Part 57 (1/2)

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 p.r.i.c.ks from first cla.s.s, probably--were lined up, fingering their boarding pa.s.ses 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-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers 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 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 auth.o.r.ed the circ.u.mstances 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 relations.h.i.+p 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 l.u.s.ter to their disintegrating reputations. 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 auth.o.r.ed the circ.u.mstances 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 relations.h.i.+p 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 l.u.s.ter to their disintegrating reputations.

Also, I was was having difficulty with the Diane Andrews angle. I mean, in almost every way, it made sense. Andrews definitely had earned a high place on Bian's. .h.i.t list, and clearly the MOs in her murder and Daniels's were similar. Not identical, but similar. Further, if not from the lips of Diane Andrews, where else did Bian learn about Cliff? having difficulty with the Diane Andrews angle. I mean, in almost every way, it made sense. Andrews definitely had earned a high place on Bian's. .h.i.t list, and clearly the MOs in her murder and Daniels's were similar. Not identical, but similar. Further, if not from the lips of Diane Andrews, where else did Bian learn about Cliff?

Except . . . well, there were were those troubling differences. The hand that tortured and killed Diane Andrews was enraged, brutal, and the manner of her execution abrupt and perfunctory. Cliff's killer seemed cooler and, I thought, less impulsive. And then there were those interesting staging aspects that suggested pa.s.sions more byzantine than rage. But what did that mean? Two different minds? Or a single mind clever enough about police investigations to avoid a signature method? Whenever the killer is a veteran cop, you have a real problem on your hands. those troubling differences. The hand that tortured and killed Diane Andrews was enraged, brutal, and the manner of her execution abrupt and perfunctory. Cliff's killer seemed cooler and, I thought, less impulsive. And then there were those interesting staging aspects that suggested pa.s.sions more byzantine than rage. But what did that mean? Two different minds? Or a single mind clever enough about police investigations to avoid a signature method? Whenever the killer is a veteran cop, you have a real problem on your hands.

But when two plus two equals five, you have to go back to the beginning and recompute. So I asked myself, had Sean Drummond been the first responder on the scene of both murders, what would have been his impressions?

I thought he would've hypothesized that Diane's killer was a male--somebody with big-time macho problems, a bad att.i.tude toward women in general, and some fairly serious anger control issues. No finesse, no subtlety, just whack--down she went. Plus the killer used a hatchet, hardly a feminine tool. And the amputated fingers, maybe that was indicative of torture. But maybe it wasn't. Because maybe, as Phyllis had theorized, Diane's hand had merely been in the path of the deathblow.

And by comparison, he would've observed that Daniels's murder was more artful, more complexly dramatic, and in its s.e.xually peculiar way, more vindictive. And that would reinforce something he already well knew: In matters of life, and of death, men are shallow. Women think of the little things--the birthday gift wrapped in colorful paper with a fancy bow, or the naked corpse with his hand gripped around his woodie--the special touches that make life or, in this case, death, more interesting.

And, if I carried that logic a step further, had Bian been Diane's a.s.sa.s.sin, for her this was all or nothing. Everybody with a hand in Mark's death was going to atone; maybe, or especially, Tigerman and Hirschfield.

So if Bian was in the airport, she wasn't killing Tigerman and Hirschfield. And maybe she had killed Cliff, but maybe not Diane. Did it matter? Technically, no. Murder is murder--says so in the Uniform Code of Military Justice. It was irrelevant how many she killed; just that she did commit murder. And Sean Drummond, sworn officer of the law, was supposed to do his duty and help apprehend the perp. Right?

d.a.m.n it, no. It did did matter. matter.

The counter person was calling for seat numbers 50 through 25, and a fresh crop of people began lining up. I no longer had a good view, so I left my hiding place and s.h.i.+fted to the middle of the aisle for a closer look.

