Man in the Middle (62 page)

“Don’t be foolish.”

“I know about it, Phyllis. About the leak, about the soldiers who were killed, and about the Agency’s effort to keep a lid on it. I’m not sure it need ever have been hidden. But it shouldn’t
stay
hidden.”

For a moment she said nothing. I had just moved the conversation from the abstract to the specific, and she needed a moment to think about this. She took that moment.

She asked, “What do you want?”

Smart lady. “A name. The courier for your exploitation cell.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I remained silent.

She asked, “How do you know it was a
she
?”

“You’re wasting time with stupid questions. I’m three minutes from the
Washington Post
building—that’s two minutes longer than you have to answer. Are we on the same wavelength yet?”

Long pause again. “Diane Andrews.”

“What happened to Diane Andrews?”

“Why did anything have to happen to her?”

“Who’s your favorite
Post
reporter?”

“Sean, please, let’s—”

“Personally, I’m torn over where the Pulitzer should land—Mideast desk or national desk? Hey, what do you think?”

“She’s dead.”

“Dead how? Heart attack? Another fake suicide? Another skiing accident? What made her heart stop ticking, Phyllis?”

“No . . . it was murder. Open and shut.”

“Tell me about the murder.”

“About seven weeks ago, jogging in a park, at night, not far from here, somebody drove a hatchet through her forehead. No fingerprints, and no forensic evidence. Even the footprints were swept clean with a broom. There were some bruises on her arms, suggestive of a slight struggle, and her killer was right-handed.”

“And obviously her killer wasn’t caught. Who are the suspects?”

“There are no suspects. Just theories.”

No suspects? I thought about this. “But you knew it was premeditated and planned, and the killer understood enough about police procedure to clean up the trace evidence. You knew she wasn’t an arbitrary victim and you knew it probably was related to her work.”

“Those were our assumptions, yes.”

Except that the killer had made no effort to mislead about the cause of death, this smelled a lot like the murder of Cliff Daniels. But before I made that leap, I needed to know more. I took a stab in the dark and asked, “Had she been tortured?”

“Yes . . . no.” She said, “Two fingers had been cut off. Her right pinkie and ring finger.” She added, “Possibly it was torture. Or, just as possibly, she tried to use her hand to fend off the blow.”

“What did she look like? Physically?”

“I don’t believe this is getting us anywhere.”

“Wow, nice building. I’m cruising the block around the
Washington Post
. Do you think they’ll run my picture? I didn’t have time to shave.”

“Stop threatening me.”

“Start telling the truth.”

“All right . . . she wasn’t . . . she was not overly attractive. Short, about five foot one, chubby, dark-haired, and . . . Is there a point to this?”

This was my turn to ask questions, so I ignored her and asked, “So you became worried when you learned she was murdered?”

“We became . . . concerned. Sad. Diane was one of our own, Sean. She was a nice person and well liked. Nearly twenty years of good and honorable service.”

“You know what I’m implying.”

“Yes . . . we considered it. Of course we did. But we weren’t married to any particular theories.”

“Tell me about your other theories.”

“Andrews had worked other things, been involved in other sensitive operations. The monsters that haunt us often have long shadows.”

As she had from the start of this thing, Phyllis was parsing and limiting information. Had I known about Diane Andrews in the beginning, I would’ve understood we were dealing with two connected murders, I would’ve approached the investigation differently, I would’ve flipped over different rocks, and maybe I would’ve found Bian lurking beneath one. But Phyllis had put secrecy above effectiveness, and institutional ass-covering over truth. When you get your priorities wrong, you get bad results, and a pissed-off subordinate.

I couldn’t resist. “Speaking of long, guess who her boyfriend was?”

Her not having observed Daniels’s one memorable anatomical feature, this clue sailed by her.

“Here’s another hint,” I told her. “She and her lover are now forever together. In heaven—maybe that other place.”

This clue struck home, because she promptly said, “There was zero indication of that. Mating habits are
always
probed during polygraphs. Cliff Daniels never came up.”

Interesting phrasing. But during my plane ride, I had given some thought to this mystery, and I asked, “Her murder, did it happen before or after you initiated your leak investigation?”

