by Jack Du Brul
Arlington, Virginia
It seemed to Mercer that the block of brownstones on his street was the last stretch of what had once been a charming suburb. Arlington had grown in the decade since he’d bought the three-story row house. It was now mostly anonymous high-rise apartment towers and office parks, with a few box stores thrown in to complete the sprawl trifecta.
Mercer’s street was lined with identical buildings, red stone structures with dressed block entrances, narrow windows, and shade trees along the curb. Traffic was generally light outside rush hour, and it wasn’t unusual to see mothers allowing their kids to play outdoors. It was almost as if time had left the street alone for the past sixty years.
Usually Mercer felt a calming wave as he entered his house. He owned the entire building and had remodeled the space so an atrium lofted to the third floor and a circular staircase spiraled down to the first. On the second floor were a niche library, two spare bedrooms, and a room outfitted with a five-stool mahogany bar, matching wainscoting with brass accents, and clubby leather furniture. It was a space designed to evoke a nineteenth-century gentleman’s club, and other than the plasma TV and the 1950s-era lock-lever refrigerator behind the bar, the effect was perfect. The master suite took up the entire third floor. Bathed by a pair of skylights, Mercer’s bedroom was larger than most apartments in Arlington, and the marble bathroom was the only one he knew of that had a urinal tucked in beside the toilet.
He strode through the front door and made straight for his home office on the ground floor. He felt no sense of homecoming, nothing but the hot anger that had been with him since seeing Cali get into a government car. He wasn’t going to allow himself to speculate until he was sure, but now that he was within minutes of knowing, all kinds of scenarios played out in his mind. None of them were very good.
He snatched the phone from his desk and dialed information. He heard a female voice and was about to ask for the number of the CDC in Atlanta when he did the acoustical version of a double take. He listened to the voice more carefully.
“God, Harry, you are so big. I don’t think Chantelle and I can take you but we’re willing to try. You just have to promise to be gentle.”
“What the…?”
“We’re both still virgins, you know, Harry. You’ll be our first time.”
“Who the hell is this?” Mercer demanded. Before the woman could reply, Mercer heard the sound of snoring through the open line. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered and killed the connection.
He left his travel bag on the desk and mounted the circular stairs to the second floor. Just as he thought. Harry White was sprawled on one of the couches, the cordless phone lying on his chest, rising and falling in time with his snoring. The nearby coffee table was covered in so many water rings left by highball glasses it looked like it had been mauled by a squid. The cut crystal ashtray atop was overflowing. Harry wore faded chinos, an over-laundered white shirt made of some indestructible synthetic, dark socks, and sneakers. His ubiquitous blue windbreaker was thrown over the back of one of the bar stools, a dog leash uncoiling from a pocket.
On the opposite couch, in an equally sprawled position, was Harry’s dog. The obese basset hound lay on his back so that his belly sagged in avalanches of fat. While one ear dangled almost to the floor, the other was spread across the leather like a mangy napkin. The dog lifted one bloodshot eye, spotted Mercer, and tried to wag his tail. The effort seemed too great, so he went back to sleep, snoring just a shade softer than his master.
“Et tu, Drag?” Mercer said to the mutt. He snapped off the portable phone on Harry’s chest and tapped the old lecher on the shoulder. Harry gave a startled grunt and his eyes flew open.
“Phone sex, Harry? At your age you get a hard-on only during leap years and you waste it on phone sex.”
The old man ran his tongue around his mouth and was obviously repulsed by what he found. “Hi, Mercer.” Harry’s voice rang with the lilt of a train wreck. “I wasn’t wasting it. I just wanted to see what it was all about.”
“Since you were asleep, I can tell it worked wonders. How long were you on for?”
Harry looked at his watch, his wrinkled face pulling taut with concentration. “Holy shit, it’s four thirty. Hey, I gotta go. I told Tiny I’d be back by now.”
“How long, Harry?”
“I’m not sure. I think I fell asleep around three thirty.”
“Two bucks a minute?”
