there, with a fertile imagination and a little mental elbow grease, how and why.
So, what was Z? Well, that would be the odd look the blonde female reporter gave me as we exited Charabi's office. I had never seen her before--I was sure of it--so it wasn't that she recognized my face, per se; it was the Drummond on my nametag that was familiar to her, because whoever had tipped her off about our raid on Mahmoud Charabi's office had also informed her that I would be there.
And I would bet that if I could go back and have a word with that reporter--if I could make her breach her journalistic omerta code-- she would confirm that her source was Bian Tran.
And if I stepped back from that moment a few hours more in time, to earlier that morning, I would bet as well that Bian was that mysterious voice who, speaking Arabic, had called and anonymously alerted the MP Operations Center to the location of an abandoned and bloodstained Toyota SUV.
And earlier, there was that moment in the dining facility when Bian had insisted on driving alone to Baghdad, and then, despite orders, chose to depart without me.
Right. She had to be alone to stage her own ambush and kidnapping, and then to disappear into the streets she knew so well. She was a military cop, and she knew how abandoned U.S. military vehicles are processed and handled. So she deliberately planted the necessary documents to lead the MPs to Camp Alpha, as well as a bloody clue on the dashboard that would lead Sean Drummond straight to Mahmoud Charabi.
I wondered if she had found a concealed spot to observe us as we entered Charabi's office. Probably she did. I would.
But everything--her plan and her escape--depended on first creating, then sustaining and shielding the misbelief that she had been kidnapped. Which explained, I thought, what she had been doing during the days she supposedly was trysting with Mark in Baghdad-- locating an AK-47 automatic rifle to shoot holes in her SUV, filling a medic's bag with her own blood, which she could splatter around the cab of the SUV, and scoping out where she would leave the ambushed SUV--arranging both the pantomime of her disappearance and the logistics for her escape.
"Excuse me . . ." the airman said, "I asked, is there something else?"
"Uh . . . where will she land?"
"Went to--" she again examined the screen, "--Dover Air Force Base."
"Thanks." I picked up my bag and shoved off to Gate 6 for my flight.
Not only had Bian taken a military flight, she had even used her own name on the manifest. This was so in-your-face, I should've been amazed. I wasn't, though--that's why I had asked. She was confident that she had fooled us all, and she knew that nobody was going to cross-check the flight manifest for a soldier who only that morning was listed on Army rolls as MIA. But this suggested more than confidence, this suggested a lady in a hurry.
As the MP at the terminal gate checked my orders I checked my watch. My partner had a ten-hour head start on me. But she would land at Dover Air Force Base in Delaware, from where it would require two or, with luck and/or typical Washington traffic, possibly three more hours to drive to D.C. My flight would land at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland, only thirty minutes from D.C.
I would cut her lead by at least two hours. No longer would I mischaracterize Bian Tran, nor would I underestimate her. Still, I had only a dim idea what was going on here, and I wasn't sure what she had planned next, or even if she had more plans.
I knew where to look, though.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
We arrived at Andrews Air Force Base without my plane experiencing a mysterious and unfortunate midair mishap. Nor did I see a CIA welcoming committee to help me find my way to Langley. Phyllis was slipping.
Getting a taxi, even with two hundred unruly and ambitious soldiers in competition, was faster than you can say abuse of rank.
The instant the first cab pulled up to the guest terminal, I stepped forward and bullied a poor private out of the back, leaving two hundred mutinous soldiers in my wake.
A helpful steward on the plane had kindly recharged my cell phone, and I made two quick calls, first to a person who confirmed what I had already guessed, and second to a person