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 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 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 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 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 shifted 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 shirt, 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 Washington 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.

The young lady said, "I told you, Officer, it wasn't that bad. Maybe the soldier was having a bad day. Let's forget this. I don't really want to press charges."

As I suspected he would, the detective shrugged, turned to his partner, and said, "Well, what can you do?"

The woman walked away, headed in the direction of the transporters back to the main terminal. I needed to call their bluff and said to both detectives, "Show me your badges. I intend to file a complaint with your department."

The one who'd been standing with the woman looked at the guy with the pistol. He gave me a nasty smile and answered for both of them, saying, "f.u.c.k off and have a nice day."

They both walked away, and I stood and watched their backs until they were out of sight. I can usually smell cops and these two weren't cops. And neither was the young lady in the dark suit a victim.

I wanted to be mad, but what came out was a smile.

Bian Tran had outfoxed and outwitted me, for the final time.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

I unlocked the door to my apartment, threw it open, and flipped on the lights. unlocked the door to my apartment, threw it open, and flipped on the lights.

The first thing I noticed was good and bad news. Nothing had changed in my absence. The place was a complete mess, so obviously my maid hadn't come and straightened things up, which I guess I understood since I don't have a maid.

If you're interested, I tend to be very neat and tidy, which is maybe my only virtue, but in my rush to prepare for Iraq, the place looked like Berlin after the Russian army sacked it. If you're still interested, my apartment is small, with a few pieces of ratty, cheap furniture I had purchased at a secondhand store, thrown around an outrageously expensive big-screen TV--bachelor chic, I believe it's called.

But Army life is migratory, Army movers are endlessly cruel, and only hopeless optimists buy nice or expensive furnishings. I take my chances with the TV.

The second thing I noted was the envelope that had been slipped beneath my door, which I stooped down and picked up. It was the plain white variety without an address, stamp, or return address.

My name was written in small neat letters, so I knew who it was for, and I had a fairly good idea who it was from.

I placed the letter on the kitchen counter, threw my duffel on the couch, pulled three Michelobs from the fridge, and headed straight to the bathroom, peeling off my smelly combat uniform as I walked. I twisted the cap off the first beer and stepped into the shower, where I remained until three dead soldiers littered the floor, and the last Iraqi dirt and sand had been scrubbed and rinsed off. My motto is always wear the dirt from where you are, not where you've been. I wish life was that easy.

I dried off, threw on clean sweats, and returned to the kitchen. I poured a tall gla.s.s of scotch, threw in a few ice cubes, sat at the dining table, and opened the white envelope. There were six handwritten pages, and I read:

Dear Sean, I won't apologize. I won't apologize. By now, I'm sure you've figured it out. At least, most of it. By now, I'm sure you've figured it out. At least, most of it. After Mark died, I thought I would go mad. Actually, I did go mad, and once you've been to that dark place, I don't know if you ever fully return. You once asked me about my dreams. So, I'll tell you now the dream that comes every night: Mark dying in an ugly street, in an ugly city, in an ugly war, because of an ugly act. After Mark died, I thought I would go mad. Actually, I did go mad, and once you've been to that dark place, I don't know if you ever fully return. You once asked me about my dreams. So, I'll tell you now the dream that comes every night: Mark dying in an ugly street, in an ugly city, in an ugly war, because of an ugly act. General Bentson believed my best hope of recovery was here, near my childhood memories, near my mother, with a job where the most stressful thing I would deal with was some randy old colonel who chased a female underling around his desk. It wasn't working, it would never work, but at least I made it through the days without crying. My nights, well, they were another story. General Bentson believed my best hope of recovery was here, near my childhood memories, near my mother, with a job where the most stressful thing I would deal with was some randy old colonel who chased a female underling around his desk. It wasn't working, it would never work, but at least I made it through the days without crying. My nights, well, they were another story. Six weeks after I returned, Diane Andrews, who had been the CIA courier, contacted me. During her frequent trips to Baghdad, we became friends. When she learned about Mark, despite being under orders not to discuss this with anybody, she couldn't live with herself. She invited me to dinner at her apartment, and over a bottle of Chardonnay, she cried and told me about Cliff. She had no idea why she had an affair with him, or why she ever trusted him, or why she told him about the exploitation cell; she knew men didn't find her physically attractive, and she was desperate, she wanted to impress him, and acted stupidly. Nor was she sure that Cliff was the source of the compromise. But her instincts said it was him. Six weeks after I returned, Diane Andrews, who had been the CIA courier, contacted me. During her frequent trips to Baghdad, we became friends. When she learned about Mark, despite being under orders not to discuss this with anybody, she couldn't live with herself. She invited me to dinner at her apartment, and over a bottle of Chardonnay, she cried and told me about Cliff. She had no idea why she had an affair with him, or why she ever trusted him, or why she told him about the exploitation cell; she knew men didn't find her physically attractive, and she was desperate, she wanted to impress him, and acted stupidly. Nor was she sure that Cliff was the source of the compromise. But her instincts said it was him. She said she knew her career was over, it should be over, and she would handle this in whatever way I decided. I told her to confront Daniels, and she agreed. But he wouldn't return her calls, so she accosted him one night at the Pentagon exit as he was leaving work. He denied everything, so she threatened to turn him in, thinking it would force his hand, because an innocent man wouldn't care. He became enraged. She was thankful they were in a public place, because he threatened to kill her, which terrified her, and she literally ran from him. She said she knew her career was over, it should be over, and she would handle this in whatever way I decided. I told her to confront Daniels, and she agreed. But he wouldn't return her calls, so she accosted him one night at the Pentagon exit as he was leaving work. He denied everything, so she threatened to turn him in, thinking it would force his hand, because an innocent man wouldn't care. He became enraged. She was thankful they were in a public place, because he threatened to kill her, which terrified her, and she literally ran from him. So it was in my hands, she said. I asked for a few days to make up my mind. Little did I know, I was about to become responsible for another death. So it was in my hands, she said. I asked for a few days to make up my mind. Little did I know, I was about to become responsible for another death. The next morning, browsing through the morning newspaper, I saw that Diane had been murdered the night before. I waited two weeks to see if the police or the Agency would figure it out. They didn't. So Daniels was about to get away with Mark's death, and with Diane's murder. The next morning, browsing through the morning newspaper, I saw that Diane had been murdered the night before. I waited two weeks to see if the police or the Agency would figure it out. They didn't. So Daniels was about to get away with Mark's death, and with Diane's murder. I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't let that happen.

