you have Bian arrested? I would."

"It was all circ.u.mstantial. No evidence linked her to Diane's murder, and Daniels's case could have been suicide." She picked at something on the table, a piece of lint, maybe. "You yourself told me that it looked like suicide."

Actually, I had said that it was murder made to appear appear like suicide. Phyllis has an amazing memory for details, incidentally. I nodded anyway. like suicide. Phyllis has an amazing memory for details, incidentally. I nodded anyway.

She said, "In my judgment, a premature arrest was too risky." She smiled and added, "She would have lawyered up, and you know what a mess lawyers make of things."

I nodded again, though this was not exactly true. The toughest part of a homicide investigation is finding a suspect and a motive. There are no perfect crimes, only unsolved ones, but sometimes you have to find the suspect to find the imperfections. Detective Barry Enders, in fact, absent both suspect and motive, had already collected evidence sufficient for any competent prosecutor to put Bian away for a long time. Every criminal investigator knows this, I knew this, and I was sure Phyllis knew this, too.

I said, "Regardless, you had to understand the dangers of placing a murder suspect inside an investigation about a crime in which she had a conflict of interest. She was the killer, after all."

"Turn that logic on its head--can you think of a better place to park a suspect than right under your nose?"

"How about in jail?"

The boy reappeared with a plate of appetizers, a combination of squiggly dead things and rice squashed into marble-size b.a.l.l.s. Phyllis said something to him in Vietnamese, and he laughed and scampered back into the kitchen. The kid was obviously charmed by her. I really needed to have a talk with him.

Phyllis speared a rice thing with a chopstick and handed it across the table. She said, "Try one of these. They're marinated in vinegar and sugar. Quite tasty."

I bit into it. Not bad. An interesting combination of sweet and sour, yin and yang, sort of easy and hard to take at the same time--like Phyllis.

She speared another one, popped it into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. She said, "Putting Bian into the investigation was the key that unlocked everything. We learned how the leak occurred, who was responsible, and why."

"And what about the collateral damage?"

"I don't worry about that." She noted, "The country doesn't really understand this war. Nor does it seem to care to. Turki al-Fayef was right about that. Forgive my cynicism, but our people are more interested in Tom Cruise's silly antics on Oprah's couch than who's giving secrets to the Iranians. In a week, the Saudi princes will be forgotten, washed away by a hurricane or a gruesome murder somewhere. And Mahmoud Charabi, should he ever come back to Washington, will be welcomed like a visiting dignitary."

Sad. But also, I thought, probably true. But I was also sure that she understood that at some point, America could care. And if what happened in this case ended up on the front page of the morning newspaper, that point might be tomorrow night. That's why she and I were sharing this table and pretending to enjoy each other's company. Phyllis had been dispatched to make sure I kept my mouth shut.

"So why did you pick me?" I asked her.

"I trusted you to do the right thing. I still do."

"And what is the right thing, Phyllis?"

She did not answer. She didn't need to.

I asked, "Why didn't you tell me about Bian?"

"I needed you to learn the truth about the compromise of our intelligence, and about Mahmoud Charabi."

"Instead of discovering my partner was a murderer."

"Yes. Our job is intelligence, not law enforcement. I warned you about that at the beginning, Sean. You should have listened." She added more warmly, "You should be proud of all you accomplished. I'm proud of you."

"Can we cut the c.r.a.p? You're here to make sure I don't squeal and to find out what it will cost."

She studied her chopsticks, then looked me in the eye and asked, "What will it cost?"

"More than you can offer. Important people have done bad and dishonorable things. They deserve to be punished. They need need to be punished." to be punished."

She speared another rice ball and studied it a moment, which I guess was easier than studying me. She said, "The Director and I were at the White House all afternoon. The President and his National Security Advisor were fully briefed on everything."

"And were they shocked?" I asked in an appropriately sarcastic tone.

She put down her chopsticks, wiped her lips with her napkin, and seemed to think about it. She informed me, "Thomas Hirschfield has been offered a prestigious position outside of the Defense Department. An offer that, he was warned, expires tomorrow. And Albert Tigerman came to the awakening this afternoon that he needs more time with his family. His wife and children, he was told, feel neglected. The President will regretfully accept his resignation in the morning."

I was a little surprised to hear this. But neither was I fully satisfied, and I said, "That's it?"

"Stupidity, no matter how big, is not criminal behavior, Sean. Think of it this way: Thousands of good soldiers have given their lives to make Iraq a success. It no longer matters how we got into it, or even the stupid things that happened in between. What matters now--all that matters--is how we get out, and what happens if we leave too soon."

