Man In The Middle Part 34

Not they're done, or he's done; we're we're done. done.

I glanced at Sergeant Elby--he appeared young, about twenty-five, and his face was heavily bandaged except for his nose, which was bruised, scabbed, and apparently broken. His left hand, also covered with scabs, stuck out from beneath the blanket. I noted a thick gold wedding band. I could not imagine this level of damage inflicted on a human body. In fact, I did not want to.

She stroked the hair of the other patient and commented, "Lieutenant Donnie Workman. He graduated from West Point only two years ago. Shot by a sniper during the a.s.sault on Karbala. The bullet entered his chest cavity and tumbled and ricocheted around, ripping up a heart valve and perforating a lung and his stomach. He's touch and go."

I watched her face as she stared down at these battered and broken men. I said, "You care deeply about them. I see that. Will you travel to Germany with them?"

"No . . . I . . ." She hesitated. "I'll hand them off . . . to the flight crew. It's a medical flight--good people, very competent, and . . . they don't lose many pa.s.sengers."

She swallowed heavily and regarded their battered bodies. "We're not supposed to become attached to our patients. But you know what? You do. A lot of them never speak to you. They can't, right? But you learn so much about them. Always their friends stop by to check on them, and always they tell us this man is very special, and they tell us why, and these are the reasons we must save him . . . or her. Pretty soon, you know all about them."

She seemed to be experiencing separation anxiety, and she seemed to want to talk about them. So I asked, "Like what?"

"Well . . . like Andy Elby . . . he has two children. Eloise and Elbert, six and seven. Wife's name is Elma." She smiled and said, "They're from Arkansas, where funny names like that are common. You learn that stuff when you deal with a lot of patients. Anyway . . . Andy was a truck driver in civilian life, too. A simple guy. You know how that is, right? Poor guy, working full-time, doing the National Guard thing to pay for summer camp and braces for the kids. He never expected to be called up. Never expected this."

Again I looked at Andy Elby. If he survived as far as Walter Reed hospital, Elba and the kids would join him there, staying in temporary lodgings, living hand to mouth. Having had several friends who lost limbs, I was aware of the aftermath--a numbing saga of operations as the doctors chase infections and try to cut off dead and infected tissue before it works its way up, like cancer, and destroys the body. Elba would be shocked when she saw him, and she and her kids would go through h.e.l.l as the docs tried to coax and force Andy's body back to a level where it could function on its own. As for what would come afterward, well . . . life would be different. Sad.

Claudia continued, "Donnie--I know, I know--I'm supposed to call him Lieutenant Workman. Anyway, Donnie was this big lacrosse star at West Point. A few of his cla.s.smates stopped by to see him. They told me Donnie was one of the most popular cadets. And academically, top of the cla.s.s. His cla.s.smates all believed he would be the first general officer. Isn't that something? This is some talented guy." She paused before confiding in a low whisper, "I don't think Donnie's going to make it."

I took her hand and held it. "You're an angel. You've done everything you can."

Tears were now flowing freely down her cheeks, and Claudia Foster told me, or perhaps someone much higher than me, "I'm going to miss them. G.o.d, I hope they make it."

"Most do."

"And some don't."

We sat in silence for the remainder of the drive, me holding Claudia's hand as I thought about these fine, promising young men, and about the bombing victims at the field station, about Nervous Nellie, who constructed bombs that blew people to bits, about Ali bin Pacha, who gathered the money and wrote the checks that underwrote suicide bombings and street ma.s.sacres, about Cliff Daniels, whose selfish ambition contributed to this, and about Tigerman and Hirschfield, who held open the door for the dogs of war.

Claudia said nothing, just attentively watched her patients. Her mood had turned reflective, and I had the impression that her thoughts, like mine, had to do with the consequences of evil and incompetence, of stupidity and fanaticism. She had no idea of the precise causes, but every day she saw the result, and every day she and her patients lived, or died, with it. I had a very good idea, and I wanted revenge.

The driver let me off after we had pa.s.sed through the airport checkpoint, and I stepped out of the ambulance. I took two steps, then turned about and said to Claudia, "Were these men able to talk, they would tell you this: Thank you."

She offered me a faint smile and said, "Don't take this wrong, okay? I hope I never see you again."

I blew her a kiss and walked away.

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 h.e.l.l." 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 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. 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 s.a.d.i.s.tic pleasure from this. Her nickname around the office is Dragon Lady, which I personally find insulting, disgusting, s.e.xist, 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 TIME magazine. I asked her, "Did you mention magazine. I asked her, "Did you mention anything anything to Waterbury?" 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 unb.u.t.toning 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 relations.h.i.+p-phobic types. The instant the M-word comes up, you put in a request for rea.s.signment."

"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 s.a.d.i.s.t and pa.s.sed 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 refres.h.i.+ng 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 m.u.f.fled 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 pa.s.sed. 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 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 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 any warm body will do." 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 ma.s.saging 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 b.u.t.tery.

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 Look at that finish line--do this, Drummond. You can--you know you can . . ." 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?