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.
For the truth was, much of what Bian had done I approved of; parts of it I admired; some of it I even envied. Washington had taken from Bian something she loved, and in return she had robbed Washington of something it loved, the false arrogance that you can fool most of the people most of the time.
And, indeed, much of what she had done was morally ambiguous: treachery in some eyes, justice in others.
Murder-that's where the line stopped. Evil does not correct evil; nor does it bring back the dead; nor does it heal the pain. I could forgive her for killing in the heat of the moment, and the law, as well, makes mitigating exceptions when passion collides with reason. That wasn't what happened here, though.
Directly ahead of me was the sign for Gate 48. I slowed to a walk and looked around a bit. Bian would be dressed in civilian clothing, whereas I was in uniform, so I was ceding a big advantage: She was blending into the crowd and would spot me before I saw her. Also, a lot of short people seemed to be gathering around Gate 48, and I felt as self-conscious as Gulliver wading through a flock of Lilliputians.
So I moved to the corner wall beside the gate waiting area, leaned casually against it, and peered around the corner. This flight was crowded, and all the seats in the waiting area were filled, with some people lounging on the floor, and others clustered in small knots, chatting or reading. No Bian, though.
Recalling her thing for disguises, I surveyed the crowd again, trying to imagine Bian as a blonde, a brunette, a schoolgirl, an arthritic grandmother. Still no good. The passengers were mostly Asians, and if she was wearing a costume, I was unable to debunk it.
I decamped from my hiding place and approached the ticket counter, where a few people were lined up, rearranging their seats or whatever. People are respectful of uniforms these days, and I butted ahead of an old lady who was in discussion with the counter person, a uniformed lady who looked a little harried and overburdened. I said, "Excuse me, ma'am," to her, and to the counter lady, "Could you please check if Bian Tran is booked on this flight?"
She replied a little frostily, "That information's confidential."
"Of course it is. Could you please step away from the counter?"
She wasn't sure what she was dealing with here and looked apprehensively at the guard, who was loitering beside the entrance to the boardwalk. I smiled reassuringly and said, "Government business. Please. This will take only a moment."
"Oh… all right."
She joined me by the window. I withdrew my Agency ID and allowed her a few seconds to study it. Airline people are understandably paranoid about terrorists these days, and before she freaked out, I reassured her, "Ms. Tran works for us."
"Oh…"
"I hope I can confide this. We suspect Miss Tran of cheating on her expense accounts and billing us for her boyfriend's travel, who might also be on this flight." I smiled nicely and added, "The government can screw you, but it doesn't like to pay you to screw."
She smiled at my little joke. Nor did she inquire why an Agency person was wearing a military uniform, which was good, because I was winging it and didn't really have a good alibi.
"So"-I pointed at her counter-"if you could quietly check…"
We returned to the counter, she punched Bian's name into her computer, and said, "Yes… she's booked. Seat number 34B."
"Who's in 34A?"
She looked again. "Mr. Arthur Clyde."
"And 34C?"
"Mrs. Lan Tran."
Bingo. "Has Ms. Tran checked in yet?"
Again she studied the screen, and she shook her head. "She has an electronic ticket. Not required to."
I winked and said, "Your government thanks you."
She winked back and replied, "Put that in a tax rebate and I'll know you mean it. Now, if you'll excuse me… I have to begin boarding." She picked up her microphone and went through her announcement, which got the crowd excited and moving.
I walked directly across the aisle to the waiting area for Gate 47 and stood behind a thick pillar from where I could observe without being observed. An elderly lady in a wheelchair, a middle-aged guy on crutches, and a well-dressed couple who looked perfectly robust and healthy-impatient pricks from first class, probably-were lined up, fingering their boarding passes and IDs.
Despite Bian's reservation on this flight, I was still concerned, because now I had an idea how her mind worked. I knew she was smart and cunning and, most important, diabolically evasive. I mean, this could be another ruse. In other words, it was time to consider whether this reservation was a diversion to draw me away from something else. That was a stretch, but I no longer underestimated this lady.
The first-class passengers now were queuing up, an interesting mixture of mostly Asians, who were old and looked overdressed, and a few occidentals, all of whom were young and attired almost impossibly badly-an interesting snapshot in international contradictions.
I had another thought. If Bian was Captain Ahab, oozing hatred and obsession, there still were two white whales she hadn't bagged, Tigerman and Hirschfield.
While Clifford Daniels was most directly responsible for Mark's death, Tigerman and Hirschfield were directly responsible for Clifford Daniels's. If you thought about it hard enough, as surely Bian had, these were the two officials who authored the circumstances that put Mark in a killer's crosshairs-by placing a small, weak subaltern into the position where he could do so much harm, by fostering his relationship with Charabi, and afterward, once Charabi's lies were exposed and made them all look like idiots, by twisting Daniels's arm into doing something stupid and hysterically desperate to restore a little luster to their disintegrating reputations.