Man In The Middle Part 12

"You're asking the wrong question." She put her back against the sink and exhaled. "Why wouldn't he kill himself?"

CHAPTER NINE

I went out and started the car while Bian stood by the curb and used her cell phone to call and ask her boss, Oberst Waterbury, to persuade either Hirschfield or Tigerman--or better still, both--to clear a little time on their schedules. went out and started the car while Bian stood by the curb and used her cell phone to call and ask her boss, Oberst Waterbury, to persuade either Hirschfield or Tigerman--or better still, both--to clear a little time on their schedules.

She climbed into the pa.s.senger seat and said, "He'll take care of it." She looked at me. "What do you think?"

"I need fresh air."

"Her life needs fresh air." She suggested, "So let's start with her."

"You mean, is she a suspect?"

"She's not. We both know that, don't we? But she'll have happy dreams tonight, imagining she did it. My sense is she wrote him out of her life." She reconsidered her words and said, "That's not exactly true. He was her boogeyman, the fount of all her miseries and unhappiness. Now she'll miss him. You know?"

"I know."

"But is she credible? Bitter people make poor witnesses."

"She's very credible about what counts, and her bitterness is justified."

"You believe she deserves sympathy?"

"I sure do. She built a life and a family around this guy. He turned into an a.s.shole."

"There's a stylish elegy. Can I borrow it for my write-up?"

"You should hear my court summations. Come early. Long lines, and the ticket scalpers make a killing."

"I'll bet you're very . . . entertaining." She thought for a moment, then observed, "We only heard her side of the tale. Every divorce has two sides."

"Good point. If you think of a way we can hear his side, be sure to let me know."

She shook her head. I can be annoying.

I said, "It's an old story with many t.i.tles: the starter wife, the first-wife syndrome, middle-age idiot.i.tis. Cliff wasn't very complicated or hard to understand. He wanted to be something he wasn't--das.h.i.+ng, dangerous, mysterious, s.e.xually alluring. Theresa and the kids were part of the old, lesser, disappointing him."

"You make him sound very shallow."

"A lot of men harbor secret dreams of being James Bond, but they wake up and see George Smiley staring back from the mirror." I added, after a moment, "Men have two brains in constant warfare over the body's blood supply. When one wins, the other shuts down."

"It's that simple?"

"It's that simple."

"I see."

"He thought his s.h.i.+p came in, and she got thrown overboard." I looked at her. "I wouldn't be surprised if Cliff secretly dreamed of dumping her for years."

"Well, whatever the reason, she needs to pull herself together. Put it behind her."

"Amnesia is not something you call up at will."

"An old Vietnamese proverb says, 'When the petals leave the rose, you grow a new rose.' "

"They grow roses over there?"

"Well . . . no." She laughed. "I made that up." Then she said, "My point is, she's wallowing in the past. Destroying the marriage may have been his fault--destroying herself is hers."

"You're engaged, right?"

"I told you I am."

"How do you know--what's this guy's name?"

"Mark. Mark Kemble."

"Thank you. How can you be sure Mark Kemble won't turn into an idiot?"

"He won't."

"How do you know know, Bian? Husbands are unpredictable creatures. Some come with hidden flaws, buried defects. Sometimes a guy wakes up one morning, sees the bald spot, the turkey wattles under the chin, and he turns shallow and stupid. Sometimes a fancy new car cures it, sometimes a fancy new blonde. Do I really need to explain this?"

She made no reply.

"In simple soldier talk--s.h.i.+t happens."

"It won't. Not between us." She looked at me and said, with complete conviction, "There is no past tense to the word love."

"It's a verb. Slap a 'd' on the end."

"Look, I've known Mark since we were cadets. This might sound trite, but I was in love the moment I first saw him. I . . ." She looked away for a moment, then concluded, "He won't change--ever. I'm sure."

"You've dated this same guy for ten years? What does that tell you?"

"Well . . . that's not how it happened. I mooned over him when we were cadets, but he was two years ahead of me. Regulations at West Point forbade dating uppercla.s.smen. He also had a girlfriend he was serious about."

"What happened to her?"

"Oh . . . well, she died. A suspicious fire . . . arson, actually. Most unfortunate and very mysterious. The arsonist was never found."

I looked at her, and she smiled. "That was a joke."

I smiled back.

Bian said, "She was from a wealthy family in a ritzy community in Connecticut. New Caanan, maybe Westport. After Mark graduated she got a look at Army life, instead of cadet life. The idea of sc.r.a.ping by on a lieutenant's pay in Louisiana or Georgia was a little much for her. So Mark got a Dear John letter and she got a new boyfriend, at Harvard Business School. They ended up married."

"And you were waiting in the wings?"

"Not really. We didn't get together until later, about three years ago."

"Three years. If you're so confident, why aren't you married to him now?"

"We . . . we decided to wait until conditions improved." My question unsettled her and she had to pause and swallow. "Army life-- you're single, you understand how it is."

I did understand. In the old Army they used to say that if they wanted you to have a wife, they'd issue you one. It now is considered both pa.s.se and politically incorrect, and n.o.body says that anymore. Indeed, today's soldiers are mostly married. The underlying philosophy hasn't changed a whit, though. In fact, the Global War on Terror, or whatever buzzword they were calling it these days, was not doing much for military romance, unless your amore amore happens to be a terrorist. happens to be a terrorist.

