pissed off because we invaded their country, and now they view us as unwelcome occupiers? Unreasonable, I know, but maybe it's why they're trying to kill us."
Apparently I struck a raw nerve because she said, "Spare me the armchair moralizing. Here you see these news reports of people having their heads lopped off, or being blown to bits by roadside bombs, and you think, oh goodness, how awful. Over there, you lay awake at night wondering if you're next."
She started to say something else, but apparently changed her mind.
"When you throw away the rule book, Bian, you get Abu Ghraibs. Play by those rules, they lose and you lose."
She decided to change the topic, because she asked, "How did you wind up at the Agency?"
"One day I came into work and everybody was gone. All the furniture was gone, too, except a desk with my nametag on it."
She laughed.
"Countries, governments, office buildings . . . that's how they do things." After a moment, I added, "They're not completely bad people, though. I got to keep my parking space."
"Seriously."
"Seriously . . . I don't have a clue."
She changed subjects again, and asked, "So what do you think? About Daniels? Did he kill himself or was he murdered?"
"What do you think?"
"To be frank, a few elements appeared out of sync for a suicide. You must have noticed the silencer. Also, his nudeness--that makes me uncomfortable."
"Nothing to feel bad about. He was pretty big."
She elbowed my arm. "You know what I'm saying. There's a contradiction here."
"Explain it."
"All right. He uses a silencer, presumably not to disturb the neighbors. The inference here is that even as he's contemplating suicide, he's concerned about how those neighbors will remember him. Yet he's willing to expose himself as a vulgar idiot as a corpse. Does that make sense to you?"
I hadn't even considered that angle. I mean, anyone contemplating suicide, by definition, needs to get his or her head screwed on straight. She said, "Incompatibilities are clues in themselves."
"Right. And did you notice his dying expression?"
"I know what you mean. Scared, frightened . . . actually, surprised. Also out of character for the situation."
"Was he married?"
"Was. I was told he was divorced."
"What else were you told?"
"I was in a rush. There wasn't time to run a full background check."
"Okay. Well, we'll soon learn more about this guy and what made him tick."
After a long moment, she replied, "Perhaps we'll learn more than we want to know."
In retrospect, that turned out to be the ugly truth.
We turned in to the parking lot of Ferguson Home Security Electronics.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ferguson Home Security Electronics: There actually is a store directly inside the front entrance that would appeal to the most paranoid citizens, including shelves bristling with high-tech bric-a-brac to keep burglars out of your home or unwanted husbands out of your life, whichever ails you.
If that doesn't fool you, there is also a helpful female receptionist, Mrs. Lila Moore, who does actually possess expert knowledge of home security devices; in her spare time she also happens to be an officer in the Agency's security service, with a gun inside her desk and a license to kill, which is one of the reasons I'm nice to her. The other is she's really pretty.
Lila looked up as we entered, awarded us a vacuous smile, and asked me, "What can I do to assist you, sir? We're having a big sale on a spectacular line of window alarms. Would that interest you?"
Bian looked around, obviously wondering if we had wandered into the wrong place.
"I'm interested in you," I informed Lila.
She stared back, wide-eyed.
"Hands where I can see them. Your money or your life."
Lila raised her hands in pretended alarm. "Please, sir . . . I'm a mere employee. Don't hurt me." She frowned and added, "There is no money. Basically, business really sucks here."
"Well . . . I already knew that. What do you have?"
"Let's see . . ." She smiled. "How about a pissed-off senior citizen waiting for some guy named Drummond?"
"Oh . . ."
Lila laughed and shoved the sign-in sheet across her desk. "You know the drill." I scrawled Bian's name on the page, while Lila handed her a white guest pass. This is a controlled facility, with obviously questionable standards, because they let me in. She informed us, "Some Pentagon bigwig arrived a few minutes ago. Phyllis logged him in."
I saw a name on the log and pointed it out to Bian.
"Mark Waterbury," she informed me. "My boss. An SES 1.