Man in the middle

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 pissed-off, loudmouth expert on things Middle Eastern, who was haranguing some slick-looking bullshitter sent over from the Department of State to try to defuse this thing. Middle East expert was screaming, "The Saudis are not 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 whore 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 ambassador. 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 pissant-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 ass-holes who kidnap 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 superstitious 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 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 buttons 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?"

"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 shit, 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 classified assignment. 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… 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? 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 sparsely 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 assured 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?"

"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 sexist, 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 assignment here?"

"She was assigned 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 nobody'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 butt." He asked, "What's this 15-6 about, anyway?"

"None of your business."

"Typical lawyer. All take, no give."

We did not seem to be bonding, so I took a swing in the dark that wasn't entirely from the dark. "The cell you referred to was an exploitation unit. She was on the receiving end of CIA messages that pinpointed Iranian movements and activities inside Iraq. Her job was to translate those tips into operational requirements and targets, to look for ways to exploit those insights."

He turned and stared at me a moment. He said, "Why did you ask?"

"Confirmation," I replied-and now I had confirmation. "Old trick. We often use throwaway questions to ascertain the veracity of our witness."

"How am I doing?"

"Not good, Kemp. Not good at all." I asked, "How long was she in that job?"

"Can't really say. She was already on the staff when I arrived."

Bullshit. "Colonel, I can just as easily obtain this information from her personnel file."

"Fine. Why don't you do just that?"

I ignored his suggestion and said, "Correct me if I'm wrong. She was the operations officer of an MP battalion during the invasion, then she remained in that assignment a few months after Baghdad fell, then was reassigned here, to G2."

"More like five months in her battalion. It was the G2 himself who pulled her up, if you're interested." He explained, "General Bent-son heard she was fluent in Arabic, had operational experience, and she had a great rep. She cleaned up a very violent section of Baghdad at a time when the rest of city was descending into chaos. Great credentials."

"But as an MP."

"And she had a secondary specialty in military intelligence. Look… frankly-I hope this doesn't alarm you-most of us full-time MI types, we don't know squat about this place, about these people, or about this kind of war." He continued, "Myself, I'm a satellite interpretation guy and this terrestrial stuff is a whole new world." He enjoyed his own bad pun and chuckled. He then added, "My first months in country, I felt like I was just dropped into Oz-just no happy, dancing little munchkins, and in this case, the Wizard's a homicidal asshole."

This jogged something in my mind, and I asked, "So you would say the major was professionally competent?"

"I would say she was incredible… extraordinary… insert whatever superlative you like. She's a cop and she's military intelligence- she was the perfect combination."

"And there's no personal bias in your assessment?"

"Maybe." He thought about it a few seconds, then said, "Terrorism, if you think about it, is closer to crime than war. Typical intel officers can talk for hours about how an Iraqi division arrays itself on the battlefield, and they stare blankly if asked to explain how an insurgent cell infiltrates a city, chooses its targets, and operates." He paused then added, with clear admiration, "Bian knew this stuff. She had… a sense… an intuition for situations. A hunter's instinct, I guess you'd call it. Every morning, a long line formed in front of her carrel, guys like me, seeking advice."

"Plus, she was hot."

"Well… yeah…" He laughed. "Get at the end of that line, though, and it could be ten, eleven o'clock before you got a minute with her."

We walked in silence for a few moments among the buildings of the Green Zone. Something wasn't adding up. Well, actually a lot wasn't adding up, but what exactly? Everything Kemp Chester said had confirmed my own high estimation of Bian Tran: an impressive officer, bright, resourceful, courageous, and… yes, hot. But if I looked back critically over the course of the investigation Bian and I had conducted, nothing she had said, done, or ever advised had been particularly insightful, illuminating, or to borrow Kemp Chester's more elevated adjective, intuitive. I had ascribed this to her professional limitations as an MP officer-more overseer than sleuth. But if Kemp was right, it was time to consider another cause. Because in those rare instances where the hunter also happens to be the hunted, there's a big conflict of interest.

I recalled as well, how eager, how insistent Bian was to come here, to Iraq, in pursuit of bin Pacha and Charabi. Well, this was her war, I had reasoned. She was thinking with her heart instead of her head. In fact, that might still be on the mark, but I now had to consider that her motives were more complicated and darker than I had imagined. Because, not incidentally, coming here also diverted us from finding Clifford Daniels's murderer.

Nor, so far, had Kemp Chester contradicted anything Bian herself had told me. There were, however, those troubling things she hadn't said. Like having been part of the G2 exploitation cell. Possibly it was a matter of her secrecy vows. This might sound redundant, but military intelligence people and secrecy are like Donald Trump with narcissistic bullshit; you can't believe how far they take it. But no matter how much benefit of the doubt I gave her, even I had trouble with that one.

And, of course, there was Mark Kemble. Poor, dead Mark Kemble. Why had Bian lied about that? Why keep it hidden? Also, if her two days in Baghdad were not spent in Mark's company, what had she been doing? And more to the point, why lie about that?

