Right. Anyway…I’m not sure why you keep asking me about her. It’s not like I have anything original to offer.
You say most of what you know is from the papers. But not all, isn’t that right? You have heard of Ms. Lee outside the media coverage of her murder, haven’t you?
(unintelligible)
Pardon?
I said, yes, but it’s still secondhand information. Until two days ago, when all hell broke loose, I only knew of her because of those newspaper stories. How would I have known her personally? She died in Hong Kong, right? At the time, we were living in London.
She had a home in London, too. Did you know that?
Not while we were there I didn’t. I only just found that out.
At the same time you learned your husband knew her?
(unintelligible)
What was that, Mrs. MacNeil? You’ll have to speak up for the microphone.
I said, you really like to rub it in, don’t you?
What do you mean?
The fact that Drum knew this woman—in the biblical sense, I suppose is what you’re implying.
Is that true? Was he having an affair with her?
I have no idea. You’re suggesting he was, apparently, but I have no proof of it.
Do you think it’s possible?
Anything is possible. I would have had no way of knowing. You know what my husband’s position was in London. He was CIA Chief of Station there. He had contact with all kinds of people, but I wasn’t allowed to ask questions about any of it. That’s how that game works, isn’t it? Need to know—isn’t that the operational term? Does your wife need to know about this conversation we’re having right now, Agent Andrews? Are you going to go home tonight and talk it over with her? I’m guessing not. You guys and your precious little spy games and secrets. You just love them.
Mrs. MacNeil, if you and I were sleeping together, I guarantee you, my wife would know it in two minutes flat. She’d see the guilt in my face, for one thing, even before she found lipstick on my collar or whatever.
Ah, well, there’s the problem—you just put your finger on it. You, Agent Andrews, would apparently feel guilty about sleeping with another woman and your wife would pick up on that. Bravo. She’s a lucky woman. Nice to be married to a man you can count on.
Are you saying your husband was unreliable in a general sense? Or just that he didn’t love you? Mrs. MacNeil? Carrie? Would you like some water?
No, I’m fine. I just—I thought—at the time…I knew there were other women. I did. Not because Drum showed any sign of guilt, mind you. Oh, there was a little pro forma remorse, maybe, on a couple of occasions when I tried to confront him about it, but I wouldn’t call it guilt. He didn’t even try all that hard to deny it. He said it was the nature of the job, that it didn’t mean anything.
Not to him, maybe….
Look, you have to understand, Drum’s twenty years older than me. His career and his habits were firmly established long before I came along. Not that I knew that when I married him, mind you. But from the time I found out what he really did for a living, I had to accept that he would be keeping odd hours and meeting people I’d know nothing about—his intelligence contacts, agents, sources—whatever you want to call them. Women in my position—it’s mostly women, although these days, I suppose there are some husbands in the same boat, too—anyway, when you marry into this business, you soon learn not to ask questions.
And Alexandra Kim Lee?
Well, I guess it makes sense she was the kind of source Langley would want to cultivate. The papers said she was bribing western officials on behalf of Beijing.
So that’s what you think your husband was doing? Cultivating a source? Or eliminating a threat?
I told you, I’m not even certain he knew her.
And if there were proof he did?
What kind of proof?
Copies of CIA contact reports on meetings he had with her. Surveillance photographs.
You have those? Do you have them here?
I can’t show you the contact reports. Those are highly classified, obviously. But I do have these pictures I can show you—
Oh, God—then it’s true.
This last one was taken three days before she was murdered…. Carrie? What is it?
The park they’re in here? I recognize it. That statue of the soldier on the horse? Jonah, my son, used to call it the dancing horse statue. It’s across the street from the American International School in London—Bloody hell! Drum took that woman to our son’s school?
According to the surveillance report, they had been at her place in Mayfair that afternoon until your husband had to leave to pick up your son. The Brits had her apartment bugged. Apparently he told her you were at the British Museum—something about a seminar on African sculpture?
It was that day? I remember. I’d been updating the research on my master’s thesis, trying to finish it. The British Museum was having a lecture series on African art that was right up my alley, so Drum agreed I should attend. Our housekeeper was off sick, so he said he’d take care of Jonah after kindergarten. Damn him! Then he goes and takes one of his bimbos to our son’s school? What a bastard! Did he—
What? Introduce her to your son? No. Apparently she left when the school bell rang. Honestly, Carrie? I doubt this woman had much interest in playing stepmom to anyone.
Still—
Anyway, she flew back to Hong Kong the next day and two days after that, she was thrown off a twenty-eighth floor balcony.
And you think Drum had something to do with her murder?
What do you think?
I have no idea.
Do you remember where he was when it happened? Three days after you attended that lecture at the British Museum, it would have been.
Not the foggiest. I mean, I presume he would have been in his office at the embassy, but I can’t be certain. Who can remember every little detail of a week that happened over a year ago?
Well, let me remind you then. His calendar for that week says he left London two days after this to attend a CIA regional meeting in Delhi.
Okay, I remember that, now that you mention it. He did go to India for a few days last summer. There you go, then. That’s where he was.
Except he showed up late to the Delhi meeting. Arrived the day after Alexandra Kim Lee was murdered in Hong Kong. He said one of his connecting flights had been cancelled, but when we retrace his steps, there are thirty-eight hours unaccounted for. We have no idea where he was. He had no shortage of CIA aliases he could have
