"So, on my second trip to Iraq," Eli began, "I got to chatting one day with a contractor I knew there. He was this Iraqi-American guy who was in Baghdad doing relief work ... a wonderful fellow, one of the kindest, most charming men I ever knew. And he started telling me about what it was like in Iraq during the war with Iran in the 1980s. But mostly it was a story about Saddam and what a cruel dick he was. You know about the Iran-Iraq War?"

"Mm-hmm. The 1980s, right?"

"Yeah, it lasted almost the whole decade. It was one of the more brutal wars of that part of the twentieth century, untold dead and wounded, massive suffering, the works. And out of the blue, while we were talking about it, my friend began telling me about Saddam's policy on military amputees. Apparently, having tens-of-thousands of men on the streets with empty sleeves and rolling about in wheelchairs was bad for national morale. So, Saddam went to the head of their version of the Veteran's Administration and instructs this guy to change the medical regimen of all those injured vets ... anyone with an amputation worse than missing a few fingers and toes ... and to systematically and secretly euthanize all them through their meds."

"Oh, bullshit," was her startled reply. "No one would do something like that to their own people, not even ...." Her hand went to mouth at the thought of it. No, not even Saddam.

"I didn't believe the story the first time I heard it," he continued. "When I went to look it up on the Internet, I couldn't find a single reference to it. And for a while ... well, I didn't know what to think. The guy who told me about it had always been forthright and honest, so I began asking other people in Iraq about it. Westerners I knew in the country, even some who'd spent a lot of years there, had never heard of such a thing. But virtually every Iraqi I spoke with treated it as simple common knowledge."

"Maybe it's just a widespread rumor?"

"I thought that, too," he said, "... at least at first. But something else occurred to me. I was twice to Iraq and three times to Afghanistan. Both countries had long, brutal wars in the 1980s, and in Afghanistan you see men of the age group who would have been adults in the '80s all the time missing fingers, toes, arms, legs, eyes, ears. Every village, even the smallest, has at least a few men like that. You see amputees in Iraq, but very few from that age group."

"So, you think it's true?"

"Kate, I think people are inclined to believe bad things, especially about people they don't like, but I truly think we're all inclined to disbelieve things that we hear that truly shock our conscience. I think Saddam had those men put to death, and his government covered it up so thoroughly it's been all but forgotten by the outside world. And I think something horrible ... something truly shocking ... happened in this country and in western Europe in August 1991, and I think our government somehow has covered it up."

"How could they do that?" Just hours before, what Eli was saying would have been too much for her. "The attacks were huge, all across the U.S., England, Germany."

"I think the Internet helped," he said. "It's a wonderful source of information but a dangerous source of disinformation."

"You think the government has been planting false stories?" This really was too much.

"Maybe. But if they are, it isn't to convince people their story is true. It's only to muddy the waters. Conspiracy theorists are a government censor's best friend."

"Your stories are supposed to make me feel better," she groaned.

"Doesn't knowing you're not the only crazy person on this couch do something for you?"

"Touché, my friend. But do you really believe all that?"

"The part about Saddam, definitely. What I said about our government? ... I don't know. There's certainly something they're not sharing. But I couldn't tell you what."

"About Flying Guys?"

"I wish I knew .... You're hungry again, aren't you?" Her earlier meal had been barely a morsel. He hopped up and began to thread his way to the kitchen through the darkened room. "What do you want?"

"There's some leftover Chinese ... uh, bring the bottle." She slowly had rediscovered her enthusiasm for red wine and was feeling a little less like she was sitting on the edge of a precipice.

It took Eli only about ten minutes to return with the goods, even after stumbling back from the brightly lit kitchen.

"Thank you," she said without making an effort to avail herself of food. Instead, she asked a question.

"How can you tell when someone is lying?"

"I can't ... at least not in the way they portray it on television."

"Is that all BS?"

"Umm ... most of it is. I've known a few guys who could read body language and response times and such. There actually are three or four schools on that kind of stuff. But even the best I've known are only accurate some of the time. And here's the problem. If you rely on detecting deception by watching someone's eye's or by reading their deportment, you're setting yourself up for failure. Because the world is full of good liars."

"So, you're the intelligence officer. How do you tell when someone is lying? Or can you?"

"I listen to their story. Because as many good liars as there are in the world, there are shockingly few people who can keep their stories straight. Not that I ignore my gut ... or any of the other training I've had. But listening to the story is key."

"You just ruined one of my favorite TV shows for me."

"Deception detection methods aren't complete hogwash, but they're not like you see on TV ... but what the fuck is? Hey-hey, wanna hear a story?"

"Yes ... please."

"So, we spent a few days interrogating this guy in the, cough-cough, region of Afghanistan ...."

"Waterboarding!"

"No, but maybe I should have. We just talked, he and I. The guy was a local contractor who'd done quite a lot of work on base, and the Afghan police thought he was an informant for Taliban. I can't share all the details, but the base commander wanted me and my team to get to the bottom of it, so me and this guy started talking ...."

Over the next thirty minutes or so, Kate found herself engrossed in the story of how Eli slowly had gained the man's trust and had drawn out a detailed explanation and timeline of the accused man's actions. In the end, Eli had become progressively convinced the subject of his enquiry had been wrongly accused, as sometimes happened in that complex country.

"This guy was pleasant," he said toward the end, "and he spoke rather good English. More, he came across as honest, sincere, sympathetic. There wasn't a whiff of dishonesty in his voice or deportment, so by the end of the first day, I was convinced this guy was next up for sainthood. We would occasionally detain the wrong guy, but I'd never seen such a gross miscarriage. I assumed the whole thing was just part of some vendetta by a local government official to get the guy locked up because he wouldn't pay a bribe or give a kickback."

"Except?" she said.

"His line was all bullshit, and I bought it hook, line, and sinker. On the second day, I sent in one of my people to talk to him, and she came back with a completely different story. So, I went back and saw him on the third day, with her notes in hand, and it knocked me flat on my ass. Nothing that guy had told me on the first day was true, nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Other than his name and the fact he was a contractor, no. He was a complete fabulist. He even lied about things he didn't need to lie about ... which is surprisingly common, by the way. That taught me my lesson. It wasn't even my first interrogation ... not by a longshot. From then on out, I've focused like a laser on the story. And that's been a benefit. I'm seldom fooled anymore."

"Did you waterboard him after that?" Her goofy, open-mouthed smile was veiled by the darkness, which only led her to gape and laugh more.

"I've never waterboarded anyone. It really isn't effective, and I've done enough dreadful things in my life. I don't need to add to that list."

"What's the worst thing you've ever done?" she whispered.

"I am not going to tell you that."

"Is it too top secret?"

"No, it had nothing to do it the military or intelligence communities. It was personal. But I want you to respect me in the morning, so I'm not telling you."

"I'll let you have what's left of the chicken," she said as she danced a small cardboard carton and its contents under his nose. "And I promise not to laugh."

There was a moment's silence in which she thought she may have offended him, and then ....