the wrong person for this mission. Clue two, there was no right person.
I tried not to sound patronizing and said, "Well . . . how do I say this? I mean--"
"You don't say it," she snapped. "I'm an MP. You're a lawyer. By training, experience, and inclination, I think I can handle this better than you."
Phyllis cleared her throat and said, "Drummond was in Special Ops before he became a lawyer." She smiled. "He served for five years with a unit that performed operations almost identical to what I have in mind. He might be a little rusty . . . I'm told, however, that it's like riding a bicycle."
Partly true, and in that statement Phyllis revealed a little more of her thinking, about her intentions and about my favorite subject: me.
What wasn't true was her comforting sentiment about easing back into the profession of arms. Perhaps Sean Drummond had once been a lean, mean killing machine, death from the skies, one hundred and eighty pounds of twisted steel and sex appeal. The new Drummond had packed on a few pounds, a new attitude, and had become a creature of the courtroom, with all that implies.
I couldn't recall the last time I was on a firing range, nor had I run more than ten miles in years. As battlefield veterans will tell you, the key to survival is speed--depending on the day you're having, either toward the enemy or away. I recalled the admonition the Army drills into the thick skulls of all new recruits: "There are two kinds of soldiers on the battlefield--the quick and the dead."
Well, I was quick with my tongue, but my footwork and my survival instincts could stand a little work. Maybe a lot of work.
Bian, who required a moment to absorb this new and interesting facet of my professional background, eventually said, "Oh."
"So you see," Phyllis continued, "he has the ideal resume."
Without the slightest concession of inferiority, Bian replied, "It's irrelevant. I'm offering; he's not."
For a moment nobody said anything.
What could I say? I knew what Phyllis was doing--pitting me against Bian, exploiting my overblown chauvinist instincts, and at the same time engaging in a little emotional blackmail. Phyllis is a world-class manipulator, and usually knows exactly how to push my buttons--but not this time. If Bian wanted a piece of this, she was a big girl. Her life, her call. Welcome to the newly liberated world; equality between the sexes means an equal risk of coming home in a pine box.
I was curious, though, and I looked at Bian, then at Phyllis, and said, "What exactly is it that you intend?"
"I thought that was obvious," Phyllis replied. "Get our hands on the low-hanging fruit, Mr. bin Pacha." She added, "What to do about Charabi is trickier. But he's not going anywhere, whereas bin Pacha could disappear at any moment." She looked at me and said, "Charabi will have to wait."
I couldn't believe what I just heard. "We seem to have a different definition of low-hanging fruit. Ali bin Pacha is in Falluja."
"Yes. I recall reading that from the message."
"Maybe you don't read the newspapers. The Army declared it a no-man's-land six months ago and pulled everybody out. It's a jihadist country club."
"That's what our assessments say. A most unpleasant place."
"Unpleasant? This is the same city where the four contractors were killed and hung from a bridge."
"I know, I know . . . These are very nasty people. All the more reason they have to be stopped, whatever it takes."
"And you know the chances of nabbing this guy and getting back out are nearly impossible?"
"It would have to be a very well-run operation."
"And you know this could be a trap?"
"Yes, that's an important consideration. We'll certainly have to account for it in our plans."
"He's an important figure in the insurgency. He'll be heavily guarded."
"I think he would . . . yes." She looked at me. "But if Charabi told the truth--"
"Or if the Iranians told him the truth . . ."
"All right . . . that's another risk." She was becoming visibly annoyed by my stream of well-reasoned objections and added, "Assuming this bin Pacha is the moneyman behind al-Zarqawi, getting our hands on him would be an incredible blow to the insurgency. Large rewards are worth large risks."
"Here's a no-risk solution. Drop a bomb down his chimney. No more bin Pacha and we'll all be alive to talk about it. What's not to like?"
Bian said, "Why are we debating this? Temporarily interrupting Zarqawi's