Man in the middle

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Bian awaited me in the plane's lounge. She looked up when I entered and asked, "How did it go?"

"Don't ask. Why aren't you asleep?"

"Look who's asking. You look like hell." She studied my face and said, "Is something wrong?"

"No, I'm… Where's our prisoner?"

"In the guest suite, locked to the bed. I barely nicked his calf. A flesh wound. I soaked it with disinfectant and put on a fresh dressing." She noted, "He doesn't react well to pain."

"Did you interrogate him?"

"I promised, didn't I?" She added, "I'm being good."

"And did you call Phyllis with an update?"

"I did. She sounded pleased. Incidentally, she's flying here."

"On her broomstick?"

Bian smiled and replied, "I'm serious. She's in flight, and the Agency switch connected us." She checked her watch. "Took off five hours ago. She's scheduled to arrive in seven hours."

"Did she mention why?"

"Well… no. But I asked. She said something that sounded evasive. She's very cagey, isn't she?" She made a sour face and added, "That was the good news, if you're wondering."

I felt a headache coming on. "I don't want to hear it."

She said it anyway. "Waterbury is accompanying her."

I collapsed into a comfortable lounge chair and thought about this a moment. Among the more agreeable aspects of working for Phyllis Carney-possibly the only agreeable thing-is that she tends to be old school. This is to say, she gives you jobs, she generally does not interfere, and if you succeed she treats it as par for the course, no big deal; if not, she fires you, and then goes the extra mile of ruining your career.

She's not vindictive; that would require a level of emotion she does not possess. What she is, is a throwback to an older era, a living time capsule of habits, instincts, and methods that reside now only in history books. And for my generation-the boomers-bred as we were to be unconditionally nurtured and blithely agnostic about personal responsibility, we are a little disoriented by a lady boss with such Calvinist impulses. Also, it strikes me that Phyllis is aware she has become a generational misfit; I actually think she gets a sadistic pleasure from this. Her nickname around the office is Dragon Lady, which I personally find insulting, disgusting, sexist, and dead-on.

Her flying here, however, was a curious deviation from her normal modus operandi, and that Herr Waterbury was accompanying her suggested other problems, and other issues. But what? Well, for one thing, a higher authority, like the White House, finally got its act together and realized the kids at the Agency were playing with matches around political dynamite. Maybe they didn't know everything, yet here we had a case where knowing very little could change the nameplate in the Oval Office.

So Phyllis, or the Director, or both, had been dragged down Pennsylvania Avenue, put on the red carpet, and read the riot act.

Which might explain, as well, her traveling companion. Either Mark Waterbury ratted her out or he was the watchdog dispatched to monitor or control her every move and report back. Those aren't mutually exclusive suspicions.

Or I could have this all wrong. The capture of Ali bin Pacha was a big victory in a war that badly needed a few notches on the success pole. So maybe they were flying here to make sure their mugs were in the victory photo. I could actually see Waterbury doing this, and it wouldn't hurt Phyllis to score a few brownie points either.

So, was it that simple and innocuous? Maybe. But maybe not.

This case just kept getting deeper and more complicated, starting with a corpse in an apartment, and now we had a bomber in the bedroom, a terrorist paymaster in an operating room, and if one or both of them spilled the beans, who knows what else might land on our plate. You like to think of investigations as ordered, a sensible progression of steps guided by a start and headed toward a tangible finish, where the lodestar for the investigator is the illusion that things happen for a reason.

But in truth, sometimes it's day by day, a journey without a map or an exit ramp in sight. In a way, I thought, this case had become a microcosm of this war, having looked so simple at the start and now our troops were sinking deeper and deeper into the muck of every tribal and religious and political mess in the region.

I looked at Bian, who was thumbing through a TIME magazine. I asked her, "Did you mention anything to Waterbury?"

"Sean, please." She looked up. "I'm not stupid."

"I know that." I bent forward, untied my combat boots, and kicked them off my feet. "Maybe he just misses you."

She commented, "I'll bet he misses you more," and went back to reading. "He doesn't want you out of his sight." Bian looked up from her magazine again. "Whew… what's that poisonous smell?"

"You're no petunia yourself."