Harry looked away, not because he was embarrassed by what he’d been doing, but because he’d been caught. “I think they said something about four dollars but I can’t be sure.”
Some friendships develop over many years; some are mere conveniences because of job or neighborhood. Some defy explanation. Harry White was fast approaching his eighty-first birthday, more than twice Mercer’s age, and yet they had been friends from the moment they met at the dive down the street called Tiny’s. A few who knew them assumed Mercer saw a father figure in the octogenarian, especially since he’d lost his parents at a young age. Others thought Mercer helped old Harry as though he were a charity case. Neither explanation was even close. Mercer had analyzed their relationship a few times and the best he could figure was that the two of them were the same person, just separated by a few decades.
Harry White had fought for his nation during World War Two, never bothering to get veterans benefits afterward because he’d done it out of a moral obligation and wanted nothing back for his service. He gave everything and asked only for loyalty in return. He knew firsthand that no matter how blurred the line between right and wrong, there was still a threshold that couldn’t be crossed. He believed that actions and words were of equal importance and that a favor asked was a favor granted. He personified what it meant to be part of the Greatest Generation.
Without consciously knowing it, Mercer had held himself to the standard set in those days and lived by a similar code. So in fact Mercer and Harry were from the same generation, men who had known deprivation in their youth, who had survived combat, who still mourned friends, and who still believed in the rightness of their deeds.
Harry suddenly became indignant. “And anyway you weren’t supposed to be home until the end of the month.”
Mercer slid around the bar and poured himself a vodka gimlet using Jamaica Gold, lime juice, and Ketel One. He put together a Jack and ginger for Harry, adding just enough ginger ale to make the whiskey tingle. “Nice to know you care, you bastard. The Central African Republic is in the middle of a civil war, or haven’t you been following the papers?”
“I’ve stolen your paper every day since you left.” Harry found his customary place at the bar and took an appreciative gulp before lighting up a Chesterfield, his blue eyes vanishing into folds of skin to blink away the smoke. “But if it ain’t a headline or on the crossword page, I don’t pay attention.” A tiny trace of concern edged into his booze-and butt-ruined voice. “Everything okay? I mean nothing happened to you?”
Before Mercer told his story he grabbed the cordless from the couch. Drag whimpered in his sleep. In the months since Harry had found the basset bawling at the Dumpster behind Tiny’s trying to get food, he and Mercer had come to the conclusion that the dog couldn’t be dreaming of rabbits. Snails, maybe, or arthritic sloths were more his speed. Mercer dialed information and got the number for the CDC in Atlanta.
After dealing with a Byzantine automated answering system, Mercer managed to get an operator and request the personnel office.
“Human Resources, John speaking. How may I help you?”
“Hello, John. My name is Harry White. I just got back from Africa and I think the airline gave me a piece of luggage belonging to one of your people.”
“The name.” It sounded to Mercer as if John took his social cues from the automated system.
“Stowe, Cali Stowe.” Mercer spelled it.
“We don’t have anyone-oh wait.” There it was, the pause Mercer feared he would hear. “Um, yes. Let me transfer yo
u to Mr. Lawler.”
“That won’t be necess-” John had already started to reroute the call.
A moment later a guarded voice came on the line. “This is Bill Lawler. I understand you’re asking about Cali Stowe.”
“No, Mr. Lawler. I just want to make sure that if I send a piece of her luggage mistakenly dropped off at my house by the airline that she would get it. She mentioned that she worked for the CDC when I met her on a flight today.”
“Ah, yes, she is an employee. You said she was on a flight today? May I ask from where?”
“So she works there. Great. I’ll put her bag in the mail first thing in the morning. Thank you.” Mercer cut the connection before Lawler could ask any more questions.
“What the hell was that all about?” Harry cocked one bushy eyebrow. “And more importantly, if I find her bag does that mean I can go through her underwear?”
“There is no bag,” replied Mercer, his voice filling with frustration and exhaustion. “I met Cali Stowe in Africa. She told me she worked for the CDC but when she and I split at JFK I spotted her getting into a government car.”
