"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 shit."

"I'd rather learn why I'm full of shit now."

This guy was as sarcastic as me, and thus equally irritating. I looked again and Bian's mother was handing her boarding pass 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 pass 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. Shit.

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 assaulted 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. Shit 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, "Fuck 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.

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 glass 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.