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like a set of military orders.
    Upon closer examination they were orders, signed by Major General Harold Fister, Chief of the US Army JAG Corps, effective 10 February, assigning some poor schmuck whose name sounded remarkably like mine as Military Cocounsel for the defense of Private First Class Lydia Eddelston.
    “Forget it.” I slid the orders back in her direction. “I am not currently assigned to the JAG branch. General Fister has neither the authority nor the jurisdiction to give me orders.”
    She slid the orders back at me. “General Fister called your current employer . . .” She hesitated then asked, I think insincerely, “Ms. Phyllis Carney, right?”
    The orders sat right where they were.
    Katherine continued, a bit smugly, “She was enormously helpful. She generously agreed to release you, TDY, back to the JAG branch for up to sixty days, or until the trial ends, whichever applies.”
    “Then I’ll call her.”
    “Feel free.”
    “I don’t need your permission, Katherine.”
    “No . . . but you should know that she didn’t sound unhappy to lose you.” In case I wasn’t getting the message, Katherine confided, “She sounded delighted, I thought.”
    The lady under discussion, Phyllis Carney, was my presumptive boss at the CIA, an older lady, between eighty and ninety, very ladylike, and pleasant and charming in a quaint, old-fashioned manner; all of which is an illusion, of course, except her age. Maybe.
    Phyllis does not suffer fools gladly, which I approve of, and she often encourages her subordinates to “be bold, to think outside the box,” to exercise “initiative” and other new wave management aphorisms—which I might push a little too far.
    So we’re not exactly salt and pepper: more like vinegar and SweeTARTS, to continue the bad food metaphors.
    That aside, I actually like Phyllis, and at times, I think she likes me, too, so I was a little surprised that she released me so readily.
    Anyway, an uncomfortable silence had settled over our table, which Katherine broke, stating, “I’m sorry. I should probably have told you about this at the beginning.”
    “Yes, you probably should have.”
    “I had a good reason for my little charade.”
    “You always do, Katherine. That’s your problem. You play games. You withhold .”
    “I just wanted to—”
    “I really don’t care why—”
    “Would you shut up, Sean? Let me finish . . . please.”
    Just like old times.
    She gazed into her beer, collecting her thoughts, or constructing her alibi. “I wanted to . . . to gauge your reaction before you knew she was your client. You’re a lawyer, but you’re an army officer, first, last, and always. I needed to see how someone like you reacted to that picture.”
    I leaned across the table until our noses nearly touched. “No, you wanted to prove you’re smarter and more clever than I am. Okay, you’ve proven it. Great. Whoopee, Katherine. And now you have a head start on this case, and I’m coming into it blind, which gives you a big advantage. And though I’m your cocounsel you intend to keep your knee on my chest and keep me second fiddle. So you need me for credibility with the jury, but maybe I know more about war than you do, and maybe I can cut through the roadblocks and red tape the army will construct, and maybe my Top Secret clearance will allow me to see things you can’t, and maybe I’ll understand a few things you don’t. So our client will be better served if we use our ammunition on the prosecutor instead of each other, so save the empty apologies and cut the bullshit, Katherine.”
    I’ll mention again here that Katherine was first in her class at Georgetown Law—and Sean Drummond, by an almost infinitesimal margin, was number two. Given her bohemian breeding, disposition, and outlook, I don’t think she bought into the whole law review, dog-eat-dog, be-number-one-at-any-cost thing that seems to permeate every law school in the country.
    I seem to bring