She laughed. "I do feel icky. Did you notice there are showers on this plane? Two of them." She stood and began unbuttoning her battle dress blouse.

"Is there anything this plane doesn't have?"

"Well… the bar's not stocked. Maybe you noticed that." She bent over and began untying her boots. "Speaking of which, why don't I get you a cold beer?"

She wasn't expecting a reply, nor did she get one, and she disappeared in the direction of the forward galley. She reappeared after a few moments, down now to a tiny sports bra and camouflage pants. Part of me admired what a good soldier she was for staying so trim and fit, and another part-the more dominant part-noted that I was in the presence of the ninth wonder of the world, a half-naked woman hauling a six-pack.

She tossed me a cold one, withdrew one for herself, and there was that inspiring symphony of two cans opening simultaneously.

I took a long sip and said, "Ah…"

She said, sort of out of the blue, "I hope I'm not being nosy. Why haven't you ever married?"

"Why buy the cow when you can buy milk?"

"Stop being obnoxious. That was a serious question." She leaned her back against the bulkhead and studied me with her curious black eyes. "You're a handsome man. Rough around the edges, maybe, but a lot of women would find you attractive."

I decided I owed her an answer that was honest and forthright, and I gave her one. "Mind your own business."

She laughed. She took a long sip from her beer. "Don't tell me you're one of those relationship-phobic types. The instant the M-word comes up, you put in a request for reassignment."

"Time for my shower."

I got up and walked back to the bedroom at the rear of the plane. Right beside it was another door, which I opened and peeked inside. It was a large stall, basically a green faux-marble cage with six or ten shower heads designed by a sadist and passed off as a yuppie must-have luxury item. There was nowhere to change, so I stripped down to my undies in the hallway and stepped inside.

I turned on the water, slipped off my undershorts, sipped from my beer, and leaned back against the wall. The water was as cold as the beer, and it didn't feel good, though after a moment of acclimation it was refreshing and awakening. The soap was French and smelled like a lady's boudoir-personally, I prefer the odor of stale sweat-and I scrubbed off the dirt, washed my scalp, and was rinsing my hair when I heard a hard knock on the door.

I heard Bian's voice, but it was muffled and I couldn't make out what she was saying. Two thick fluffy white towels hung from a hook and I wrapped one around my waist and opened the door.

Bian, also wrapped in a towel, her hair wet and bedraggled, said, "I turned on the water, and it's… it's frigid."

"Maybe the plane has to be turned on for the water heater to operate. Do you have the key to this thing?"

"Then… yours is cold also?"

"Yes, it's-" And before I knew it, her towel dropped to the floor and she stepped lightly into my stall. In one fluid motion, she released the towel from my waist, pulled me around by my shoulder, and closed the door as she passed. Wow, she was nimble.

And then… well, there we were, a man and a woman, nose to nose in our birthday suits; actually, nipple to nipple. Bian laughed and asked, "Are you shocked?"

I drew upon my legendary self-restraint and averted my eyes.

Well… I peeked, of course. And hers was a lovely body indeed, built for comfort and for speed, lean and muscular, broad-shouldered, without an ounce of flab that I could detect. Her skin was a wonderful mocha hue, and all the appropriate plumbing and female esoterica seemed to be present and accounted for.

"Bian… what are you doing?"

"Don't you mean what are we doing?" She had grabbed the soap bar and began scrubbing my chest. "Hypothermia prevention, straight from the Army cold-weather manual." She laughed. "The doc's gone, the crew's doing their mandatory bed rest and… and well… the manual stresses that any warm body will do."

Her hand had moved down to my stomach and was heading south. I didn't recall that particular technique from the manual, but it was an effective improvisation, because I was warming up. I informed her, "I'm not sure this is a good idea."

She observed, rightfully, "Your little friend seems to feel differently."

"Little?"

"Well… bless my stars… From an acorn to a mighty oak… you're- Oh my… Water him and look what happens."

I laughed. I'm a sucker for precoital silliness.

She grabbed my arm, spun me around, and began soaping my back. It felt good. She began kneading and massaging my muscles; that felt even better. After a few moments of this, she mentioned, "You have a lot of scars."

"Well… I had an unpopular childhood."

