by David Hosp
‘But there was something about Boston.’
‘There was.’
Saunders sat there for a moment, waiting for his boss, the man who had long ago recruited him for a life of deception and danger, to say more. ‘Well?’ he finally demanded.
Ainsworth slumped heavily in the chair across from Saunders. ‘It’s incomplete. There are references, but none of them make any sense.’
‘What do they say?’
The old man brought his hands together at the fingertips in a contemplative gesture. ‘They say that the Heart of Afghanistan is in Boston.’
‘The Heart of Afghanistan is in Boston,’ Saunders repeated slowly. ‘What the hell does that mean?’
Ainsworth shrugged. ‘We don’t know. The message is garbled. It says to locate Charles Phelan. It says that he has it.’
‘Really,’ Saunders said. ‘Do we know who Charles Phelan is?’
‘Maybe,’ Ainsworth said. ‘There’s a Charles Phelan from South Boston who was just discharged two weeks ago. His last billet was in Afghanistan with the 154th Quartermaster Corps. We’re assuming it’s referring to him at the moment, but we have no way to know for sure.’
‘Do we have an address in Boston for him?’
The Assistant Director of the Central Intelligence Agency shook his head. ‘His father skipped out on the family before Charles was born, and his mother split a long time ago. He has no permanent residence, as near as we can tell. He was discharged from Fort Devens near the Cape, so it’s a safe bet that he’s somewhere in the area. He has a sister – Cianna Phelan – former Army, too. For the past three months she’s been renting a place in South Boston. They were both stationed at Kandahar Airbase until two years ago.’
‘After that?’
There was a noticeable pause before Ainsworth answered. ‘She left. He stayed. Finished out his tour, came home.’
Something about the manner in which Ainsworth phrased his answer struck Saunders, and he looked at the old man for a moment before he spoke again. Ainsworth met his stare and didn’t blink. ‘You said she left,’ Saunders said finally. ‘You didn’t say she finished out her tour.’
‘That’s true.’ Ainsworth crossed his legs, looked at his shoe.
‘Is this twenty questions?’
‘She got herself into some trouble. She had to leave, come back to the States.’
‘Where in the States?’ Saunders asked slowly.
‘Leavenworth.’
Saunders raised his eyebrows. Leavenworth was the largest military prison in the United States. ‘What for?’
‘Manslaughter,’ Ainsworth said.
‘Really?’
‘The original charge was murder. The panel of officers found there was enough justification to convict her only on the lesser charge. She was decorated, so the Army kept it out of the press, and her sentence was reduced to two years. It’s just as well; any publicity about her conviction would have gone down badly for the Army.’
‘Why?’
Ainsworth took a deep breath. ‘She wasn’t an ordinary soldier. She was part of an experimental Delta Force unit and she’d been given special training. The kind of training most women are not permitted to have.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Under Army regulations, women can’t serve in combat roles. They can be in support units – the Military Police, the Medical Corps, even ‘non-combat’ pilot positions – but not in direct-combat units. It often ends up being a distinction without a difference, particularly with the MPs, where she served, who are regularly placed in full-combat positions. But the Army still tries to recognize the division. As a result, certain types of combat training are not given to women. But over in Afghanistan, the Army was getting creative. They had certain needs, and she filled one of those needs. Some believe the training she got led directly to the killing. No one wanted to go there with an investigation, so a deal was cut.’
‘Who’d she kill?’
‘That’s classified.’
‘I’ve got clearance,’ Saunders laughed.
‘No you don’t,’ Ainsworth shot back. ‘Your clearance was revoked when you were put on suspension.’
‘You need me out there,’ Saunders said. ‘You don’t have any field agents in country who understand Afghanistan the way I do. Who are they going to send to Boston to check this out?’
Ainsworth shrugged. ‘I’ve submitted the analysis to the Director and the NSA, and it’s all being looked at. If they find it worth pursuing in his office, they’ll assign someone.’
