Twilight

by Brendan DuBois

  “How do you know that?”

  “A day later, Charlie and a couple of his Marine buddies came back to retrieve Sanjay. Charlie went down the trail, saw the stove, saw where a metal pan had been dumped, maybe halfway down the trail. Charlie figured that you surprised the militia column, maybe splashed the boiling water on a guy or two. True?”

  “True,” I said.

  “Then they started shooting earlier than they wanted,” Peter said. “Which gave us the time to bail out. So there you go.”

  “Sanjay,” I said, feeling my hands get tingly in shame.

  “Yes?”

  “You said he left to find me?”

  “That’s right,” Peter said. “He wanted to make sure we didn’t leave you behind.”

  “Oh,” I said. “It’s just that, well, I didn’t know him that well and, um …”

  Peter said, “I can’t say that I knew him that well, either. And he was cheating on his wife, and he was a shitty driver, and he complained about my cooking, but in the end he was a brave one. Maybe the bravest of us all, except for you. I mean, going after a militia column with just a pan of hot water …”

  “I wasn’t brave,” I said. “I was scared out of my gourd.”

  “Perhaps,” he said. “But that’s why you deserve to know. Ask away, but ask away quickly. Your free access to my secrets is only good in this little room.”

  I thought of a few things, and blurted out, “So, acting like an asshole. Was that you or part of the mission?”

  “A mixture of both, I suppose,” Peter said, smiling. “I had a role as a cranky Metropolitan police officer to play. I didn’t want to get too friendly with the team. It wouldn’t have matched my cover.”

  “And what was your job?”

  “A number of different things.”

  “Tell me, then.”

  A shrug. “First of all, to let my government know what was really going on in the field. The UN bureaucracy can be thick and slow, and my people wanted to know what was going on in real time, without having to wait for information to muddle its way to Geneva and then to London. That was job number one. Job number two was to gather intelligence about the militias on the ground, to find out if they are as loosely organized as they claim to be or if they are linked to certain factions in Washington. You see, it’s in our interest back home to have this country get back to its senses, the quicker the better. And knowing what influence the militias and their supporters might have in DC will make our job that much easier. And job number three … well, no offense to Charlie, but job number three was to keep me and everyone else alive. Too bad you seemed to have other ideas.”

  “The Australian television crew,” I said.

  “How true. I knew that there was a militia unit working in the area, and that if we had just kept still after that newshound got himself killed a UN convoy was going to make its way down the highway. But the stupid git managed to say something that both of us heard, about where his pals were located, and I didn’t want us to have to poke around and look for them. I mean, really, Charlie is a wonderful guy and a Marine and all that, but he could barely keep us together long enough to get the hell out when the shooting did finally start.”

  “But we found the bodies of the cameraman and producer,” I said.

  Peter shook his head. “So bloody what? Excuse me for being so blunt, but two more bodies in this place? I mean, really. Here we are, running around, trying to find Site A and keep those militia generals in custody at The Hague, and we’re going to waste our time on dead reporters who should have stayed home in the first place? Samuel, please, at least you can see the logic there.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t want to look that hard,” I said. “So how did you end up at the militia camp?”

  Peter actually laughed. “I was there to get you out, Samuel.”

  “How?”

  “How? By the tried and tested nature of paying a bribe,” he said. “Look, we—and I don’t mean the UN—had received word of your capture. We were also told about a ransom to be paid, which included ammunition and drugs. So I was there to check on you, to make sure that you were alive and healthy, and to pay up and get out. And let me tell you, that so-called colonel—Saunders, I think his name was, what a perfect idiot—went apoplectic when he realized you had scarpered. I thought he was going to shoot the men who had been guarding you, and then me, for good measure. About the only way I got out of there fair and clear was to pay them off with about half the bribe.”

  “Ammo?” I asked. “You gave those bastards ammo?”

  “I most certainly did,” Peter said. “Four cases of standard NATO-issue 7.62-millimeter rounds. I even tossed in some medical supplies for good measure.”

  “You did, did you?” I said. “Christ, that ammo is going to come back and—”

  “I don’t quite think so,” he said. “You see, concealed in the frame of those crates was a tracking device. When I was sure that you weren’t in the camp and when I was safely out of the militia’s area of control I activated the tracking device. Some time later that camp was obliterated. Not a particularly good way of building repeat business with the local militias, but since it was their choice to break the armistice I didn’t lose any sleep over it.”

  I remembered seeing the bombing strike when I’d been on the way to find a place to sleep at Stewart Carr’s farm. “But there were women there, and children …”

  “True, and many others who have terrorized their refugee neighbors, and who kept you captive, and who were happily going to kill you if you hadn’t escaped or if I hadn’t got there in time to buy you out. I’m sure you’ve figured all this out, but let me remind you. We’re in a dirty little war here, a dirty little war that’s going to determine what kind of planet we’ll be living on for the rest of this wonderful new century. A place where innocents can be slaughtered and nothing can be done about it, or a place where somebody with some authority and force of arms can halt this kind of killing. Killing that can take place even in the homeland of the world’s sole remaining superpower. And that’s my job. To help bring peace and stability here.”

