“Yes, this matches what we’ve been told,” Jones said, handing the paper back to Thomas.

“May I ask what this is about?” Crowley asked, after first clearing his throat.

“It’s about what the bloody terrorists are planning, Milton,” said Thomas. “It’s about what your people in Amman have been hinting at for months but never quite delivered.”

Crowley extended his hand to Thomas. “May I see what is of such interest?” he asked.

Thomas grimaced, ran fingertips down his prominent nose, and handed Crowley the dispatch. Milton was aware that six eyes were trained on him, awaiting a response. He read slowly and deliberately, ignoring the tendency to want to accommodate them by reading faster. Finished, he looked up and said, “Yes, the Canadian connection is very much in line with what my people in Jordan were able to gather from their Iraqi sources.”

“Hardly a great revelation,” Thomas said. “The question, Crowley, is why these gentlemen’s intelligence agencies were able to pinpoint with greater specificity the threat, while your people only pussyfooted around it. You run a flaming expensive operation. A king’s ransom. And for what?”

Crowley began to respond, but fell silent.

“I might also say,” Thomas added, “that the leaks coming out of Amman are enough to sink the Queen Mary II.”

Many thoughts ran through Crowley’s mind. If he was being made a scapegoat, it wouldn’t be the first time. It occurred to him that the three intelligence agencies represented in this faux Louis XVI room were competing with one another for dominance, or at least for the most slaps on the back. He found it distasteful, at best. Terrorists were out there planning to kill as many non-Muslims as possible, and here they were, men jockeying for political position and kudos. Thomas, his boss at the Foreign Service, was not a man to take criticism with aplomb, Crowley had learned over the years. Of course! Crowley thought. Thomas, and the British intelligence services he represented, had been made to look, at best, inept. How handy for Thomas to have Crowley on hand to take the blame in front of his bosses’ counterparts. The Canadian, Jones, was cheeky to sit there and claim success. From what Crowley knew, the Canadians had squandered much of their counterintelligence resources worrying about foreign governments spying on Canadian industry, money obviously of a higher priority than lives. Bastards! How dare they subject me to such embarrassment? I’ve given the best years of my life to the fugging Foreign Service, and have done a damn fine job, to boot.

A vision of the cottage in Dorset came and went.

“You’ve lost two of your so-called sources in Amman,” Thomas said. “Obviously the enemy knows only too well what’s going on within your operation.”

“Two?” Crowley said.

“You haven’t heard, Crowley?” Thomas said. He was showboating, performing for the others’ benefit. “Your man, Steamer-I believe that was what he was called-got it in the neck, in a manner of speaking.”

“I didn’t know,” Crowley said. “I’ve been here and…” His stomach churned at the thought of the big Brit with the code name “Steamer” no longer being alive.

Thomas’ sigh was loud and said much.

“If I might, I’d like to narrow down this conversation to some pertinent matters in these intercepts,” Jones said, removing his glasses and leaning toward Crowley. “Mr. Crowley, as you read, it seems that the terrorists-presumably led by al-Qaeda, although that’s not set in stone-intend to press forward with their plans to assassinate political leaders. It’s my understanding that you had said as much in briefings you’ve given Mr. Browning and Mr. Thomas.”

“It was only, as Mr. Thomas said, hinted at. Attempts were made to gather more specific information but-”

“You might be interested in this, Crowley,” Thomas said, handing his subordinate another piece of paper.

Crowley read it, quickly this time, and handed it back. “The same intent, a different target,” he said.

“The question is,” Jones said, “whether anything your sources in Amman told you might have forecast such a shift in their targeting.”

“No, nothing.”

“You can understand my government’s interest in this shift, which we’ve gotten through intercepts-the terrorists’ chatter, as it were,” said Jones.

“Of course,” Crowley agreed. The paper he’d just read indicated that rather than attempt the assassination of American political figures, the emphasis would now be on Canadian and British leaders.

“I might echo what my distinguished friend from Canada has just said,” Thomas intoned. “We’re now talking about terrorism on our home front, Crowley. The stakes have been raised considerably.”

Why? Crowley wondered. Were Canadian and British leaders more important than Americans? They were, of course, to those charged with protecting them. But in the larger scheme of things?

Besides, he thought, putting so much credence in the babble of Arab terrorists was misguided. If al-Qaeda knew that the Americans had been alerted to their plans to assassinate their top political figures, it would be easy to “chatter” about a change of targets, whether it represented the truth or not. The terrorists might be ruthless and bloodthirsty, but they weren’t stupid.

The security of the Western world was not, he decided on the spot, in especially competent hands.

“Is there anything else?” Crowley asked, anxious to bolt. “I think it best that I leave Washington immediately and return to Baghdad.”

His superior coughed politely into his closed fist.

“One other thing, Mr. Crowley,” Jones said. Browning handed Jones yet another communiqué, which was passed to Crowley. Again, he read quickly, but stopped midway and focused more attention on the words. When he was finished, he removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and shook his head. “This means nothing to me,” he said.

“These names never came up in all the months you’ve been handling sources in Amman?” Thomas asked, forcing incredulity into his voice. “Never?”

“Never.”

“They’ve only recently captured the attention of our people,” the Canadian intelligence operative, Jones, said. “We’d been aware of the potential of their involvement with terrorist organizations, but it’s so damned difficult to trace these things, especially when the company does everything aboveboard, or appears to.”

“Who are they?” Crowley asked.

“Talent agents,” Browning answered. “They represent opera singers and such. Offices in Toronto.”

“They represent many foreign singers, mostly operatic,” Jones added. “Their reputation isn’t pristine, I might say, some shady dealings alleged, pocketing fees belonging to clients, bringing young performers to Canada from other countries on the pretense of finding them training and work, taking their money, and leaving them high and dry. Not unusual, I suppose, for people in that line of work.”

“They represented that young opera singer who was murdered at the Kennedy Center,” Browning said.

“They’ve had dealings with Middle Eastern groups, we’ve learned. It all seems kosher, if that’s an acceptable way to put it considering the circumstances, but the name did come up in one of our intercepts.”

Crowley again shook his head, and groaned.

“Problem, Crowley?” Thomas asked.

“My hip,” Crowley said. “Acts up now and then.”

“You sound like a candidate for a hip replacement,” Browning offered.

“Perhaps,” Crowley replied, finding it strange for this discussion of terrorism and planned assassinations of political leaders to morph into talk of his hip. “If that’s all,” he said, standing, “I’d best be going.”

Without anyone saying anything, Jones and Browning shook Crowley’s hand and walked from the room, leaving him alone with Thomas. Crowley started to leave, too, but Thomas said, “A word with you, Milton,” indicating with his hand for Crowley to again take his seat. When he had, Thomas said, “I’m quite sure it’s evident, Milton, that we’ve fallen behind our colleagues in the gathering and assimilating of useful intelligence on the ground in Iraq.”