‘If they find it worth pursuing? Mustafa bled out on the street in front of our eyes! How can this not be worth pursuing?’ Ainsworth held his hands out, palms up, in a gesture of helplessness. ‘Jesus, it’s gonna be days before they even make up their minds. By then, whatever this is will be over. You think Toney has the balls to do anything? We’ll be reading about shit blowing up in the New York Times before he or the Director puts anyone on a plane!’
‘What do you want me to tell you, Jack?’ Ainsworth demanded. ‘I just work here. I do what I’m told.’
‘That’s bullshit, and we both know it. You’ve never been a guy who just does what he’s told. Neither one of us has ever been that.’
‘Maybe I’ve changed, then, because I’m sending out an official suspension notice today. It will arrive at your house within two days and is effective as of then. After that, I do not want to see your face in this building. If I find your car parked in the lot, I’ll have it blown up. Do you understand me? It’s a paid suspension. There will be a formal hearing in three weeks. After that . . . we’ll see.’
‘What the hell am I supposed to do for the three weeks while I’m on suspension?’
Ainsworth was looking at the file on the table in front of him again. ‘Get out of town,’ he said. ‘Go somewhere.’
‘Where am I supposed to go?’
It took a moment for Ainsworth to answer. He raised his head and peered over his reading glasses at Saunders, looking at him like he was the densest man he’d ever met. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I can’t control where you spend your time off.’ His eyes were sharp. ‘You went to Harvard, didn’t you? Maybe a visit to your alma mater would be just the thing to put you in order.’
Saunders sat back in his chair, looking at his boss. He’d known the man a long time, and he knew how he operated. ‘Cambridge is right across the river from Boston.’
‘Is it?’ Ainsworth shrugged. ‘I hadn’t given that much thought. Obviously if you wanted to do some other things while you were there visiting your old professors – take in some sights, get some of the local flavor – there’s nothing stopping you. Like I said, I can’t control what you do when you’re on leave. If you don’t want to go to Boston, you can always use my family estate in the Berkshires. It’s the closest place to heaven I’ve ever been.’
‘I know,’ Saunders said. ‘I’ve stayed there before, remember? With Sam.’
‘Of course,’ Ainsworth said. ‘I suppose I’d forgotten.’ He put the folder down on top of his desk, close to the edge, and left it open at an angle where the contents were in plain view for Saunders. ‘The decision is yours, Jack. Your suspension notice will be in the mail today. You are officially off this case,’ the old man said. ‘Whether you decide to go to Boston is not my responsibility.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kalid Gamol reclined on a set of pillows before a feast table. His house was in the center of Kandahar, in what had once been a wealthy neighborhood, though real wealth had fled the country back when the Russians invaded. Since then, even those with power had to settle for snatches of privilege, like tonight. It was his seventieth birthday, and he would not deny himself this recognition.
The house, like many others in the area, had two stories of rooms and galleries facing onto a central courtyard open to the sky. Nearly one hundred guests had made it to the celebration, each of them submitting to a full search at the door to ensure safety. Even friends were
suspect in this country, he knew too well. There had been a time when he’d viewed his native country as a land of honor, but more than three decades of war and subjugation had stripped the nation of any sense of itself. He remembered wistfully the time before, when trade flowed freely, and Afghans took advantage of the nation’s location as a crossroad between major commercial centers. He wondered whether the country could ever find that place again, or something resembling that place. He hoped so. Otherwise, it would remain nothing more than a staging area for the battles others wished to fight.
Gamol’s table was at one end of the courtyard, and ten of his closest allies and advisors were around him. He would join the rest of his guests shortly, but at the moment there was business to attend to.
‘We have confirmation,’ Safraz, his primary advisor, was saying. ‘The relic has been removed from the country, taken to the United States.’
The faces around the table were grim. ‘This is not good,’ Gamol said with characteristic understatement.
‘Whoever controls it can control the country,’ Akhtar Hazara said. ‘If the Americans have it . . .’ He was still a young man, only twenty-four, but he’d already proved himself to be a leader and a man of substance. He was tall and strong, and living a life without a father had made him hard. Since the death of Gamol’s only son, Gamol thought of Akhtar as the closest he would have to an heir.
