CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

We all walked out of the Camp Alpha compound as a military police detachment pulled up. A two-and-a-half-ton Army truck towed the silver Land Cruiser behind it, which was necessary, as the Toyota's front tires had been blown out by bullets. I did not like the look of that, but for the moment I withheld judgment.

The MPs began unhooking the tow shackles, and Jim Tirey, accompanied by four agents, waited until they finished before approaching the Toyota. They did a quick visual survey around the perimeter of the vehicle, and then dove in, dusting for prints and taking blood samples from the driver's seat-for once, they weren't developing a forensic portrait of the perpetrator, but of the victim. I walked to the driver's side.

As the ops sergeant had indicated over the phone, there were bullet holes in the driver's door, though not six, as he had stipulated- more like ten. Also the driver's window was blown out, with safety glass littering the inside. I studied the number and spacing of the holes; no way could the driver have emerged unscathed from such a fusillade.

An MP sergeant approached on my right and informed me, "We found it about 0600 hours, parked in an alleyway. It was, you know, a part of the city where you don't find expensive autos."

I looked at him but made no reply.

"An anonymous local called it in. Nobody gives you their names here," he continued. "Our Arabic guy took the message and dispatched us." He confided, "We were thinking VED, vehicular explosive device-you know?"

I nodded.

He said, "Ask me, it was a drive-by."

When I made no reply to his hypothesis, he explained, "There's gangs that rove around the city, day and night, hunting for vulnerable targets." After a pause, he asked, "She in uniform?"

Again, I nodded.

"Plain daylight, too," he commented with a disapproving frown. After a moment, he asked, "And she was alone, right?"

"Yes, alone."

"Uh-huh… I mean, Jesus H. Christ, that's how you spell stupid. Ask me, she was begging for it."

I turned to him and said, "If you offer one more stupid opinion, it will take ten strong men to pull my boot out of your ass."

He gave me an alarmed look, then wandered away. I continued to stare at the SUV.

I felt somebody take my arm, and when I turned around, it was Phyllis, staring at the bullet holes. She said, "Sean, I am truly, truly sorry."

I didn't trust myself to reply, and pulled my arm away. I moved to the rear of the vehicle, where Tirey's people had now withdrawn Bian's duffel bag and briefcase and laid them on the ground. The contents had been emptied and two agents were surveying the materials, spare uniforms, makeup kit, clean underwear, and so forth. Whatever they were looking for wasn't going to be found in Bian's bags.

An MP hovered over their shoulders, compiling a written inventory of her belongings on a clipboard. This I knew to be SOP whenever a service member is deceased or MIA-missing in action. And I knew also that it's one step short from a bugler blowing taps over a quiet grave.

Tirey said to me, "What do you think?"

I ignored the MP and looked at him. "She's alive."

"You saw the bullet holes? And the blood?" he asked, tiptoeing around what was so clearly indicated by the evidence.

"What don't we see, Jim? A body, a corpse. Bian. Were she dead, she would've been left in the car. They have no use for a corpse, do they?" He seemed to mull that over, and I added, "Also the front tires are blown out. Were it a drive-by, as our MP friends are suggesting, why shoot out the tires? Also the line of bullets in the door was a straight line, yet the window was also blown out. Think about that. If the driver's door was locked and they needed to get inside, they would break it in to get at the prisoner."

We both knew an immediate death was preferable to the conclusion I was drawing. He nodded slowly and contemplated this logic. He said, "I'm sure you've heard about the kidnapping gangs in the city. A lot of times, they call and demand ransom."

"Have they ever kidnapped an American soldier?"

"Well… not that I know of. But like all criminal enterprises, these people evolve. For instance, a few foreign contractors have been kidnapped by these gangs."

"And what happened to the victims?"

He paused for a moment. "I don't want to offer false optimism, or pessimism."

"Tell me."

He said, avoiding my eyes, "They were sold to terrorists." He continued to look away. "This happened twice that I'm aware of. Both victims ended up in Zarqawi's beheading videos."

I had spent the whole night preparing for this, and now it was actually happening, the finality of what I had hitherto only imagined. My chest felt like an airplane in a crash descent.

I stared at the two agents going through Bian's stuff, and at the MP listing her possessions. I thought of Bian lying, possibly, in a room not far from where we stood, surrounded, perhaps, by Zarqawi's people, who were sharpening their knives and rehearsing her death. This was a very courageous and resourceful lady, but she was not self-delusional; she was a realist, and she would appreciate the denouement of this story.

I left Tirey and returned to the driver's door. I stuck my head inside the SUV for no particular reason except I really didn't want to converse with anybody. Not with Phyllis and her guilty sympathizing, not with the MPs and their idiotic theorizing, and definitely not with Tirey, who was pulling no punches.

I stared at the dried blood inside the car. Bian's blood. The driver's seat was stained with it, more had splattered on the steering wheel, and some had even splashed onto the windshield and dashboard. She had bled profusely. And while I was sure she was alive when they pulled her out, that did not mean she was alive now.

Indeed, this was the Army's worst nightmare, and for the terrorists, a dream come true; an Army major, a female soldier, a West Point graduate, a beautiful and intelligent young woman whose beheading promised a telegenic horror that would sear itself into the psyche of the American public.

Terrorism thrives or dies on shock and hype, and in their corrupted version of Hollywood, truly a star was about to be born.

"Did you see it?" asked a voice from behind me.

I turned around. A military police buck sergeant, short, black, and female, was pointing at something inside the Toyota.

"See what?"

She stepped closer. "The letters," she replied. She leaned closer and stuck her arm inside the vehicle. "There… see it? Looks like letters… like she was writing something. You know?" She stepped back and commented, "In her own blood."

I followed her finger, and on the dashboard I observed what appeared at first to be squiggles of dried blood, but on closer examination had shape and form.

"Didn't notice it myself, at first," she told me. "Really, not till we hooked up the vehicle to the deuce and a half," she continued, referring to the Army truck that had towed the Land Cruiser. She explained, "Had to climb inside and put it in neutral… for the tow, sir. Took about fifteen minutes. Left me a lot of time to look around."

I had leaned closer and tried to read the letters. I said, "The first one looks like… what-C?"

"Yes, sir, sure does. And I think… the second's either a 'd' or a sloppy 'h.' "

"Followed by an 'a.' Right?"

"Or a sloppy 'o,' " she agreed. "But could be a 'q.' That last letter sort of drags off, sir. Maybe like she was yanked out of the cab as she was writing." She added, "I tol' my lieutenant might be she was still alive. Only he looked at all that blood and said uh-uh." She looked around and said, "Don't tell him I mentioned this. Please. Okay? He's sort of a prick. He don't like to be contradicted."