After a moment she added, "During these three years, between Bosnia, Kosovo, 9/11, now Afghanistan, and now Iraq--"

"Whose idea was it to wait?"

"Why did it have to be either of our ideas?"

"These things are never mutual." She tried looking away, but I caught her eye and asked, more insistently, "Yours or his?"

"All right . . . his. He was in Kosovo, then Afghanistan. I was in Afghanistan, after his tour ended, then Iraq, also at a different time. After he finished a year at the Command and General Staff College at Leavenworth, he was rea.s.signed to the First Armored Division and redeployed to Iraq for another tour. He didn't want me to become a widow or spend my life caring for a cripple. I couldn't argue him out of it. Besides, what did it matter? We were going to be apart anyway."

No doubt, a number of sober and practical reasons pa.s.sed through Mark Kemble's head and heart, all of which seemed logical, persuasive, even compelling. But in my view, with a woman like Bian Tran, you observe a different logic. I wouldn't let this woman ten feet out of my sight without the Rock of Gibraltar on her finger, an unpickable chast.i.ty belt around her groin, and a note around her neck--"Touch her and I'll feed you your own nuts."

Well, as I mentioned, she was very attractive, and I found her company quite pleasant: I couldn't imagine a man who wouldn't.

"Do you have a picture of this guy?"

Of course she did, and she reached into the side leg pocket of her Army trousers, withdrew her wallet, and fumbled out a small photograph, which she handed to me as I drove. I gave it a brief look, then handed it back.

The photo was color, taken perhaps at a military ball, and Mark Kemble, attired in his formal dinner mess dress, had a major's rank on his sleeve, yellow cloth on his lapels--a tanker--with enough badges and medals on his chest to shame a Christmas tree. He was looking directly into the camera with a large friendly grin, was slender and broad-shouldered, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a strong jaw and cleft chin. I could see where some women might get a little sweaty over him. Handsome. Das.h.i.+ng.

I predicted, "You two will produce beautiful little babies together."

No reply.

I glanced over and Bian was staring out the window in a sort of sulky trance. I suppose this was all a little overwhelming for her--the love of her life in a war zone, a politically hazardous murder case on her hands, and me. I can be annoying.

"Are you okay?"

She continued to stare out the window.

I don't like talking to myself, and we drove without speaking for a few minutes. It was almost six o'clock, and the sky had already turned dark, the wind was whipping the trees, and a gusty, gloomy squall was moving in--a typical late October day in the moody, bl.u.s.tery city of Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C.

Out of the blue, she informed me, "I really want to break this case."

"Think like a cop, Bian. It's not personal." After a moment, I advised her, "What you should be hoping is to make it through this with your career intact."

"What does that mean?"

"Think Oliver North and Bud McFarlane."

"Who?"

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-one. What's your point?"

"The Iran-Contra scandal?"

"Nope--never heard of it."

"Ronald Reagan?"

"Was he the guy before Lincoln, or just after?" She nudged me in the ribs. "Okay, tell me about . . . who were these two again?"

"Ollie and Bud. Bud was a former lieutenant colonel who became President Reagan's National Security Advisor. Ollie was a serving lieutenant colonel on his staff."

She noted, "You should always keep a close eye on lieutenant colonels."

"I just pinned on a few days ago."

"Oh. Then . . . congratulations. How's it feel?"

"Not bad. They say it takes a full year before it sinks in that they're paying you more to act stupider. I'm still getting used to it."

"Well . . . you seem to be off to a good start." She laughed. "Back to your story."

"Not a story. It's a D.C. pa.s.sion tale. Ollie and Bud--good guys, well-intentioned, patriotic, salt-of-the-earth types. There was a law at the time banning our government from sending money or weapons to the Contra rebels who were battling the communist government in Nicaragua. On the other side of the world, the Iranians and their Hezbollah pals in Lebanon were kidnapping American officials and torturing them to death."

"That last thing, that sounds ugly."

I nodded and continued, "Among others, one hostage was CIA, another a Marine officer. Our official diplomatic response was summed up as--problem too hard, tough s.h.i.+t."

"And how were these two events connected?"

"They weren't. Not until Ollie talked Bud into a plan to kill two birds with one stone. Under the table, we would sell weapons and ammunition from our military stocks to Iran for their war against Iraq. These munitions would be sold at bargain bas.e.m.e.nt prices, the Great Satan's image in Iran would gain a little l.u.s.ter . . . with a sub-rosa understanding that the Iranians would release the hostages. To come full circle, the cash from these arms sales would go straight to the Contras, who would use it to buy arms and supplies to kill more commies. Symmetry, right?"

I looked at her to be sure she understood. Apparently so, because she remarked, "That sounds like a really stupid idea."

"Why?"

"Where do I start? Because you can't trust Iranians, for one thing. And if you think about it, you're offering them an incentive to take more hostages so they can blackmail you for more arms. Because it sounds like you're talking many tons of equipment and hundreds of millions of dollars. Because this means complicated logistics, middlemen, and money-laundering."

"All of the above. Anything else?"