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too soon to put in for a transfer? Shouldn’t he at least meet Malich before trying to get away from him?
    Cole could imagine Major Malich’s arrival in the office.
    â€œWhat have you been doing while you waited for me to get back,” Malich would say.
    â€œWaiting for you, sir.”
    â€œIn other words, nothing. Don’t you have any initiative?”
    â€œBut I don’t even know what we’re working on! How can I—”
    â€œYou’re an idiot. Put in for a transfer. I’ll sign it and hope that next time they’ll send me somebody with a brain in his head and a spark of ambition.”
    Oh, wait. That wasn’t Malich speaking. That was Cole’s father, Christopher Coleman, who believed in only two things: That people named Coleman should have really long first names (Cole’s was “Bartholomew“) and that nothing his son did could possibly measure up to his expectations.
    Malich probably wouldn’t even notice Cole was there. Why should he? As long as Cole was doing nothing, it didn’t matter whether he was there or not.
    So Cole left his office and crossed the hall to the secretary. “What am I supposed to call you?” he asked.
    She pointed to her nameplate.
    â€œSo you really go by DeeNee Breen.”
    She glared at him. “It’s the name my parents gave me.”
    â€œI’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “That’s even worse than Bartholomew.”
    She didn’t smile. This was going well.
    â€œI need some information.”
    â€œI won’t have it, but go ahead.”
    â€œIs Major Malich married?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSee? You did know.”
    â€œHer name is Cecily. They have five children. I don’t know the children’s names or ages, but one of them is young enough to have been crying one of the few times Mrs. Malich called here looking for her husband and there’s a family picture on his desk but I don’t know how old it is so that doesn’t help with the ages. The children are boy boy girl girl boy. Debriefing over, sir?”
    Cole realized now that she did have a sense of humor—but it was so dry that it came across as hostility. So he made another try atwinning her over with wit. “It’s improper for me to discuss debriefing you, DeeNee Breen,” said Cole.
    She either didn’t get the joke or it was a Pentagon cliché or she thought it was hilarious but chose not to encourage him.
    â€œMiz Breen, I need to know the address and telephone number of Mrs. Malich.”
    â€œI don’t have that information,” she said.
    â€œThey don’t give Major Malich’s contact information to the division secretary? What if the Colonel wants him?”
    â€œPerhaps I haven’t made myself clear,” she said. “Major Malich does not consult with me. He does not give me assignments. I take his messages and when he comes in to the office, I give them to him. I have never needed to tell him his wife’s address and telephone number. No one else has wanted it either. Therefore I do not have that information.”
    â€œBut you do have a phone book,” said Cole. “And a telephone. And an imagination. And some of your time is supposed to be used in support of Major Malich’s work.”
    â€œYou don’t even know what Major Malich’s work
is
.”
    â€œBut with your valuable assistance, Miz Breen, I
will
find out.”
    â€œFrom his wife?”
    â€œNow you’ve connected the dots.”
    She reached under her desk and pulled out a phone book. “I have real work to do,” she said. “Assignments that are urgently needed for the ongoing projects of officers who actually work here and know what they’re doing. However, if you find out that information, I would be happy to record the results of your research so that I can answer this question for the next person to hold your fascinating