“It was . . . the exact dates, I can’t remember . . . but I think, nearly coincident. Why?”

“I’ll lay you even money the affair occurred after her last polygraph session, and that she didn’t live long enough for another one. Check it out.”

“Who told you about this affair?”

“Does it matter?”

“Sean, stop acting paranoid.”

“
Stop?
I should’ve been this way from the beginning.”

She took a moment to clear her throat, or to turn off the recording machine. “Please come in, Sean. Now. We all want the same thing.”

But that wasn’t exactly true. What Phyllis and her boss wanted was to get the Agency off the blameline for the lousy prewar intelligence, with enough ammunition to screw the Pentagon, and enough clout to remain first among beltway equals at a time when Congress was considering a new national intelligence apparatus that might knock their beloved Agency down a few pegs. At least, that was what they wanted
at first
.

But once she and her boss learned the scale and breadth of this thing, their appetites swelled. And why not? Handled properly, the President and his political people, who for four years had treated the Agency like a bureaucratic pi–ata, would be made to see the error of their ways. In exchange for four more years, the President would have to do a little penance, his people would have to kiss a lot of Langley butt, and in return, the Director would keep a special file locked in his office safe, labeled “For Emergency Use Only.”

Or alternatively, this President was already so high on Langley’s shit list that a contract extension was out of the question—and his competitor would be awakened in the dead of the night by a dark man in a trench coat and handed a packet of interesting information, and Phyllis and the new President would share a victory waltz at his inauguration ball.

Either way, the Agency couldn’t lose. Perfect. What could go wrong?

Bian Tran could go wrong. Neither Phyllis nor her boss had factored her into the equation. They missed what people in Washington usually miss: the human factor.

With that thought in mind, I told her, “If you and I wanted the same thing, we wouldn’t be where we are.” You can’t slam down a cellular, so I settled for punching off with my middle finger.

Now I had another important piece I needed to consider. After Mark’s death, Bian had returned from Iraq, mad with pain, grief, and guilt; not emotionally mad, not metaphysically mad—literally mad. And as it so often goes, pain bred anger, fury begat revenge, and revenge meant murder.

But where to start? That was Bian’s question.

Kemp Chester had said that everybody in the G2 exploitation cell assumed that compromised intelligence—however it had occurred— had caused the death of Mark Kemble. Chester also described Bian as a hunter by both training and natural instinct. For her, finding the betrayer would be child’s play because, unlike the jihadis in Iraq, her prey had not a clue they were prey.

So, Diane Andrews. That was the one name Bian knew—that was where she would enter the trail.

And as would later happen with Cliff Daniels, Bian tracked down Ms. Andrews, studied her habits, and like a couturier of death, she designed the kill around the victim’s lifestyle and vulnerabilities. For Cliff Daniels, this would mean his seedier traits—his drinking, his brazen womanizing, his susceptibility to a fatal seduction. Ironically for Diane, her healthier impulses would be her ticket to hell.

So, one dark night, while chubby Diane was out jogging, shedding a few of those unattractive extra pounds, in some isolated spot Bian showed up with a hatchet. Nobody uses a hatchet for murder in this day and age. Too savage. Too messy. Plus, from a forensic angle, you get splattered with your victim’s blood and brain matter. Bian, a cop, would know this. But on a different level, what could be more primatively satisfying than bashing in your enemy’s brains? As an instrument of primal rage, it was the
perfect
weapon. And if Bian had thought to bring along a broom in her murder kit, surely she included a flashlight to help brush away her tracks, fresh clothing, baby wipes, and a shovel to bury the DNA-enriched evidence in some nearby woods.

I tried to picture it. Alone together on a dark path, Bian accused her, and Diane desperately denied everything. So strong, quick, athletic Bian pounced, wrestled Diane to the ground—chop—off went one finger—chop—off went a second, and then, with the hatchet hovering, Diane chose confession over further mutilation. So she explained about Iran’s broken code, and about her affair with Daniels, and how she might—innocently or not—have exposed this secret to her lover.

So Bian now had the name of her next kill, Cliff Daniels. And poor Diane had confessed to a crime for which neither tolerance nor leniency were ever in the picture. Plus, for Bian, Diane had become a liability—from her trips to Baghdad, Diane recognized her, Diane would report this terrifying assault to the cops, and Cliff Daniels would evade his retribution.

