Well, a little difference. Maybe.

The cabbie was performing an extended monologue, about the weather, about his daughter in college, about college bills, about life, about politics. I tuned him out as, inside my head, I conducted the summary court-martial of Bian Tran, soldier, patriot, almost-lover, and, very possibly, the most ballsy and clever murderer I had ever met.

I must've been thinking long and hard, because before I knew it, I felt the cab come to a stop and the cabbie said, "Here we are."

I looked out the window and saw that we were underneath the epic overarch of Dulles International Airport. I paid the cabbie one hundred and twenty bucks, threw in a twenty-dollar tip, and stepped out onto the curb, slinging my duffel over my shoulder.

It was time to confront Bian Tran and her monsters.

CHAPTER FORTY

I passed through the revolving doors and checked the nearest overhead monitor, which showed United Airlines Flight 837 as departing from Gate 48 in Concourse B. From the second cell phone call I had made in the cab, I knew this to be the day's final direct flight for Asia-nonstop to Incheon Airport in Seoul-where, were one so inclined, one could transfer to Asiana Airlines for another destination: Vietnam.

In fact, my first call from the cab had been to Happy Vietnamese Cuisine, whose proprietor was Bian's mother. I was not surprised when the lady who answered informed me that Mrs. Tran was not in, would not be in tomorrow, and would never be in again. The woman had then confided that Mrs. Tran decided to become Viet Kieu-a Vietnamese member of the diaspora repatriating to her birth country-and that Happy Vietnamese Cuisine had fallen under new management.

I wasn't surprised, because, for Bian, it was both the perfect escape and the perfect sanctuary. I suspected it had been part of her plan from the start. She spoke the language, her mother missed the old country and would happily live out her days there, and Bian would be impossible to find in a nation of eighty million where every fourth citizen was named Tran. Also, America had no extradition treaty with Vietnam. And Bian liked fish.

I jogged to the boarding gate for the transporter to Concourse B, where the gate guard politely requested the boarding pass I did not have. Instead, I flashed my Langley building pass and mumbled something vague and not overly alarming about national security, the need to check a passenger manifest, and whatever. Civilians are easily cowed by the letters "CIA," and I was allowed to proceed without even passing through the metal detector, which even the guards at Langley won't let you do these days.

I stepped onto the land transporter and squeezed past the travelers, who seemed mostly to be part of a tour group from someplace where everybody was short and addicted to snapping pictures of tall guys in dirty, wrinkled uniforms.

I leaned against a window and checked my watch: 5:10. The flight was scheduled for departure at 5:55 and was listed on the monitor as on time, so boarding should begin around 5:30.

Seven minutes later, the transporter docked and I pushed my way through the height-challenged people into Concourse B-essentially a long corridor extending off to my left and right. A sign showed that Gate 48 was to my left and I began jogging in that direction through the crowds, working my way down.

Bian was either going to be here or not. If she was here, that meant one thing; if not, something else. I wasn't really clear on what either meant except I knew that it was important.

I was more conflicted than I had ever been in my life. In spite of everything, I was still at least half in love with Bian Tran, and more jealous than ever of Mark Kemble. I recalled Bian once telling me that love has no past tense. And also, I remembered how Sean Drummond had skeptically and cynically dismissed this as naive, syrupy mush. Yet, for Bian, it wasn't. She was sacrificing everything she had accomplished-her career, her citizenship, and possibly even her life-all for a man who no longer was even alive to appreciate it. Every guy should be so lucky. And every government should be scared out of its wits.

For the truth was, much of what Bian had done I approved of; parts of it I admired; some of it I even envied. Washington had taken from Bian something she loved, and in return she had robbed Washington of something it loved, the false arrogance that you can fool most of the people most of the time.

And, indeed, much of what she had done was morally ambiguous: treachery in some eyes, justice in others.

Murder-that's where the line stopped. Evil does not correct evil; nor does it bring back the dead; nor does it heal the pain. I could forgive her for killing in the heat of the moment, and the law, as well, makes mitigating exceptions when passion collides with reason. That wasn't what happened here, though.

Directly ahead of me was the sign for Gate 48. I slowed to a walk and looked around a bit. Bian would be dressed in civilian clothing, whereas I was in uniform, so I was ceding a big advantage: She was blending into the crowd and would spot me before I saw her. Also, a lot of short people seemed to be gathering around Gate 48, and I felt as self-conscious as Gulliver wading through a flock of Lilliputians.

So I moved to the corner wall beside the gate waiting area, leaned casually against it, and peered around the corner. This flight was crowded, and all the seats in the waiting area were filled, with some people lounging on the floor, and others clustered in small knots, chatting or reading. No Bian, though.

Recalling her thing for disguises, I surveyed the crowd again, trying to imagine Bian as a blonde, a brunette, a schoolgirl, an arthritic grandmother. Still no good. The passengers were mostly Asians, and if she was wearing a costume, I was unable to debunk it.

I decamped from my hiding place and approached the ticket counter, where a few people were lined up, rearranging their seats or whatever. People are respectful of uniforms these days, and I butted ahead of an old lady who was in discussion with the counter person, a uniformed lady who looked a little harried and overburdened. I said, "Excuse me, ma'am," to her, and to the counter lady, "Could you please check if Bian Tran is booked on this flight?"

She replied a little frostily, "That information's confidential."

"Of course it is. Could you please step away from the counter?"

She wasn't sure what she was dealing with here and looked apprehensively at the guard, who was loitering beside the entrance to the boardwalk. I smiled reassuringly and said, "Government business. Please. This will take only a moment."

"Oh… all right."

She joined me by the window. I withdrew my Agency ID and allowed her a few seconds to study it. Airline people are understandably paranoid about terrorists these days, and before she freaked out, I reassured her, "Ms. Tran works for us."

"Oh…"

"I hope I can confide this. We suspect Miss Tran of cheating on her expense accounts and billing us for her boyfriend's travel, who might also be on this flight." I smiled nicely and added, "The government can screw you, but it doesn't like to pay you to screw."

She smiled at my little joke. Nor did she inquire why an Agency person was wearing a military uniform, which was good, because I was winging it and didn't really have a good alibi.

"So"-I pointed at her counter-"if you could quietly check…"

We returned to the counter, she punched Bian's name into her computer, and said, "Yes… she's booked. Seat number 34B."

"Who's in 34A?"

She looked again. "Mr. Arthur Clyde."

"And 34C?"

"Mrs. Lan Tran."

Bingo. "Has Ms. Tran checked in yet?"

Again she studied the screen, and she shook her head. "She has an electronic ticket. Not required to."