her glass around the cramped kitchen and house. "But how could I not overhear what Cliff was saying?"
She paused to fire up another cigarette, and Bian and I stared at her expectantly.
Eventually she said, "They were like some silly cabal. They believed Saddam needed to be overthrown. Cliff, as a career civil servant, was still on the inside, still able to influence perceptions and to work actions inside the administration. Tigerman and Hirschfield were the thinkers. Cliff became their tool. They exploited him."
I asked, "They were using him, or was he using them?"
She gave me a look, like I had asked a dumb question. "He was way out of his league with those two."
"How?"
"Well . . . I wouldn't know the particulars, would I? I'll tell you this, though. Very often, after they spoke, he went on long overseas trips."
"Where?"
"Sometimes Europe, sometimes the Middle East."
"What did he do on these trips?"
"I think they were putting him in contact with various Arabs. I suppose Iraqis . . . people willing to help overthrow Saddam."
"Was Cliff freelancing or were these trips authorized?"
"I can only tell you we weren't paying for it. I suppose DIA for some reason authorized and financed his travel."
This was curious, but I thought I understood the underlying reasons. I recalled that in the mid- to late nineties, the previous administration had ordered the intelligence community to engineer an effort to dethrone Saddam. Unfortunately, my knowledge of the details was somewhat sketchy. And, knowing my CIA friends, everybody now had an onset of amnesia. It must be something in the water at Langley. I mean, these people can't even remember what color socks they're wearing.
From news reports around that period, however, I recalled that there had been an effort, sometime in the mid-nineties, to bribe a bunch of high-level Iraqi generals to overthrow Saddam. Saddam somehow got wind of it and the generals were subsequently invited over to his house for a barbecue and swim party--half the generals got put on spits and were barbecued, the other half got to paddle around the pool with Saddam's pet alligators.
I vaguely recalled reading about other attempts as well, mostly halfassed affairs, employing Kurds or Iraqi expats, all of which came to naught and were swiftly and quietly aborted. Usually Agency people are pretty good at this kind of thing--practice makes perfect as they say--so it was a tribute to Saddam's paranoia that, this time, good wasn't good enough. I mentioned some of this to Theresa, then asked, "Was Cliff involved in any of these efforts?"
"I'm sure he was."
"And Hirschfield and Tigerman? Were they also involved?"
"They helped . . . in the wings, advising him . . . I think helping him plot and putting him in touch with various Iraqis who might be useful."
"Why? By that I mean why would they become implicated in these affairs? It wasn't their watch."
"Ask them."
"What was Cliff's motive?" I remembered to add, "I can't ask him."
"Isn't that obvious?"
It was, but I needed to hear her say it. "Tell me."
After a moment she said to me, "We're back to ambition, Mr. Drummond."
Bian asked, "Meaning there was a quid pro quo from Hirschfield and Tigerman, right?"
Theresa nodded. "Put it this way. The moment the new administration took over, Cliff was pulled out of DIA, given a promotion, and was hired to work for them at the Pentagon."
"What kind of work?"
"We were separated by then. Talking through lawyers. I wouldn't know."
We were now edging into hearsay, which was informative and even juicy, though not necessarily accurate. I checked my watch--4:30 p.m. If we hurried, it might be possible to arrange an interview with Hirschfield, or possibly Tigerman, or possibly both. But there remained one nagging question, and I asked Theresa, "Can you think of any reason Cliff would kill himself?"
She mulled this over for a long period. Eventually she said, "You remember I told you that Cliff was already dead?"
I nodded.
"About five, maybe six years ago, he began . . . self-destructing. It wasn't an overnight thing. Just gradually, he changed."
"How?"
"I think . . . you have to understand, he was essentially a desk jockey at DIA. The most adventurous thing he did was to drive home on the beltway. I know this sounds . . . maybe crazy, maybe nutty . . . but Cliff began to think he was a character in a movie. Like James Bond."
She was right, it did sound crazy, and nutty, and I suppose that showed on my face.