  “I see,” I said. “And are there any other jobs that you’re involved with that you’d like to tell me about?”

  “Just the overarching one, of course.”

  “Site A,” I said.

  “So right, Samuel,” Peter said. “Site A, the site of a massacre where up to two hundred refugee men, women and children were killed and their bodies destroyed or hidden. And our deadline expires in less than two days. If Site A hasn’t been found by the time that deadline expires, then a number of bloody men with bloody hands will be released from The Hague.”

  I thought about what he had told me, what I had seen, and I said, “Sorry. Don’t buy it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, sorry, don’t buy it. You’re on detached duty from one of the most elite military units in the world, working for one of the most elite intelligence outfits as well. You can summon the general in charge of the British UN contingent to come down and speak to you—and not the other way around. And all this to keep a bunch of militia leaders behind bars at The Hague? Sorry—like I said, I don’t buy it. There’s more. And what’s that, Peter?”

  Peter’s expression suddenly went blank, as though his good-humored earlier appearance had been carefully removed and put away.

  I said, “Come along, Peter. What is it? What’s really important about Site A?”

  Peter spoke slowly, as if he was choosing his words with care. “Samuel … I think you know quite enough for now. I don’t think any useful purpose will be served by discussing this matter further.”

  I thought about what he had just said, about the job he was doing, gathering intelligence in the field, finding out the truth, learning about the militia units and their organization and trying to get this battered country back on its feet and—

  The truth.

  Looking for the truth.

  Looking for Site A. Lo
oking for answers.

  But answers to what?

  And like a flash—oh my, what a choice of words—it came to me.

  I said, “Site A … it’s more than just a place where bodies are hidden. Evidence is there as well—evidence about the attacks last spring.”

  No word, no expression, nothing. Peter just sat there.

  “That’s been one of the biggest questions out there, hasn’t it, Peter? Who was behind the suitcase-nuke strike on Manhattan and the EMP balloon strikes that crippled this country? Nobody knows. There’s been claims here and there, but nothing concrete. But you have an idea. You and your bosses … There’s evidence, and it’s at Site A. Right?”

  More silence.

  “Peter … either you’re going to tell me and trust me or we’re going to leave here and then I’m off to the Star to break this story. So, one way or the other, a choice has to be made. Up to you.”

  “You fucker,” he said sharply.

  “Probably, but I’ve had a rough few days. True, isn’t it? Site A and the balloon strikes and the bombing of Manhattan. They’re connected.”

  There seemed to be a struggle going on behind that neutral expression on Peter’s face, and he said, “If ever a word of what I’m about to say leaves this room, I’ll hurt you.”

  I smiled. “The usual and customary threat is to kill me. Why the difference? Taking mercy on me?”

  “Hardly,” Peter said. The grim smile that was back on his face had a touch of nastiness about it. “Killing is easy. Hurting you, now … I could smash your knees in such a way that no corrective surgery would ever ease the pain, so that you’d have forty or fifty years of hobbling around in agony to look forward to. All because you let word get out about my business. Understand?”

  I swallowed. “Yeah. I understand.”

  “Good.” He exhaled loudly before continuing, “Prior to the attacks last spring, we had assets—as they’re known—working here in the States, evaluating and gathering intelligence about a cell that was of concern to us because of bits of information we’d been able to secure about a possible domestic attack here in the USA. We had someone who’d managed to reach the upper levels of this cell … but her information didn’t get to us on time and hence it didn’t reach our American cousins. The strikes happened—and then, chaos. Communications were cut off: our asset had been in Manhattan and she got caught up in one of the refugee streams, heading north.”

  “The refugee stream that got ambushed—and ended up in Site A.”

  “Exactly. She had managed to leave word through a dead-letter drop that she had the evidence that we had so desperately been looking for … and we managed to trace her movements up until the time the column she was with had been ambushed. Then … nothing. And so the hunt continues.”

  “The whole thing about keeping those militia leaders behind bars in The Hague … just a cover story?”

  “Yes, but a good one. Gives us an excuse to snoop around the countryside with some sense of urgency.”

  I thought through what Peter had just told me and said, “All right—who were they?”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t play me for an idiot, Peter. Who were they? The cell you infiltrated. The ones who bombed the United States last April.”

  Peter smiled again and said, “To get to that little gold nugget of information, you have to ask yourself an important Latin question. Cui bono? which translates as ‘Good for whom?’ or—another way of saying it—‘Who benefits?’ Immediate answer, of course, are those usual collections of malcontents and ragheads from the Middle East who have such miserable lives that they’re compelled to blame somebody else—which, of course, means the Great Satan. But really … those nukes were taken from an old Soviet Union storage facility, transported here to the United States and, save for the one used in Manhattan, were suspended from high-altitude balloons and then detonated within seconds of each other. Hijacking a plane and driving it into an office building is one thing. Something this complex means a much greater collection of skilled personnel.”

  “A government, then,” I said. “But which one?”

  Peter shrugged. “You’re a newspaper reporter. Supposedly smart. Run through them and remember what I said: cui bono?”