"These look more recent."

"Exactly."

She laughed.

I reminded her, "Hey, aren't you a little engaged?"

She invoked those magical words-"Why don't you let me worry about that?" — and she spun me back around, handed me the bar of soap, and said, "Now do me."

Well, what could I say? No was an option-except reciprocity is the mark of a gentleman, so I spun her around and soaped and scrubbed her back. She arched up like a cat. Her skin was wonderfully smooth. And buttery.

For the next few moments neither of us spoke. The only sounds were water pelting off our bodies, and somebody seemed to be breathing heavily.

She turned around and stepped into me. "Now do my front."

I looked at the soap and then into her dark eyes. There's a big difference between the back and the front, and once we started this, well…

Actually, we already were well past the start line, and part of me was urging, very insistently, "Come on, Drummond. Bedwetting wimps quit. Look at that finish line-do this, Drummond. You can-you know you can…"

Another part of me was halfheartedly pumping the brakes.

Maybe casually tapping the pedal.

Bian sensed my reluctance and she stepped forward, rubbing her body against mine. "It's okay. Really."

I smiled, and she smiled back. She rubbed a little more.

So… here we were, headed toward no return.

And then… Well, then I did what no man should ever do. I asked myself the entirely irrelevant question: Why?

I knew a shrink would say this was a visceral, even predictable response to a mission that had been tense and dangerous. The human psyche gets wound up, and death and violence breed thoughts of procreation, which has something to do with sex. It's Freudian, or maybe French-inner peace through orgasm.

Also, aside from a few obviously minor idiosyncrasies-my occasional chauvinism, my pigheadedness, my faltering career-I am fairly irresistible. Women, after all, are willing to overlook a lot. Even my brother, who's a selfish, overbearing prick, always has a babe on his arm. I mean, I love the guy. I'm just not sure why.

Of course, he is stinking rich, with a huge house on a glorious bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. With women, that helps.

Bian rubbed a little more and said, "Excuse me, but I think I've made my intentions clear. It's your move."

Or was this plain and uncomplicated horniness? Maybe. But such impulsiveness seemed incongruous for a lady whose life and career were the embodiment of self-discipline. No… that just didn't wash, if you'll pardon the bad pun.

So, two possibilities. She was using her body to manipulate me, or she was making a huge emotional mistake, which was about to become my mistake.

Sex, in my experience, comes either at the start of a relationship, when intercourse is no more or less meaningful than a handshake-except nobody wakes up in the morning regretting a handshake. Or it is part of a ripening relationship, an acknowledgment of deepening affection, love, and commitment. Bian and I were more than acquaintances, and less than in love. In love and in battle, timing is everything; when the timing is off, what follows usually sucks.

I took a few deep breaths, stepped back, picked up the towel, and carefully draped it around her body. She looked surprised. "This is a joke, right?"

We stared into each other's eyes for a moment. I said, "Would you buy it if I told you I'd keep going if I didn't care about you?"

"That's… the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"Right."

She looked away for a moment. "This is really humiliating. I'm throwing myself at you. I think you owe me a better explanation."

"Okay. I do owe you a better explanation," I agreed, trying to think up that explanation.

"I'm listening."

"This doesn't feel right. Not here, not now. You're engaged, and I particularly don't like the idea of sleeping with a soldier's girl. I think you're emotionally confused, and I'm not the key to resolving it; I'm part of the problem."

"Maybe you're overthinking this."

There was a new one; usually, I underthink these things. "Maybe."

"I-"

I put my finger on her lips. "Bian, don't talk, listen. We're both confused right now. You're beautiful and sexy, I'm very attracted to you, and…" I paused, then said, "When this is over, you need to have a word with your fiance. We'll see where we stand. Sound right?" In keeping with the watery theme, I added, "This is either a rain check or maybe, in a saner moment, it will be rained out."

She threw a towel at me. "Being a noble prick doesn't become you."

"I'm regretting it already."

She was quiet for a moment, then said, "I have to rinse off.

Since you're such a gentleman, why don't you get out?" "If you hear a gunshot, it will be me blowing my brains out." She smiled. "Oh, please don't." I smiled back. She stopped smiling. "Let me pull the trigger."