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 primitively 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.