Part 48 (1/2)
I smiled at her and asked, ”How's the chow, soldier?”
Her mouth must've been full, because she did not get a word out.
The famous Drummond charm obviously wasn't doing it. I cut to the chase and said, ”You have one last mission.”
”Is this an order?”
”No. You're involuntarily volunteering.”
She laughed. Not nicely.
”The Saudi planner in Karbala is being referred to the Army for apprehension. You served on the corps intelligence staff, so I a.s.sume you know who to bring this to.”
She continued eating.
I informed her, ”You and I will together deliver the Saudi file on this man, and then go straight to the airport for the flight home.”
”Go to h.e.l.l.”
”Bian, look at me.”
She studied her steak.
”You're directing your anger at the wrong person.”
”I don't think so.”
”Don't hate the players, hate the game.”
”Oh . . . now it's a game game.”
”You know what I mean.”
”And you know what I mean.”
She was being unreasonable, and I guess it was no mystery why. She was furious at the powers that be in Was.h.i.+ngton, disgusted by their decisions, their machinations, their cover-ups, their bulls.h.i.+t-- and she needed to lash out. Sean Drummond wasn't responsible for that, of course. But the idiots in Was.h.i.+ngton weren't seated across from her, they were five thousand miles away, and not likely to take her calls. Still, this was starting to p.i.s.s me off.
I said very sharply, ”Finish your meal. We'll go to the motor pool together and sign out a vehicle.”
She pushed away her tray and focused on me for the first time. ”You're right. I still have friends in the corps intel staff. So . . . yes, I do know who to refer this to. In fact, my old office handles these matters.”
”Good. Everything should--”
”But if I do this, I do it alone.”
”Wrong. We do this--”
”Alone. Also, I'll fly home alone,” she continued. ”Actually, I'd prefer a military flight. The company of real soldiers will be refres.h.i.+ng.”
That really hurt. I responded, ”How you get back is your business. I don't really care. You are not, however, driving alone alone to Baghdad.” to Baghdad.”
”Why not? I know the way.”
”The buddy system. It's--”
”You're not my buddy,” she pointed out.
”--it's theater policy. n.o.body travels through Indian country without a buddy,” I continued. ”Also this is a very sensitive and important mission. It requires an armed shotgun.”
She looked at me and said, ”Suit yourself.”
”I always do.”
She glanced at her watch. ”You know, depending on traffic, this could be your last chance to eat. Go ahead. The food was wonderful, since you asked. I need to freshen up and get my equipment together.”
”Fine. Motor pool. One hour.” I went to the chow line, loaded my tray, and when I returned to the table, Bian was gone. The dining facility, incidentally, was managed by civilian contractors, and the servers and waiters were all Iraqi nationals, which smacks a little of colonialism--natives waiting hand and foot on their occupiers and all that. Though to be truthful, n.o.body looked unhappy to have jobs. Contractors might get a bad rap back in the States, but the food, however, was amazing, better than anything I'd eaten in any Army facility, which is not the faint praise it sounds like. I relaxed, savored my first decent meal in days, went back for seconds--twice--and made a pig of myself.
For the first time in years, I even read the Stars and Stripes Stars and Stripes, which reminded me why I stopped reading it in the first place. If the New York Times New York Times's motto is ”All the news fit to print,” the motto here is ”There is no bad news fit to print.” I particularly enjoyed the article headlined, ”Recruiting Riots in Six States: President Orders Lottery System to Decide Which of Millions of Desperate Applicants Get Chance to Serve in Iraq.” Okay, I'm making that up.
Anyway, fifty minutes later, with my bags and my tummy packed, I stood before Phyllis's desk waiting to pick up the file. She was on the phone, and it took five minutes before she hung up and asked, ”Well?”
”I need the file.”
”Don't you two communicate?”
”What are you talking about?”
”Bian picked it up. About forty minutes ago. She said she was meeting you in the motor pool.”
I must've looked surprised, because Phyllis asked, ”Is something wrong?”
”No. I'm . . . Be back in a minute.”
I had a wave of bad feeling in my stomach and I walked as fast my feet could carry me to the motor pool, where my wave of bad feeling immediately turned into a tsunami. Yes, Major Tran had been here, the motor sergeant informed me, and she had signed out a Toyota Land Cruiser, the fancy model reserved for Special Ops, and departed about thirty minutes before. I asked him if the vehicle had a radio; no--no radio, no armor plating, and worse, no Drummond in the pa.s.senger seat.
However, the major had left a note, which the motor sergeant withdrew from his pocket with a greasy hand that left black smudges on the paper. It was handwritten and read, ”Sean, don't be angry with me. I don't blame you for anything that's happened. I've been a complete b.i.t.c.h. Sorry. And I mean it. But I need to think this through, and for some reason, you distract me. I'll call as soon as I arrive. Don't worry. You know by now I can handle it. Bian.”
The sergeant was watching my face and said, ”Anything wrong, sir?”
”What? No . . . I-- How long is the drive to the Green Zone?”
”An hour, maybe. Hour and a half when the traffic sucks. Usually does suck at this hour.”
I should have been furious with her, but I wasn't. Truthfully, she'd been acting strangely ever since her two days in Baghdad--or, on second thought, earlier, as I recalled the shower episode--and I knew the incident with bin Pacha had really pushed her over an edge. When the head isn't in the right place, the body follows. I should have kept a better eye on her.
I returned to the subterranean jail and updated Phyllis that Bian was en route and would call and notify us as soon as she landed. I further informed her that Bian had left alone, which caused a raised eyebrow and a chilly admonition to stay on top of this.