  “Britain and France and Germany—I’d eliminate them for obvious reasons. They may not like the United States all that much but I can’t see them being behind such a crippling attack.”

  “Very good. But those three were easy. Continue.”

  “China … But China loves the markets here. Take out the United States and China takes a major hit with all those Wal-Marts out of business. Even Russia had started cooperating with U.S. corporations on gas and oil exploration in Siberia. They wouldn’t want a crippled America, either.”

  Peter’s smile was back. “Doing better. Continue. Who benefits, Samuel? Who benefits?”

  I ran through other countries in my mind. Japan? Hardly, not with a growing Chinese threat in their neck of the woods. They’d want a strong United States to act as a buffer. North Korea? One or two attacks, maybe, but all these strikes, coordinated like they were? One of the Middle Eastern states … But no, that didn’t make sense either. Maybe one or two nukes smuggled in a shipping container … But something this complicated, this important, couldn’t have happened without somebody knowing what was going on, somebody here in the States and—

  “Holy shit,” I said. I had heard the rumors, of course, but that type of rumor always popped up after a disaster like Pearl Harbor or the JFK assassination or the second World Trade Center attack. Such paranoia couldn’t really be taken seriously, but …

  But …

  “Congratulations,” Peter said. “I do believe you’ve figured it out.”

  “The government? The United States government—they did it?”

  He shook his head. “No, not the government. At least, only part of the government, a loosely knit organization that we were concerned about, that we had learned of last year. We called them the neo-isolationists, the ones who wanted to pack it all in and retreat back behind the USA’s borders and the oceans. No interest in spreading democracy, no interest in making the world safe for globalization. Just interested in minding their own business. Among this group were some military leaders who saw the armed forces they loved being chipped away, day after day, week after week, in car bomb after car bomb, killing their very best and brightest and most dedicated who were trying to give democracy to cultures that didn’t want it and probably didn’t deserve it.”

  Peter looked at me and continued. “Then there were some of the defense contractors, the ones who make their money designing missiles and tanks and jet fighters. They don’t make money designing better body armor or ways of detecting roadside bombs. They saw decades of shrinking profits ahead. Combine that with the true believers in DC, the ones who thought the United States should have left Hitler and Tojo alone more than a half-century ago, and then you have an interesting mix.”

  “But … but the devastation. The cities being emptied out. The food shortages. The refugees being gunned down …”

  “Sure. And what happened? You know what happened: it’s taking time but the troops are coming home. Not only from the Middle East, but from Japan and South Korea and Germany and elsewhere. They wanted a crisis so widespread, so deep, that the President and Congress would have no choice but to run for home. That’s what they wanted and, so far, that’s what they’re getting.”

  I felt sick to my stomach. “And you have evidence of this …”

  “Not me. Our asset, lost after leaving Manhattan. Oh, the poor dear’s dead, no doubt about it, but we’re hoping that her body’s in Site A, along with a computer diskette or two. A computer diskette that outlines who belongs to this group, how they smuggled the nukes here, and how they arrived at the decision to set them off. So sorry, but that’s the importance of Site A. Not the dead refugees. Our asset and those diskettes.”

  “And once you get that information
…”

  “Decision’s already been made at Ten Downing Street. The information, all of it, gets publicized the moment we can secure and verify it. So the people here will know what happened. They’ll know that these militias—some of which have received support for supposedly keeping order—were killing their fellow citizens because of a lie. Don’t get me wrong, Samuel: this country is known for its blundering way of doing business and for being obstinate and unilateral, certainly. But, all in all, the world needs a United States that’s engaged with the rest of the world. Not one hiding in fear, skulking behind its borders and the oceans. And we need those diskettes to make things right. To show the Americans that no overseas enemy did this to them. That some of their own people did it.”

  I rubbed at my face. Lots of stuff to process, I thought—and then something struck me.

  “Your asset?”

  “Yes?”

  “You keep on calling your asset ‘her.’ Was her name Grace?”

  A simple nod. “That it was.”

  “Sounds like a brave woman.”

  “She was,” Peter said flatly. “Very brave, in so many ways.”

  “Like what?”

  And his expression changed once again, this time to despair. “For once agreeing to be my wife.”

  THE AIR IN the room was cold and still. I said, “The armistice breaking down like it did, just before the deadline: a hell of a coincidence, right?”

  Peter seemed to shake off his dark mood. “Yes, one big coincidence, I’m sure. And it seems to be working in favor of the militia units and their puppet masters, the neo-isolationists.”

  “Do those people … do they know what evidence might be at Site A?”

  “Beats the hell out of me. But still … I just had the feeling that we were getting close, at least in this county. We must have been getting close to finding Site A, considering how viciously the militias were attacking us, sniping at us and making the lives of the UN forces here miserable. So there you go. When the deadline passes, the militia boys go home and the hunt for Site A and one particular body is finished. Oh, we’ll poke and prod as best we can, on the outskirts and fringes, but it’ll be over, Samuel. The truth will remain hidden for quite some time to come. Maybe long enough so that we fail, and these battered United States ignore the rest of the world.”