“And?”
“And the guy I just talked to at the CDC seemed pretty interested in why I was asking about her. I think she uses them as a cover for something else. Cali’s name shows up on their computer but it flags whenever someone tries to get information about her.”
Harry ground his cigarette into an ashtray and drained the last half of his drink. He spoke while Mercer rummaged through a drawer behind the bar. “Any suspects on who signs her paycheck?”
“Dozens of suspects but no clue.” Mercer found a blue pushpin and pressed it into the CAR on the world map hanging behind the bar, adding one more to the dense forest of pins studding the framed chart. There were easily eighty other gaily colored tacks denoting the places Mercer had traveled for work and pleasure. There were almost a dozen clear ones, showing places where he had been involved in covert actions. His eyes lingered on the transparent pin stuck into the island of La Palma, part of the Canary chain. It was all he had of Tisa.
Harry noted the tension creeping into Mercer’s neck and saw the shadow lingering in his storm gray eyes when he turned from the map. “You were attracted to her.”
“She was attractive,” Mercer admitted.
“Quit dodging. That’s not what I asked.”
No matter how much Mercer wanted to avoid the issue, he knew his friend wouldn’t let him. “Yes, I was attracted to her.”
“She’s the first since Tisa and now you feel guilty about it.”
“Yeah.”
“Six months is an eternity and it’s a blink of the eye. I can’t tell you how to feel about this but I will tell you that being attracted to another woman is not a bad thing. You do realize that since Tisa died you’ve held yourself to a standard most married men can’t touch. Guys find women attractive every damned day and you can bet that not one of them feels the least bit guilty. But you, you see it as an act of deepest betrayal. This isn’t mourning, Mercer, it’s self-inflicted punishment.”
“What if I can’t help it?”
“You’ve always found a way in the past.”
“What do you mean?”
Harry lit another cigarette, gathering his thoughts. “You beat yourself up every time something in your life goes wrong. You blame yourself whether it’s your fault or not. Most people don’t take responsibility when they screw up but you do even if you don’t. This isn’t a character flaw, or maybe it is but not a bad one to have, except each time it costs you a little more to find your center again and come to grips with whatever just happened. It’s been six months since you lost Tisa and you’re no closer to putting her death behind you.”
Mercer’s anger flared. “I won’t put her behind me.”
“Not her, you dope, her death. You haven’t put her death behind you. There’s a distinction and maybe that’s where you’re stuck.”
“What do you mean?”
“I bet you relive her death every day but don’t relive her life.” Mercer didn’t deny it so Harry continued. “You’ve turned her into the symbol of some perceived failure, a memory where you can unload all the guilt you carry around. You don’t celebrate the short time you were with her and that’s not very fair. To her I mean.”
Mercer was rocked by what Harry had said. In a rush he realized it was all true. Tisa’s memory had become a wound he would reopen just so he could revel in the guilt he was certain he deserved. This wasn’t mourning. It was self-flagellation and was actually a little sick. He’d made her death about him and in doing so reduced her life to something he could blame himself for.
“So how do I put my life back together?”
Harry leaned back on his stool, jetting smoke from his nose. “How the hell should I know? It’s your life. Ask that Cali woman out on a date. Or maybe spend a week at a resort watching honeys parade by.”
Mercer hadn’t been to a beach in years and couldn’t imagine himself sitting around leering at bikini-clad hardbodies, nor did the prospect of dating Cali hold much interest, not at least until he found out who she was and whom she really worked for. That thought reminded him that he needed to contact Admiral Lasko. He dialed Ira’s cell, ignoring the red light indicating that the handset’s batteries were low.
“Your being back early can’t be good news,” Lasko said in greeting, having finally mastered caller ID. Ira Lasko was a former submariner who then transferred into Naval Intelligence. John Kleinschmidt, the President’s national security advisor, had tapped him shortly after his retirement from the navy to work for the White House. Lasko possessed a mind that could think on both strategic and tactical levels and intuitively understand the link between the two. He was below average height and had a slight build but he more than compensated with a commanding voice, boundless energy, and a pugnacious attitude to go along with his shaved head.
