nakedness . . . his erection . . . death on a bed . . . the bullet through his head . . . what?"
"Without knowing what he did to deserve this, I have no idea." It was interesting that she used those words--"to deserve this"--yet that went to the heart of the motive, and that was what we needed to focus on. His killer, or whoever sent her, was enacting a retribution. Like the Ethiopian woman lopping off the Mr. Johnsons of their enemies, this was the killer performing her own idea of castration. Bian looked at me and added, "There's really no way of telling, is there?" She asked, "Where do you think she is now?"
It was a good question and I considered it a moment. "If I had to guess, probably she left the country the morning after Cliff's murder. Maybe from Dulles, or maybe she drove to Baltimore or Philly to widen the trail."
Bian concluded, "Then we'll never find her.""They all make mistakes, Bian. You just have to find that mistake." "You really believe that?" "I know it."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
We reentered the office, and Dandy Don was chatting with Phyllis, something about a trip to Paris and a restaurant on the Avenue de Who-gives-a-shit where he enjoyed something that in his words was exquisite, called fwa grass, which apparently is not something you mow; it's something you eat. Why did I not like this guy? I held out the coffee cup to Don. "I thought you might want coffee."
He looked taken back by my generosity, but accepted the cup. "Well . . . uh, sure."
Before Bian could get out a warning, he took a long sip and-- "Shit!"--gooey black stuff sprayed out all over the tabletop. He slammed down the cup and stared at me. "You're not as funny as you think, Drummond."
Wanna bet?
An odd sound exploded from Phyllis's throat, a hiccup or maybe a choked laugh. Evidently she didn't like Don either. This was good to know.
After an awkward moment, she explained to Don, "Drummond takes a little getting used to."
This might have been the understatement of the day.
Bian was giving me a look that said, "Grow up." I mean, I'm trying to protect her virtue, to show her what a phony putz Donny Boy is before he starts humping her leg.
I smiled at her. She looked away.
Don, however, had now concluded that Sean Drummond was the class clown, which was what I wanted him to believe. I often do this to witnesses on the stand. I never cease to be amazed at the stupid things people will say when they think you're stupid.
Trying to restore a modicum of seriousness, Bian said to Don, "As an expert on Iraq, what do you make of this exchange of information between Daniels and Charabi?"
Don swallowed a few times and regained his composure. He turned to Bian and said, "Be more specific." Prick.
Bian replied, "Were you aware Daniels was giving Charabi this secret?"
"No."
"Was this . . . officially sanctioned?"
"Why ask me? I thought that's what you and Drummond--"
"It was not sanctioned," Phyllis quickly interjected. "The Director alone had authority to bless this release."
I turned to Phyllis. "And you're sure he didn't?"
"Better yet, he's sure."
"Who knew we broke the Iranian code?" Bian asked. "After all, a breakthrough of such vital sensitivity and intelligence value . . . wasn't this compartmentalized?"
"Of course it was." Phyllis explained, "A small team from the National Security Agency handled the deciphering, and from within the Agency we handpicked a small cell to manage the use of the fruits."
Don added, "Decoded interpretations of the transcripts were hand-delivered by an Agency courier to a military exploitation cell in Baghdad. But the military, including this exploitation cell, were kept in the blind about where, or how, this knowledge was obtained. They didn't need to know where it came from to know how to use it."
Don, anticipating our next question, informed us, "And no . . . Daniels was not read on, nor was he part of this operation. Nor did he have the security clearance to be in the loop."
I thought about that a moment. I asked, "Do you know for sure that Charabi revealed this news to the Iranians?"
Don studied me for a moment. Eventually he said, "You think like a lawyer. You're wondering if the cocked pistol was actually fired, if there is a victim, if there was a crime."
He turned to Phyllis, who nodded. He informed us, "About three months back, we saw . .