And ten people back from the front of the line, with her back turned, stood an elderly Vietnamese lady with stooped shoulders, and directly to her rear, a thin, broad-shouldered young Vietnamese male, short-haired, wearing baggy black dress slacks and a shapeless white office s.h.i.+rt, with a red knapsack slung casually over the left shoulder. At that moment, the elderly lady turned around and exchanged words with the slender boy to her rear, and I recognized her--Bian's mother.

Except for that look, I never would've recognized Bian. She stood like a male, erect, with her shoulders perfectly squared, just as she had been trained and molded in her first month at West Point.

So now all that stood between Bian Tran and a new life were the last few people before her in line, and me. I took a deep breath.

Flight or capture? n.o.body would ever know. n.o.body would know that she wasn't in the hands of Iraqi kidnappers. n.o.body would ever know she was alive and hiding out in Vietnam. And n.o.body would know that Sean Drummond had put his heart above his duty.

Three more pa.s.sengers entered the boarding walk. Bian and her mother took a few more short steps, closer to freedom.

Possibly it was my ego, but I just could not believe Bian was a ruthless killer. And I knew what would happen if I apprehended her--a certain conviction for murder, possibly treason, and a slew of lesser charges tacked on for good measure by an overeager prosecutor. While I doubted she would get the chair, I was sure she would never leave Leavenworth and she would know I had sealed her fate.

Could I be responsible for that? What would I do if the love of my life died because a bunch of venal bureaucrats back in Was.h.i.+ngton were playing career games? I didn't know for sure, and I hoped I would never find out. But I would like to believe I would've found some clever way to make them pay.

So that was it; I would let her go, but first, I would have a word with her. I wanted to tell her I knew what happened. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was for her pain. But, most of all, after all we had been through, after all we had shared, I needed needed to say good-bye. to say good-bye.

I stepped forward, when suddenly a hand grabbed my arm. I turned around, and a man in a dark suit said, ”Excuse me, sir. Detective Sergeant Jones. Would you please step over here?”

The suit looked nice and expensive, and the man was about my height, only larger, with more powerful shoulders. ”Why?” I asked him.

”A lady reported that she was a.s.saulted by a soldier in uniform. You fit her description.”

”I have no idea what you're talking about.”

”You know what?” He smiled and tightened his grip. ”They never do.”

I looked and saw that only two people were now ahead of Bian and her mother. I said to him, ”Show me your badge.”

”Sure. After you come with me.”

”Just give me a moment. I need to say good-bye to a friend, then I'll tell you why you're full of s.h.i.+t.”

”I'd rather learn why I'm full of s.h.i.+t now.”

This guy was as sarcastic as me, and thus equally irritating. I looked again and Bian's mother was handing her boarding pa.s.s to the gateperson. I tried to tug my arm away, but he tightened his grip and said, ”Don't make me cuff you. Come on, pal . . . do us both a favor.”

”Get lost.”

He pointed down the corridor and said, ”My partner's with the victim. Let's give her a quick look-see. If it wasn't you, you're on your way.”

Bian now was handing her pa.s.s to the lady at the gate. I reached over, twisted his wrist, and pulled my arm away, saying, ”Don't make me hurt you.”

I felt something round and hard press against my back. He said, ”I won't.” He jammed the barrel harder into my back and said, ”Let's not upset the tourists by making me shoot you. Walk slowly--let's get this over with.”

I looked and saw Bian's back disappear through the doorway and down the gangway to her flight, her new life, and out of my life. s.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+t.

The detective remained behind me as we walked back to Gate 20, where another man in a dark suit stood beneath a Starbucks sign, holding a conversation with a mildly attractive young lady also in a dark suit. The detective stayed behind me and said to the lady, ”Is this the man who a.s.saulted you? Take a close look.”

She examined my face a moment. Sounding annoyed, she said, ”No, the man was short and slightly overweight. I told you that.”

I felt the pistol disappear. I turned around and faced the detective. I said, ”Who put you up to this?”

”Don't get worked up, pal. s.h.i.+t happens.”

We stared at each other a moment.