Man in the middle

"The pride of a job well done."

"Say again."

"We did not blackmail the administration, as you seem to be suggesting. The guilty parties are being punished. That was all we wanted, and that's all we asked for. We're satisfied. You should be, too."

"Well, I'm not." I mentioned, "Besides, you forgot somebody."

"Did I?"

"You know you did. Mahmoud Charabi."

"Oh, him. Well, there are twenty thousand jihadis in Iraq who dream every night of killing him. Eventually, somebody's going to get lucky. Trust me on this."

That usually is the kind of statement you take at face value, but considering the source, maybe not. I didn't want to know.

The kid reappeared with white fish and rice for Phyllis, and on a separate plate were two Big Macs, a sack of fries, and two cold Budweisers for me. Phyllis laughed and informed me, "The boy remembered you. The entire staff remembers you."

So we ate and we chatted. To keep the meal pleasant, we spoke of other matters, which did not include shoe sales at Nordstrom, so I did not have to reach across the table and strangle her. Phyllis predicted the President would win tomorrow's election, and in her salty opinion that was fitting because he had created the mess and he should have to clean it up. And so on.

But I had asked one question that Phyllis had skillfully evaded and never answered: Why did she let Bian get away? That was okay. I had already figured it out.

Because after I departed Dulles International for my apartment, I put two and two together and finally got four. The "detective" in the expensive suit, his partner, and the victim weren't working for Bian. They were Phyllis's people, a tail team that had probably followed Bian from the moment she set down in Delaware, and their job was to ensure that Bian made her escape. When I stepped forward and it looked like I was going to stop her, they stepped forward and stopped me.

That still didn't answer the why behind the why. Nor would Phyllis ever tell me; not the truth, anyway. Because, though she would never admit this, Phyllis is not as coldhearted or as jaded as she likes to pretend. But nobody fears a dragon lady with no teeth.

Like me, I was sure she sympathized with Bian, and maybe she felt guilty that her beloved Agency had played a role in Mark's death, and maybe she decided the country owed Bian Tran a chance to get her own little slice of justice, and then the chance for a new life. Of course, it helped that Bian's intense personal need for retribution coincided with Phyllis's own very intense professional need to learn what had happened.

I recalled the moment at Camp Alpha when I walked into the conference room-when Bian had been showing her Mark's picture-and I recalled the misty look in Phyllis's eyes.

The plates were cleared. Coffee came. The aimless chatter was over, and Phyllis came to the point and said to me, "You told me in Iraq that you want out. Do you still feel that way?"

"Here's a hint. I cleared out my desk this afternoon. There's a brief letter under the blotter on your desk."

Obviously she already knew this, and she said, "One should never make important choices on emotions."

"I knew you'd say that."

She looked me in the eye and added, "I would hate to lose you."

"You'll get used to it."

She lifted up the coffee carafe and asked, "Another cup?"

"You made me the man in the middle, Phyllis. You and Bian both. You kept me in the dark, fed me bullshit, and played me for a fool."

"So this is about hurt feelings?"

"No. Yes."

"Can I at least interest you in one final mission? Your country needs you."

"Give somebody else a turn."

"A few short weeks. That's all it will take. You owe me two more years. Do this, and I'll arrange a good assignment with the Army if that's still your wish. You have my word."

"You'll release me now."

"Or what?"

"Or I promise you the two worst years of your life. You know I can do that."

She smiled at this threat and said, "Aren't you at all curious about the mission?"

"I was curious last time. Send somebody who still trusts you. Somebody who doesn't know better."

"That's not an option, Sean."

"Because nobody trusts you?"

"Because nobody else has the right background, your credentials."

"Then change your requirements."

She bent down to her purse and withdrew something. It was a white envelope, which she studied for a long moment before casually sliding it across the table at me. I did not pick it up.

She said, "Are you afraid to look?"

"Is the job in Bermuda?"

"No."

"Then it's in the wrong place. Forget it."

She explained, "It's a simple recruitment mission. An asset we're intensely interested in. We have reason to believe it won't be a tough sell."

I made no response.

She said, "The weather there is wonderful at this time of year. Warm breezes, tropical sunsets, attractive natives, glorious beaches."

"That means the place sucks."

"No, it's lovely."

"That's what you said when you sent me to Iraq."

"Well… okay, the country does happen to be under an oppressive dictatorship, and maybe it's a little dangerous. You'll need a good cover and strong support from our people in the embassy. And if you're caught, the prisons are absolutely abysmal." She added, "You'll have to be careful."

"Stop trying to tempt me."

"This is a very important job. American corporations are very interested in this place, as is our navy. Its future strategic value could be enormous."

"Phyllis, you're not listening. Take this job and shove it."

I had exhausted her patience. She leaned across the table and, with real steel in her voice, said, "Drummond, open the damned envelope. Now."

Well, why not? I opened it and saw that it contained a first-class plane ticket, a brief description of the mission and the mission number, as well as the name, current address, and a little background about the target for recruitment.

Phyllis was right. It did not look like a tough sell. Plus, the recruit would make a fabulous asset.

I set it down on the table and said, "You're trying to get me out of the country for a few weeks while this thing blows over."

"I won't deny it."

"I won't be bribed."

"Don't be stupid. We all have a price."

"How do I know the address is correct?"

"Trust me."

I stared at her very hard.

She quickly said, "One of our people from the embassy was waiting when Bian landed in Saigon… known these days as Ho Chi Minh City. That's a horrible and unfortunate name, if you ask me. I have such fond memories of when it was still Saigon-"

"Phyllis."

"All right. He followed them." She added, "The address is an orphanage run by Bian's aunt, her mother's younger sister."

I placed the ticket and information in my breast pocket.