We were now at the heart of the matter. I wasn't going to tip my hand and Phyllis wasn't going to rush things.

Phyllis said, "If you think about it, all wars are a failure of policymakers at some level. Pearl Harbor didn't have to happen. The attack on Korea was the result of terrible stupidity in Washington, and China's entry was a blunder on top of a blunder. And then, there's Vietnam . . ." She took my arm. "Do I really need to explain this?"

"And what does the Agency get?"

"The pride of a job well done."

"Say again."

"We did not blackmail the administration, as you seem to be suggesting. The guilty parties are being punished. That was all we wanted, and that's all we asked for. We're satisfied. You should be, too."

"Well, I'm not." I mentioned, "Besides, you forgot somebody."

"Did I?"

"You know you did. Mahmoud Charabi."

"Oh, him. Well, there are twenty thousand jihadis in Iraq who dream every night of killing him. Eventually, somebody's going to get lucky. Trust me on this."

That usually is the kind of statement you take at face value, but considering the source, maybe not. I didn't want to know.

The kid reappeared with white fish and rice for Phyllis, and on a separate plate were two Big Macs, a sack of fries, and two cold Budweisers for me. Phyllis laughed and informed me, "The boy remembered you. The entire staff remembers you."

So we ate and we chatted. To keep the meal pleasant, we spoke of other matters, which did not include shoe sales at Nordstrom, so I did not have to reach across the table and strangle her. Phyllis predicted the President would win tomorrow's election, and in her salty opinion that was fitting because he had created the mess and he should have to clean it up. And so on.

But I had asked one question that Phyllis had skillfully evaded and never answered: Why did she let Bian get away? That was okay. I had already figured it out.

Because after I departed Dulles International for my apartment, I put two and two together and finally got four. The "detective" in the expensive suit, his partner, and the victim weren't working for Bian. They were Phyllis's people, a tail team that had probably followed Bian from the moment she set down in Delaware, and their job was to ensure that Bian made her escape. When I stepped forward and it looked like I was going to stop her, they stepped forward and stopped me.

That still didn't answer the why behind the why. Nor would Phyllis ever tell me; not the truth, anyway. Because, though she would never admit this, Phyllis is not as coldhearted or as jaded as she likes to pretend. But n.o.body fears a dragon lady with no teeth.

Like me, I was sure she sympathized with Bian, and maybe she felt guilty that her beloved Agency had played a role in Mark's death, and maybe she decided the country owed Bian Tran a chance to get her own little slice of justice, and then the chance for a new life. Of course, it helped that Bian's intense personal need for retribution coincided with Phyllis's own very intense professional need to learn what had happened.

I recalled the moment at Camp Alpha when I walked into the conference room--when Bian had been showing her Mark's picture--and I recalled the misty look in Phyllis's eyes.

The plates were cleared. Coffee came. The aimless chatter was over, and Phyllis came to the point and said to me, "You told me in Iraq that you want out. Do you still feel that way?"

"Here's a hint. I cleared out my desk this afternoon. There's a brief letter under the blotter on your desk."

Obviously she already knew this, and she said, "One should never make important choices on emotions."

"I knew you'd say that."

She looked me in the eye and added, "I would hate to lose you."

"You'll get used to it."

She lifted up the coffee carafe and asked, "Another cup?"

"You made me the man in the middle, Phyllis. You and Bian both. You kept me in the dark, fed me bulls.h.i.t, and played me for a fool."

"So this is about hurt feelings?"

"No. Yes."

"Can I at least interest you in one final mission? Your country needs you."

"Give somebody else a turn."

"A few short weeks. That's all it will take. You owe me two more years. Do this, and I'll arrange a good a.s.signment with the Army if that's still your wish. You have my word."

"You'll release me now."

"Or what?"

"Or I promise you the two worst years of your life. You know I can do that."

She smiled at this threat and said, "Aren't you at all curious about the mission?"

"I was curious last time. Send somebody who still trusts you. Somebody who doesn't know better."

"That's not an option, Sean."

"Because n.o.body trusts you?"

"Because n.o.body else has the right background, your credentials."

"Then change your requirements."

She bent down to her purse and withdrew something. It was a white envelope, which she studied for a long moment before casually sliding it across the table at me. I did not pick it up.

She said, "Are you afraid to look?"

"Is the job in Bermuda?"