Kate and I made it down to breakfast on Sunday morning, and our fellow guests turned out to be no big surprise: the usual collection of cool oenophiles from Manhattan-in this case, three couples of indeterminate gender who took everything very seriously, like they were auditioning for National Public Radio. I couldn't tell if they knew one another, or who was with whom, or if they'd recently all met at an anti-testicle rally.

They were chatting and passing around sections of the Sunday Times as though they'd found sacred texts rolled up in their napkin rings.

We all did the intros, and Kate and I sat at the two empty places at the dining room table. The prison matron brought us coffee and orange juice and recommended the hot oatmeal for starters. I asked, "Do you have bagels?"

"No."

"I can't read the Times without a bagel. Hot oatmeal goes with the Wall Street Journal. Do you have a Wall Street Journal?"

Kate interrupted. "Hot oatmeal sounds fine, thank you."

My breakfast companions were commenting on little gems from the various sections of the Times-art, leisure, books, travel, and so forth. Did I call this or what?

Kate and I had finished a bottle of wine apres sex, and I had a slight red-wine hangover, which was making me grumpy, and I wasn't contributing to the conversation, though Kate held up her end.

I was carrying my little Smith & Wesson off-duty piece in my ankle holster, and I was thinking about dropping my napkin and bringing up my gun and yelling, "Freeze! I'm a philistine! Shut up and eat your oatmeal!" But I know how Kate gets whenever I get silly.

Anyway, the conversation got around to the Times headline-RUMSFELD ORDERS WAR PLANS REDONE FOR FASTER ACTION-and my fellow guests all agreed that war with Iraq was inevitable, given the mind-set of the present administration.

If I was a betting man-which, actually, I am-I'd bet on January, or maybe February. But I'd probably get better odds if I bet on March.

One of the men, Owen, sensed that I wasn't paying close attention and asked me, "What do you think, John? Why does this administration want to go to war with a country that hasn't done us any harm?"

The question seemed slightly loaded, like the questions I ask of suspects, such as, "When did you stop beating your wife and start working for Al Qaeda?"

I replied to Owen, truthfully, "I think we can avoid a war by taking out Saddam and his psychopathic sons with a sniper team or a few cruise missiles."

There was a momentary silence, then one of the men, Mark, said, "So ... you're not in favor of war ... but you think we should kill Saddam Hussein?"

"That's how I'd do it. We should save the wars for when we need them."

One of the women, Mia, asked rhetorically, I think, "Do we ever need war?"

I asked her, "What would you have done after the World Trade Center and the Pentagon were attacked? Send the Dixie Chicks to Afghanistan on a peace tour?"

Kate said, "John likes to make provocative statements."

I thought I'd shut down the conversation, which was fine with me, but Mark seemed interested in me. "What line of work are you in, John?"

I usually tell people I'm a termite inspector, but I decided to cut through the bullshit, and I replied, "I'm a Federal agent with the Anti-Terrorist Task Force."

After a second of silence, Mark asked, "Really?"

"Really. And Kate is an FBI special agent."

Kate said, "We work together."

One of the ladies, Alison, remarked, "How interesting."

The third guy, Jason, asked me, "Do you think the threat level-we're up to Orange-is that real, or is it being manipulated for political reasons?"

"Gee, I don't know, Jason. What does it say in the Times?"

He persisted, "How real is the threat today?"

Kate replied, "The threat of terrorism in America is very real. However, without giving away any classified information, I can say that we have no specific information about an imminent attack."

"Then why," asked Jason, "are we in condition Orange, which means high risk of terrorist attack?"

Kate answered, "This is just a precaution because of the one-year anniversary of 9/11."

"That's past," said Mark. "I think this is just a way of keeping the country in a state of fear so the administration can push its domestic security agenda, which is really a crackdown on civil liberties." He looked at me and asked, "Would you agree with that, John?"

"Absolutely. In fact, Mark, Special Agent Mayfield and I are out here to report on anti-government subversives, and I need to warn you that anything you say may be held against you in a military tribunal."

Mark managed a weak smile.

Alison said to me, "I think you're being provocative again."

"It must be my aftershave lotion."

Alison actually giggled. I think she liked me. Also, I strongly suspected she was the Friday-night screamer.

The third woman, Pam, asked both of us, "Have you ever arrested a terrorist?"

It seemed like a normal question, but by Pam's tone of voice, and the general context, it could be taken in another way, which is how Kate took it.

Kate responded, "If you mean an Islamic terrorist, no, but-" She stood and hiked up her pullover, exposing a long, white scar that began under her left rib cage and continued down to the top of her butt. She said, "A Libyan gentleman named Asad Khalil got me with a sniper rifle. He got John, too."

My scar was along my right hip, and short of dropping my shorts, I didn't see how I was going to show this in mixed company.

Kate pulled down her sweater and said, "So, no, I never arrested a terrorist, but I was shot by one. And I was at the Twin Towers when they were hit."

The room got a little quiet, and I thought maybe everyone was waiting to see my scar. I did have the three bullet holes from the Hispanic gentlemen that ended my NYPD career. Two holes were indecently located, but I had one in my chest that I could say was from the Libyan, because I really wanted to unbutton my shirt to show Alison my wound.

"John?"

"Huh?"

"I said, I'm ready to go."

"I smell sausage cooking."

"I want to get an early start."

"Right." I stood and said to everyone, "We're off to Plum Island. You know, the biological warfare research lab. There's, like, eight liters of anthrax missing, and we have to try to figure out where it went." I added, "That could be nasty if a crop duster sprays it over the vineyards, or-" I coughed twice and said, "Excuse me. So, have a nice day."

We left the quaint house and walked to my Jeep.