I think she actually likes me. However, spooks and soldiers have a relationship that, to be charitable, is best characterized as complicated. Partly this is because Army folks, when not covering their own butts, live by the soldier's code, a credo that frowns upon such mannerisms as betrayal, deceit, sneakiness, and moral hedging. These of course are the very qualities that make the CIA the world-class organization it is. But mostly, I think, we just don't trust each other.
Actually, I had no real cause to doubt this lady. And neither could I think of a single reason not to.
"Drummond," Enders barked, "you're wasting my county minutes."
I cleared my throat and put the phone to my ear. "Sorry for the wait. I was killing an international terrorist." Pause. "I strangled him with my bare hands. He really suffered. I knew you'd like that."
She made no reply, though I could hear her breathing heavily. I hate when women do that.
After a long moment I suggested, "Why don't I just hold this conversation with myself? At least I'll like the responses."
She answered, very tartly, "This is no laughing matter, Drummond. Do you know the cardinal sin in our business?"
I could tell she wanted to answer that, so I made no reply.
"You've just blown your cover." She said, "I shouldn't need to remind you that the CIA has no legal authority to investigate domestic homicides. If that detective decides to make a stink--"
"Thank you. I'm a lawyer. I understand."
"Are you? Well . . . Cucullus non facit monachum."
Translated, the cowl does not make the monk. That really hurt. "Look, Phyllis--"
"No--you listen, I speak. Apologize to that detective. Kiss his . . . his fanny as much as it takes, then be gone. I promised him you'd depart immediately."
I glanced again at the briefcase by the foot of the bed. Bian Tran's eyes followed mine, and she smiled. I needed to even the score, and I knew how to do it.
I informed Phyllis, and by extension Enders and Tran, who were being rude and eavesdropping, "Of course. I'll just tell Enders you changed your mind."
"I . . . What?"
"Problem--? No . . . Detective Enders looks like a bright guy with good sense--"
"You'll explain nothing. I told you--"
"Complications? Just one. Call the Office of the Secretary of Defense."
"Drummond, are you listening to--"
"Exactly--what is a military police officer doing in a civilian apartment building outside military jurisdiction and poking her nose into this?"
Enders recognized something was amiss, and he was now staring with some annoyance at Tran. For some reason she had lost her smile. Actually, she looked pissed.
Phyllis, also annoyed, was saying, "Drummond, you're out of your mind. The last thing we want--"
"Tell Jim . . . I mean, the Director . . . tell him we'll discuss this when I return." I punched off and handed the phone to Enders, who regarded me with newfound appreciation.
Major Tran also was looking at me, probably wondering how she was going to spend the rest of her day. She suggested to me, with a tiny note of apprehension, "We need to have a word. Alone."
Enders demanded, "What's going on here?"
I turned to Enders. "Understand that the victim was a Pentagon employee. He worked in a very sensitive office and possibly there are highly classified materials in his briefcase. I suspect that's why the major is here." I gave Tran a pointed look and added, "I know that's why I'm here."
"Why didn't you say so in the first place?"
"I'm CIA. We lie."
He thought this was funny and chuckled.
I told him, "Don't touch that briefcase while Tran and I straighten this out."
She and I left and walked together through the living room, through the glass sliders, and outside onto the porch. It was narrow, not long, perhaps four feet, so we ended up about a foot apart, maybe less. Below us, Glebe Road was in its usual state of congested agony, and I pictured Cliff Daniels when he was still alive, standing where now we stood, cocktail in hand, perhaps observing the swarm below, and also perhaps meditating upon the unhappy causes that would make him snuff out his own life. Rarely is suicide a spontaneous act, and I wondered what concoction of miseries and maladies convinced Cliff to remove himself from the gene pool.
Or perhaps Cliff never had that conversation with himself; maybe somebody had that conversation for him.
For a few moments neither Tran nor I said a word. Her arms were crossed and she was staring off