Whack—the hatchet in the head took care of that problem.

So there it was. Open and shut.

Was it persuasive? Yes. Was I convinced? No. Not exactly. But maybe.

What disturbed me was that image of Bian ruthlessly torturing her suspect. Sweet, funny Bian Tran? Did such a soulless monster lurk behind those warm and intelligent eyes?

Well, I had watched her shoot four terrorists in the leg without a hint of remorse—that also surprised and shocked me. There’s a big difference, though, between squeezing a trigger to wound four men and the close-in, more personal work of lopping off body parts.

Well, a little difference. Maybe.

The cabbie was performing an extended monologue, about the weather, about his daughter in college, about college bills, about life, about politics. I tuned him out as, inside my head, I conducted the summary court-martial of Bian Tran, soldier, patriot, almost-lover, and, very possibly, the most ballsy and clever murderer I had ever met.

I must’ve been thinking long and hard, because before I knew it, I felt the cab come to a stop and the cabbie said, “Here we are.”

I looked out the window and saw that we were underneath the epic overarch of Dulles International Airport. I paid the cabbie one hundred and twenty bucks, threw in a twenty-dollar tip, and stepped out onto the curb, slinging my duffel over my shoulder.

It was time to confront Bian Tran and her monsters.

CHAPTER FORTY

I
passed through the revolving doors and checked the nearest overhead monitor, which showed United Airlines Flight 837 as departing from Gate 48 in Concourse B. From the second cell phone call I had made in the cab, I knew this to be the day’s final direct flight for Asia—nonstop to Incheon Airport in Seoul—where, were one so inclined, one could transfer to Asiana Airlines for another destination: Vietnam.

In fact, my first call from the cab had been to Happy Vietnamese Cuisine, whose proprietor was Bian’s mother. I was not surprised when the lady who answered informed me that Mrs. Tran was not in, would not be in tomorrow, and would never be in again. The woman had then confided that Mrs. Tran decided to become Viet Kieu—a Vietnamese member of the diaspora repatriating to her birth country—and that Happy Vietnamese Cuisine had fallen under new management.

I wasn’t surprised, because, for Bian, it was both the perfect escape and the perfect sanctuary. I suspected it had been part of her plan from the start. She spoke the language, her mother missed the old country and would happily live out her days there, and Bian would be impossible to find in a nation of eighty million where every fourth citizen was named Tran. Also, America had no extradition treaty with Vietnam. And Bian liked fish.

I jogged to the boarding gate for the transporter to Concourse B, where the gate guard politely requested the boarding pass I did not have. Instead, I flashed my Langley building pass and mumbled something vague and not overly alarming about national security, the need to check a passenger manifest, and whatever. Civilians are easily cowed by the letters “CIA,” and I was allowed to proceed without even passing through the metal detector, which even the guards at Langley won’t let you do these days.

I stepped onto the land transporter and squeezed past the travelers, who seemed mostly to be part of a tour group from someplace where everybody was short and addicted to snapping pictures of tall guys in dirty, wrinkled uniforms.

I leaned against a window and checked my watch: 5:10. The flight was scheduled for departure at 5:55 and was listed on the monitor as on time, so boarding should begin around 5:30.

Seven minutes later, the transporter docked and I pushed my way through the height-challenged people into Concourse B—essentially a long corridor extending off to my left and right. A sign showed that Gate 48 was to my left and I began jogging in that direction through the crowds, working my way down.

Bian was either going to be here or not. If she was here, that meant one thing; if not, something else. I wasn’t really clear on what either meant except I knew that it was important.

I was more conflicted than I had ever been in my life. In spite of everything, I was still at least half in love with Bian Tran, and more jealous than ever of Mark Kemble. I recalled Bian once telling me that love has no past tense. And also, I remembered how Sean Drummond had skeptically and cynically dismissed this as naive, syrupy mush. Yet, for Bian, it wasn’t. She was sacrificing everything she had accomplished—her career, her citizenship, and possibly even her life—all for a man who no longer was even alive to appreciate it. Every guy should be so lucky. And every government should be scared out of its wits.