‘You listen too much to your uncle,’ Gamol said.
‘It has great power.’
‘Superstition,’ Gamol grunted. ‘Nothing more.’
‘We live in a superstitious country,’ Akhtar countered thoughtfully. ‘Even if you do not believe in the power of the relic itself, if it has been stolen by the Americans, it will be blamed on you. It will give Fasil the advantage with the people. Kandahar is your responsibility.’
‘Kandahar is Allah’s responsibility,’ Gamol said quietly. ‘Only He could tame this city.’
‘It is not much of a campaign slogan,’ Akhtar commented, drawing nervous laughs from a few around the table. He was the only one brave enough to risk sarcasm with Gamol.
Gamol reached over to the table and closed his fist on a bowlful of dates. He sat back and put one in his mouth, frowning. ‘Democracy is an American fiction,’ he said. ‘The people do not want to vote, they want to eat. Whoever takes power and shows that they can provide for the people will stay in power. No one would dare to oppose such a ruler. That is where our focus has been – providing for the people. That is where our focus must stay.’
‘Even if it means working with the Americans?’ Akhtar asked.
‘Even if it means working with the Devil himself,’ Gamol responded. ‘At least, for a time.’ There was a murmur of assent from around the table.
‘And what of the relic?’ Safraz asked.
‘Akhtar is correct,’ Gamol responded. ‘If it has been taken to America, we will suffer the wrath of Allah, and of the people.’
‘What shall we do?’ Akhtar asked.
‘Your family has always had the honor of protecting it, has it not? You shall go to Boston,’ Gamol said, looking at the young man. ‘And you shall take it back.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cianna Phelan’s bleary eyes stared up at the paint peeling off the ceiling in her cramped living room. The dream-faded memory of the young soldier lying on top of her pressed down on her chest as though it had real weight; as though the past were reaching forward to pull her back, heartbeat by heartbeat.
The sofa had shot its springs back in a time before Reagan was President, and it was impossible to get comfortable as the cushions lurched and bucked in uneven spasms with her every movement. She forced herself to take a breath, and was amazed at the effort it required. When she exhaled, the edges of the paint bubbles above her on the ceiling fluttered.
‘Morning.’
She looked toward the bedroom. Charlie was standing in the doorway, his short reddish hair riotous from sleep. She ran a hand over her own head and could feel her hair in fits. She supposed they looked alike. They were even around the same size, though that was no doubt a sore subject for her brother. Looking at him now, she could see the sharp bones of his elbow, and the shirt draped over his shoulders as if on a wire hanger. She wondered how he’d ever survived in the Army. Even in the Quartermaster Corps, where he’d spent his tours overseeing the movement of men, machinery and supplies, he must have stuck out as a target for tyrants and bullies.
‘Morning,’ Cianna replied. She swung her legs off the couch and rubbed her face.
‘Sleep well?’ he asked her.
‘Sure,’ she lied. ‘There’s instant coffee in the cabinet.’
She stood and went into the bathroom. It took her three minutes to shower, brush her teeth and pull on a pair of cargo pants and a torn sweatshirt. She was used to moving quickly in the morning; extended bathing was permitted neither in the Army nor in the prison. She ran a towel over her hair for fifteen seconds and emerged before the water for the coffee was boiling. Charlie had pulled on some loose jeans and found two mugs.
‘So,’ she said. ‘What now?’
He looked over at her and smiled. She’d always loved his smile. It hadn’t changed since he’d been a tiny boy. ‘You want some sugar and milk?’
‘I don’t have either.’
‘I could run down to the street. There’s still a Tedeschi’s on the corner of Mercer and Eighth, right?’
‘There is, but black is fine with me.’
‘For me, too.’ He walked over and handed her one of the mugs, sat in the chair to the side of the sofa. He raised the mug to her, and she lifted hers with less enthusiasm.
‘I thought you were going to sign up for another tour,’ she said. ‘I got your letters when I was . . .’ She paused. ‘I got your letters.’
