So I climbed on top of him, and he told me he loved me, and I told him how happy that made me as I reached for the Glock I had prepositioned under the mattress. He didn't even notice when I held it by his head.
The moment of truth. I thought about not doing it; it wasn't too late to just turn him in. But not very long and not very hard. I thought about telling him everything. How gratifying would that be, to watch his face as I let him know why.
But in the end I simply said, "You're going to die," and then I blew his sick brains out.
I stared at the wall for a moment. I was sure that Bian had never killed before, though it didn't sound like she was very troubled by guilt, which I guess I understood. But also, no matter how much she detested this man, in the end, she couldn't force herself to mentally torture him. Good people may do bad things, but they don't have to enjoy it.
She then briefly described how she straightened up afterward, getting dressed, taking Daniels's cell phone, and she then sat down and accessed his computer-trying to learn who he had colluded with-only to discover an impenetrable roadblock: the encrypted files. So she placed the computer inside the briefcase and positioned his briefcase in the place where I first saw it, with the corner sticking out from beneath the bed. She continued:
I drove back to my apartment, showered, changed into my uniform, drove back, and then I sat in my car in the parking lot, waiting for the maid, and then for the police to arrive. I thought about what I had done, and about what I still had to do. I knew my career was over, and that was okay. My career was over the instant the bullet tore through Mark's heart. I knew what would happen if I got caught, and that, too, was okay. There were still so many unanswered questions and guilty parties. And it wasn't just about Mark. Not anymore. It was about all our soldiers in Iraq, who trusted people in Washington to do what was right. So that was my plan. Involve myself in the investigation, find out who did what, and punish them. I would be the avenging angel. Nothing and nobody would stop me.
Enter Sean Drummond. I didn't like you much. Not at first, anyway. You annoyed me and you frightened me, and worse, you nearly figured it out. My God, you came close. Then I found myself liking you too much. You are so much like Mark. I thought I was with a ghost, or that maybe Mark's spirit had sent you. I know, silly. The problem is, Sean, once you've committed murder, there is no going back. And once I had a better inkling about what Daniels had done, I couldn't let myself go back. I was falling in love with you, but it was too late for that, because it was too late for me, which meant it was too late for us.
So, there it is. To be truthful, I don't regret it. Except for one thing. You. Also, you might be in career trouble because you were my partner, and because you might be blamed for things that went wrong, like the leak. Thus, this letter-this is your alibi and this should help you clear up any loose ends about the investigation. I've laid out everything in a way that should be easy to verify.
Don't waste your time looking for me. You won't find me. I love America, and I will miss it, and I will always regret losing the chance to see if it would work between you and me.
But I need to start over.
Love, Bian I put the letter aside, refilled my glass with scotch, and walked out to my small porch. I looked down on the traffic, at the lights and sights of northern Virginia, at my busy cross section of America.
Bian Tran had taught me something about myself, and if people in Washington were paying attention, she had taught them something as well.
War, they say, is supposed to be an extension of politics by other means; for those who are fighting it, though, and for those who love them, it becomes an affair not of the mind but of the heart.
Before you open the gates and unleash the dogs of war, it is wise to remember that the dogs have a mind of their own. Bian was not starting over; she had returned to the beginning.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
It was the last thing I needed to do, the final mystery that had to be solved.
I pushed open the glass door and entered the restaurant. Seated at a table near the back was my date, Phyllis, alone, sipping tea and studying a menu.
She was dressed conservatively in a smart red wool suit, with a colorful scarf pinned around her neck by a shiny brooch, and I, more casually in a blue blazer over a polo shirt and faded jeans.
I fell into the chair directly across from her and asked, "Come here often?"
She looked up from the menu and said, "My God, Drummond, I do hope you've never actually used that line."
"Never," I lied.
She flagged down the waiter, who happened to be the same gangly kid with purplish hair who had served Bian and me. Phyllis said something to him in Vietnamese, which surprised me; another reminder of how little I knew about this lady.
The kid looked equally surprised, but he recovered quickly, smiled pleasantly, and they chatted back and forth for about three minutes; for all I knew, Phyllis was recruiting him to go back to Vietnam and overthrow the commies.
I quickly got tired of listening to a conversation I didn't understand, and I turned my attention to the menu-still no red meat, still no cold beer. I really wanted a hamburger. I really needed a beer.
Earlier that afternoon, I had made the quick trip to Arlington National Cemetery and located the grave of Major Mark Kemble. It was raining and windy, and I saluted his grave, and then knelt down and we had a long, amiable chat. Maybe Bian had found time to stop here before she fled, maybe not. So I told Mark that he would be proud of Bian, and I told him everything she had done, and I confided how jealous I was of him.
The kid was laughing at something Phyllis told him, and then he disappeared back into the kitchen. Phyllis mentioned to me, "He recommends the freshwater white fish. It's the house speciality." She then reminded me of how well she knew me and observed, "But you don't like fish, do you?"
I asked her, "How long have you known?"
"About the white fish?"
"I'm tired of the games, Phyllis."
"Humor me about the fish, anyway," she replied. "I was first introduced to it in Vietnam. Did you know I spent five years there? During the war, of course. I loved the country, and especially, I loved the people."
Phyllis is not much for small talk, so she was leading up to something, and I had to let it play out.
She looked at me and said, "I wish I could say I look back fondly on those years. I don't, though."
I was obviously expected to ask why, and I did.
"I could say because it was such a horrible and ill-conceived tragedy for our nation. That's how Americans look back on it. We lost fifty-eight thousand lives. I knew some of those people… I knew very many of them, actually."
"One of my uncles is on the wall. As are the fathers of several of my friends."
"Not many fathers are on the wall. They were mostly so young." She looked away for a moment, then said, "At least we were able to fit all our dead on a wall. They lost two million lives, and we left millions of southerners to a hellish fate. What about them?"
Usually, Phyllis's ulterior meanings are more nuanced and subtle than this. What it boiled down to was this: The two people at this table knew enough to possibly force a premature end to this war as well. She wasn't going to insult my intelligence by lecturing me about American honor, or the geostrategic stakes, or even my security obligations. I appreciated that. I know my duty, and I do it-most of the time. I would've told her to screw off, anyway.