“No and no,” Mercer replied. “No, I didn’t find any coltan. I’ll call Burke at the UN tomorrow, then fax him a formal report later this week. And the second no is because I found something else that isn’t good news.”
“You want to get together?”
“I think we should. I’ve got a couple of items that need to be analyzed.”
“I’m stuck in the office until eight. I’ll meet you at that Thai place I like near the Pentagon City Mall.”
“Eight thirty at Loong Chat’s. Got it.” After some of the swill Mercer had been eating over the past weeks, the idea of Thai food sent a spasm through his guts. He’d grab a sandwich before the meeting.
“I’m off,” Harry announced. “Drag, get up.”
The dog didn’t even lift an eyelid.
“Drag, up. Walk time.”
The basset rolled onto his side, his back to Harry, an annoyed growl rumbling from deep in his chest.
Harry walked over, favoring his prosthetic right leg, which always bothered him when he napped with it on. He shook the hound, causing waves of fat to ripple under the dog’s loose skin. Drag finally righted himself, his stubby legs barely able to keep his belly from rubbing the couch’s leather. He managed to get a single wag from his tail before it sagged like a deflated balloon.
Harry clipped the leash to his collar and, as his name implied, had to drag him from the couch and toward the library and the curving stairs beyond. Mercer smiled as he heard Harry tug the recalcitrant dog across the tile foyer to the front door. Harry called up, “If you finish with Ira before midnight I’ll be at Tiny’s.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay then, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Ira was already at a table when Mercer stepped into the trendy Thai bistro. A trio of women sipping cosmopolitans at the bar eyed Mercer as he entered the room carrying a never-used gym bag. He didn’t see them but spotted Ira at a table near the back. Ira already had a pair of drinks waiting. Lasko had removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie, but couldn’t shed his thirty years in the military. He sa
t straight, with his fingers laced, while his eyes never rested.
“You look beat,” the deputy national security advisor said by way of greeting. They didn’t bother to shake hands.
“You have an eye for the obvious. The past few weeks and especially the past five days are something I wouldn’t mind forgetting.”
“I thought this was supposed to be a slam dunk. You go in, find some minerals to make the CAR rich. The UN gets to look good and a little rubs off on us.”
“Problem is the minerals aren’t there, which I suspected all along, and whatever riches the CAR might eventually have are going to line the pockets of warlords.”
“I read a brief about someone coming down from Sudan.”
“Caribe Dayce. Charming fellow. All muscle. Favors a machete. He’s dead.”
Ira didn’t show surprise. “You?”
“I wish.” A waiter came to take their orders. Mercer demurred. The sandwich he’d had earlier lay like a stone in his stomach. Ira ordered enough food for two. Mercer continued when the young Asian had stepped away. “Dayce actually had me and a woman named Cali Stowe staked out for a firing squad when this group of”-Mercer wasn’t sure what to call his rescuers-“soldiers came out of nowhere and gunned down all of his men.”
“Locals? Peacekeepers?”
“Neither. I don’t know who they were. They just came out of nowhere, did their thing, and warned me to never come back.”
“Who is Cali Stowe?” Ira rarely made comments until he had all the facts.
“That’s one of the things I’d like you to find out for me. She claimed to work for the CDC but when I called I got the impression she was using them as a cover. Also when we parted ways at Kennedy I saw her get into a government car. If she’s on Uncle Sam’s payroll I’d like to know why she happened to be the same place I was.”
“I can make a few calls. Anything else?”
Mercer plucked Chester Bowie’s canteen from the gym bag and set it on the table. He then withdrew the misshapen bullet from his pocket. The copper glinted in the restaurant’s dim lighting. “I’d like these looked at by an expert. Especially the bullet.” Mercer took nearly a half hour to tell him the story he’d heard from the old woman and lay out everything that had happened from the moment Cali had approached him in Kivu. Ira jotted a few notes on a napkin.