I sipped from my scotch before I flipped to the next page. I had been right about Diane's murder and that was gratifying. In retrospect, it seemed so obvious--now, at least--that Diane had sought out Bian and voluntarily turned her on to Cliff Daniels. And likewise, as her former lover, it was logical that Cliff Daniels knew when and where Diane jogged. Having already sold his soul to his ambitions and then descended to treason with Charabi, it was a short step to the next level, murder, and Daniels made that leap. By eliminating Diane, he thought he had covered his tracks, he thought he was free and clear; in fact, he invited his own murder.

I continued to read. Over the next two pages Bian described how she approached and entrapped Cliff Daniels, first locating his office in the Pentagon, and from there following him to his car, to his apartment, learning where he got his hair cut, shopped for his groceries, bought his hooch, and she even followed him on a date with one of his mistresses. Then, after a week, in one of the Pentagon cafeterias she fell into a chair at his table, struck up a conversation, and asked him out. What followed was a blow-by-blow account of where and when they went, and what they did. I wasn't sure why she felt it necessary to include all this detail, but maybe the explanation would come later. Interestingly, she never wrote that she slept with him--she used more delicate expressions like "the evening ended on a romantic note"--but I understood.

I thought of that pig having s.e.x with Bian, and I I wanted to kill him. I got to that night, and it read: wanted to kill him. I got to that night, and it read:

I took him to dinner at a local bar where I handled the bill. With cash, as I always did. He liked it when I paid. It appealed to his vanity and his selfishness. As usual, the jerk got drunk, and kept putting his hands all over me while I had to act like I enjoyed it. I promised him a night he would never forget, and I meant it. The fool laughed. Maybe you've already figured this out--but why that night? I knew the maid was coming the next morning and I needed to be there when the police arrived. So I kept him out till midnight, until almost all the other residents of his apartment complex were in bed and asleep. I slipped on a blonde wig and long silk gloves before we got out of the car, and told him this was part of what I had planned for him, which he liked. He had kinky appet.i.tes, but I don't think you want to know the details, and I d.a.m.ned sure don't want to recall them. Maybe you've already figured this out--but why that night? I knew the maid was coming the next morning and I needed to be there when the police arrived. So I kept him out till midnight, until almost all the other residents of his apartment complex were in bed and asleep. I slipped on a blonde wig and long silk gloves before we got out of the car, and told him this was part of what I had planned for him, which he liked. He had kinky appet.i.tes, but I don't think you want to know the details, and I d.a.m.ned sure don't want to recall them. Upstairs, I asked him to get me a drink of water, and while he went to the kitchen, I went to the bedroom, got his pistol from his bedside table, screwed on the silencer I had earlier ordered via the Internet, and chambered a round. When he came into the bedroom, I told him to undress and get on the bed. He was so excited he nearly ripped his clothes off. I turned on the radio, found an easy listening station, and did a slow striptease that got him more excited. He lay back, fondling himself and watching me. I really hated him, Sean. He kept making obscene comments, telling me the things he was going to do to me, and all I could do was imagine what I was about to do to him. I was down to my bra, my underpants, my wig, and my gloves. Believe me, he was even more disgusting, more selfish and corrupt than you were told. I still didn't know all the details about how he caused Mark's death, but I was sure he did, and I knew he murdered Diane--he split open her skull and left her like garbage in the woods. Upstairs, I asked him to get me a drink of water, and while he went to the kitchen, I went to the bedroom, got his pistol from his bedside table, screwed on the silencer I had earlier ordered via the Internet, and chambered a round. When he came into the bedroom, I told him to undress and get on the bed. He was so excited he nearly ripped his clothes off. I turned on the radio, found an easy listening station, and did a slow striptease that got him more excited. He lay back, fondling himself and watching me. I really hated him, Sean. He kept making obscene comments, telling me the things he was going to do to me, and all I could do was imagine what I was about to do to him. I was down to my bra, my underpants, my wig, and my gloves. Believe me, he was even more disgusting, more selfish and corrupt than you were told. I still didn't know all the details about how he caused Mark's death, but I was sure he did, and I knew he murdered Diane--he split open her skull and left her like garbage in the woods. 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. 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. 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. 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 n.o.body 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 G.o.d, 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. 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 G.o.d, 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. 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. 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. But I need to start over. Love, Bian Love, Bian

I put the letter aside, refilled my gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 G.o.d, Drummond, I do hope you've never actually actually used that line." 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 needed a beer. 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?"