‘You never wrote me back.’
She looked at her coffee. ‘I didn’t have much to say. Besides, I figured it’d be better for you if you weren’t getting letters from me. You never know who’s looking through your mail over there. Letters from a convict wouldn’t have helped you with the brass.’
‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘It still would’ve been nice to hear from you, though. Even if just to know you were all right.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘The thing is, I wasn’t all right. What happened over there . . . it’s hard to explain. They took away everything I was, and everything I wanted to be. I had it all planned out. Then . . .’
‘I understand. But I’m your brother.’
‘I’m sorry. I just couldn’t talk to anyone. I still don’t feel like a real person again, yet.’ Neither of them said anything for a moment. She decided to try to change the subject. ‘So what happened to re-upping?’
He sipped his coffee. Now he seemed to be avoiding her stare. ‘I was done with it,’ he said. ‘I only joined up to follow you. I didn’t know what else to do with my life back then. Once you were gone, it didn’t seem to make sense anymore.’
‘What are you going to do now?’ It was more than an idle question. Her pay barely kept her above the poverty-line; it could never support the two of them.
He sipped his coffee, looking straight ahead. ‘I have some leads,’ he said.
‘What sort of leads?’
He shrugged, and the shadow of a smile appeared on his lips. ‘I’ll let you know when I figure out whether they’re gonna work out.’
She frowned. ‘Why not tell me now?’ she asked.
‘Because I don’t want to yet.’ His tone turned defensive. ‘It’s something I want to do on my own,’ he said. ‘But if it works out, I’ll be set for a while.’ He was no longer smiling. If anything he looked nervous. ‘We’ll both be set for a while,’ he added, looking around the tiny apartment.
Cianna put her coffee down. ‘Tell me what this is all about, Charlie,’ she said sharply. ‘I don’t like the sound of it.’
Charley frowned. ‘Tough shit,’ he said angrily. He put the mug down and the coffee slopped over the edg
e onto the crate that served as a table. ‘You’re not my mother, Cianna,’ he said.
‘I’m the closest you’ve got,’ she replied sharply.
‘I can take care of myself,’ he protested.
‘Since when?’
‘Since two and a half years ago, when you went to prison,’ he said.
It stopped the conversation cold. They sat there in silence for a little while. Cianna tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to her. He was right, after all. Any claim she’d had to being the responsible sibling was gone. Any right she had to advise him about how to live his life had been lost.
‘I didn’t mean that,’ he said after a while.
‘Yes, you did.’
‘I’m sorry, I . . .’
‘It’s okay. You’re right. You’ve been taking care of yourself for a while now. I’ll leave you be.’ She stood up and walked over to the front door, took her leather jacket off the peg on the wall. ‘I don’t have any food in the house,’ she said. ‘I’m going to go out and get some things. Is there anything you’d like?’
‘I have to take care of a few things today,’ Charlie said. ‘I don’t think I’ll be here for lunch.’
‘If you are, the food will be here.’ Cianna opened the door.
‘Sis,’ he called after her as she stepped out of the apartment. She turned to look at him. ‘I’m sorry I said that. I’m a little on edge. Let me take care of a few things and then we can talk. You’ll be proud of me. I just don’t want you to worry, okay?’
‘Me worry?’ She gave him a sad smile. ‘I’ll be here when you want to talk.’ She closed the apartment door behind her.
The Southie streets were busy and crowded. In the autumn chill the steam rose in delicate wafts from sewage grates and street vendors’ carts. The sounds of kids playing stick hockey on the cement rink down by the highway carried sharply on the crisp air. Hockey was more popular here than basketball, in part because body checking and fighting were built into the rules. Blood was a part of business down in the projects; it was a part of play, too.
Cianna was comfortable here. It had taken some time after her release. She even considered moving someplace new – someplace where no one would know her or care about her past. In the end, though, she knew she could never live anyplace but here. And fortunately for her, a stretch in prison had never been viewed with any particular sense of shame in this neighborhood. It even gave her some credibility in certain quarters.