I must've reflected too long, because Kemp Chester was engaged in his own reflections and asked, "Hey, what the hell does this have to do with a 15-6? Isn't this supposed to be about an officer's credibility and judgment? What's going on here?"

I took a moment and sized him up, as I would any witness on the stand. A good guy, levelheaded, articulate, smart. But clearly he felt a strong affection for Bian, which I understood, because, like nearly any man who met her, I was at least half in love with her. He was trying to be protective, which raises the ever-provocative question of why he felt Bian needed protection. As they say, where there's smoke, there's fire. Not always, but when smoke's being blown up your butt, you'd better be sure.

On one hand, I admired and appreciated his loyalty to Bian, and I liked him for it. The occasion, however, called for the other hand, and I gave him a hard stare and asked, "Have I told you how to do your job?"

"No, but-"

"Because I would really fucking appreciate it if you reciprocated that professional courtesy." I allowed him a moment to contemplate the shift in the tenor of our conversation. I said, "Maybe I've made this too friendly, too informal. Maybe we should reconvene to an interrogation cell at the MP station."

"Okay, okay. Relax…"

I now knew what was really bothering me, and asked, "When Bian was reassigned from her battalion to the corps staff, it was supposed to be for a full year-right?"

"I have no idea."

"You're really starting to piss me off."

"Uh… okay, a full year. Her fiance had just begun his one-year tour in Iraq. Bian wanted to stay for the duration of his tour."

"But she rotated stateside after what… six, seven, eight months?"

"Yeah… maybe."

I offered him another cold stare and he quickly amended his statement. "About seven and a half months… She got an early drop. Why is this important?"

"Why was it curtailed?"

Kemp now looked restive and a little unhappy. He said, "Why don't you ask her former boss? Bian and I were friends, and… Look, you're making me very uncomfortable."

"And you well know that the personal comfort or discomfort of a professional officer is irrelevant. I asked you a question. Answer it."

"Because… well, because it was… a hardship transfer. Because her fiance, he died… here in Iraq. His death was very rough on her." He added after a moment, "The general was sympathetic. He personally intervened to arrange a transfer stateside."

I gave it a moment, then said, "Kemp, because this is the Army, I don't have to swear you in or read you your rights, or any of that nonsense. I'm an officer of the court pursuing an official investigation. Lying, quibbling, or misleading statements can and will result in charges. Don't make things any worse for yourself."

Kemp started to say something, and I cut him off. "We're now on the record. Are we clear?"

He stared at me a long time.

I said, "According to the manual, Army criteria for hardship transfers and discharges pertain only to deaths in the immediate family. Reconsider your reply."

It looked like he was giving himself a root canal, but he said, "It was… just a situational transfer. After her fiance's death… she… she went to pieces. She took it very, very hard."

This still didn't sound like the Army I know and love. Unhappy or mentally depressed soldiers, ordinarily, are sent to the unit chaplain, or in these more Zen-like times, to a unit counselor, they get their "give-a-shit" ticket punched, and are returned to duty. In extreme cases, the soldier can be awarded a thirty-day leave for mental convalescence-i.e., a month to drink and screw him/herself silly- which typically fixes the mood rings of most soldiers. If neither of these tried-and-true methods fails to produce a mentally stable soldier who is willing and able to kill at the drop of a hat, next step is a discharge-not a transfer-and their issues become the problems of the VA-the Veterans Administration.

Clearly, my threats and cajolements weren't doing the trick. As somebody knowing once said, stupidity is trying the same thing over and over and watching it not work. What I needed was a new approach, i.e., a bigger lie. I informed him, "I don't understand why you're being antagonistic. Bian Tran is a witness for the Army. I am not her enemy."

He seemed to weigh this.

I informed him, "On the stand, where she'll likely end up, she will be cross-examined by a vicious, mean-spirited defense attorney. The defense will of course access her personnel and medical records and, naturally, her mental stability will be at issue. Always is. And if, as you've led me to suspect, there is some damaging revelation, the defense attorney will exploit it to humiliate her in a courtroom before her fellow officers. You can't protect her, Kemp." I took his arm and warned, "Don't try."

He mulled this over. "All right."

"All right, I'll answer truthfully? Or all right, fuck you?"

"Both."

Now we were getting somewhere. I gave him a moment to settle his nerves before I asked, "What happened to Bian Tran? I'm guessing something traumatic."

"Yes, it was… very traumatic. Her transfer was psychiatric. Bian felt responsible. She was crushed. She couldn't stop crying. And she couldn't function, professionally or personally. A complete mental breakdown."

It still wasn't adding up. I said, "She lost a loved one. Sad, but this is war, and as a professional soldier, she surely was mentally prepared for this eventuality. A West Pointer, a battle-tested officer who led troops into combat and who suffered the loss of soldiers. Others have described her as tough, resilient, a cool customer. Why did she take it so hard, Kemp?"

"Guilt, Drummond. Plain guilt. So heavy, so overbearing, so painful, it simply shattered her into pieces." He looked away for a moment and said, "Imagine, if you will, how it must feel to be responsible for the death of the person you loved. What this would do to your insides?"

"Why did she feel responsible?"

"I didn't say she felt responsible. She was responsible."

"How? Why?"

