"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 into the distance at a mushy formation of cumulus clouds that didn't look all that interesting. Despite this conversation being her idea, she was forcing me to make the first move.

So, to get this off on the right foot, I commented, "You ratted me out back there."

"Well… what can I say?"

"'I'm sorry'?"

"Screw off."

"Close enough." I smiled.

She shook her head. "All right… I'm sorry. Look, Sean-"

"Colonel Drummond to you, sister."

"You're-?" She looked at me with surprise, then disbelief. "Hold on-you've lied about your identity once. And I'm supposed to believe you now?"

I opened my wallet and withdrew my military ID, which, as per regulations, I had only the week before updated to reflect my new rank and, more happily, my new paycheck. I allowed her a long moment to study it, and watched her expression shift from skeptical to irritated.