She must've been a good choice, however, because her boss was already the second-longest-serving Director in a job where few occupants are around long enough to have overdue books at the library.

Enders reminded me, "Drummond… the phone. Your boss."

I actually like Phyllis. She's courtly and well-mannered in that nice, old-fashioned way, and also businesslike and intelligent. At times, too, I think she actually likes me. However, spooks and soldiers have a relationship that, to be charitable, is best characterized as complicated. Partly this is because Army folks, when not covering their own butts, live by the soldier's code, a credo that frowns upon such mannerisms as betrayal, deceit, sneakiness, and moral hedging. These of course are the very qualities that make the CIA the world-class organization it is. But mostly, I think, we just don't trust each other.

Actually, I had no real cause to doubt this lady. And neither could I think of a single reason not to.

"Drummond," Enders barked, "you're wasting my county minutes."

I cleared my throat and put the phone to my ear. "Sorry for the wait. I was killing an international terrorist." Pause. "I strangled him with my bare hands. He really suffered. I knew you'd like that."

She made no reply, though I could hear her breathing heavily. I hate when women do that.

After a long moment I suggested, "Why don't I just hold this conversation with myself? At least I'll like the responses."

She answered, very tartly, "This is no laughing matter, Drummond. Do you know the cardinal sin in our business?"

I could tell she wanted to answer that, so I made no reply.

"You've just blown your cover." She said, "I shouldn't need to remind you that the CIA has no legal authority to investigate domestic homicides. If that detective decides to make a stink-"