"The CIA courier brought us a message that tipped us off to a large load of weapons and trainers coming from Iran into Karbala. This was during the midst of the Shiite uprising… you might remember… Sadr's Shiite militia had taken over the city, his people were killing our soldiers, and we all knew a major operation would have to be mounted to restore control. So preventing those weapons and trainers from linking up with Sadr's people… well, that would be a real coup. Less guns, less bombs, less American deaths."

"And Bian was in charge of this operation?"

"That's not how it worked."

"Okay. How did it work?"

"Bian was the analyst assigned to shape a response. As I said, the CIA never told us how they knew, or about their sources, but they informed us that the Iranian shipment and trainers were going into the city of Karbala, in a sector assigned to the First Armored Division. Bian provided the division operations shop with an order. A description of what was coming, when, and where to intercept it."

The lights were now coming on. I said, "And the division assigned this mission to her fiance's… to Mark Kemble's battalion."

He stared at the ground a moment, and the man was clearly in pain. Finally, he mumbled, "It was the worst coincidence I've ever seen or heard."

"Because Mark Kemble, being the battalion operations officer, decided he would personally oversee this high-value operation."

He nodded. "Great officer, I was told. Real hoo-ah, lead-from-the-front type. Highly decorated, loved by his men… all-around great guy. But something went wrong, tragically wrong-the shit hit the fan, three soldiers were killed, and obviously, Mark was one."

"What went wrong?"

"If you ever learn that, be sure to let me know. Understand that the CIA, they kept our entire exploitation unit completely in the dark about the source of these intelligence insights. Every week or two, some lady courier flew over from D.C., she'd drop off some cryptic crap, she'd leave, and we had to run with it." He added, "I have no idea."

I thought about this. It did not compute. After all, these were military intelligence people, and I said, "But you had suspicions, right?"

After a brief silence, he said, "Of course we had suspicions. Pretty obvious what the Agency had, right? A mole in Iranian intelligence or inside Sadr's movement. Somebody very high up."

Close, Kemp. But not close enough. I asked, "Is that what you thought? What Bian thought?"

"We all thought that. This stuff we were getting was dead-on. Priceless."

"Except this time."

"Yeah. There was no weapons shipment. No Iranian trainers either."

I paused to consider my next question, which was a big mistake. Because, suddenly, it all came together-Bian had literally been turned into the instrument for her lover's death. Kemp did not have the details just right, but he was close enough. Daniels had informed his pal Charabi about the compromised code, Charabi passed it to his friends in Tehran, and they, in turn, decided to be vindictive, sending disinformation they knew was being intercepted, decoded, and read, offering the Americans a target that was too tempting to pass up; in effect, luring an American unit into a trap. Bian ended up near the end of that long chain, and her fiance ended up in a coffin.

War is filled with ugly twists and bitter ironies, but this cruelty was almost incomprehensible. And before I knew it, something heavy was stuck in the back of my throat. Poor Mark. Poor Bian. I swallowed a few times and tried to dislodge the lump, but it only moved higher until it lodged behind my eyes. Chester was looking at me strangely. "Hey… you okay?"

"I'm… uh… getting over a cold." I coughed a few times and, after a moment, said, "Last question. What do you think went wrong?"

"You know what? I've thought about that a lot. We all did. Mark's unit, what they ran into, that was a prepared kill zone, an ambush. I don't know, maybe the CIA's source was a double agent. Or maybe the Iranians caught on to him and used him to plant false information. Whichever… Sadr and the Iranians knew we were coming, and they decided to make us pay."

A knot of staff officers carrying briefing folders crossed paths with us and we both fell silent. After they were out of earshot Chester said to me, "There was an investigation. Afterward. But by the CIA, not us. We were even forced to take polygraph tests. But you know what? If there was a compromise, those bastards never shared anything." He paused and then said, very unhappily, "A month after Bian left, the whole exploitation cell was disbanded."

"You're a smart guy, Kemp. What's your best guess?"

"My best guess?" — he stopped walking-"All right, sure." He turned and faced me. "You're not here about any damned 15-6 investigation."

I started to deny this, then thought better of it.

He said, "I have no idea why you're lying to me, Drummond, or what trouble Bian is in. But I promise you"-he looked me in the eye- "if you hurt her, I'll find you, and I'll hurt you."

We stared at each other a long moment. I put out my hand and said, "It's not my intention to harm her, Kemp. That's a promise."

He stared at my hand, but never shook it. "Leave her alone. She's been through enough."

I did not say, "More than you'll ever know," though, in truth, I now knew more about Bian's problems than I wanted to. I felt a deep, deep sadness for her. At the same time, an alarm bell was making loud dings in the back of my head.

I left Kemp Chester standing in a courtyard, fuming. I walked back to the office of the G1, where I ordered the same clerk to find me a private office with a phone, which he did.

I called Phyllis's cell phone and didn't get an answer, so I chose the message option.

I left a brief and unexplained message to immediately place bodyguards around Hirschfield and Tigerman, or better yet, get them both out of town, or barring that, make arrangements for two funerals. I hung up and thought about my next move.

It was time to go home.