Blood Oil

by James Phelan

  “So you wouldn’t agree with the secretary-general of Reporters Without Borders when he said—”

  “What Robert Ménard said was in response to the killing of Washington Post journalist Daniel Pearl, and he related his answer to how he would feel in the situation—”

  “By saying that if it were his daughter…”

  “That if it were his daughter who was kidnapped then there would be no limit on the torture. That’s—when there are kids involved, that’s when it really hits home.”

  “So, you agree with his sentiments? That it’s okay to go along with that if you’re directly affected?”

  “Like I said before, I hope that there’s never an excuse for that,” Fox said. He thought about it. “There is certainly a part of me that thinks that if, to save an innocent life, you have to squeeze some information out of a known criminal, I can see something there. But this is exactly why I wrote my pieces on this issue. To generate this kind of debate. To explore answers to questions like this, because right now, even with all the hours and days and weeks I’ve spent thinking about this, I still don’t have a good answer.”

  “Why not just say, Well, if we know they are terrorists beyond reasonable doubt, then the gloves are off? Surely we’re pretty good at all this—we’ve got all the money and resources—”

  “And what is that proof beyond reasonable doubt? DNA? Or are you talking about admissions? Oh, by the way, how do we get the terrorists to admit to their crimes?”

  “By dubious methods,” Jane said.

  “And when it comes to this kind of asymmetric warfare we’re fighting in places like Iraq and Afghanistan, it’s a case of all or nothing,” Fox said. “You fight the way you’ve been taught and trained and within the law, or you fight like the insurgents. If you fight like them, you have to be prepared to throw out the rule book completely. Our guys in Iraq and Afghanistan are engaging an enemy who thinks nothing about the collateral damage of roadside bombs. You go down the path you suggested, sure, we’ve got all the gear and training to play like that and win. Can’t find that target in a neighbourhood? Wipe the whole city from the map. Can’t find the fighters hiding in the hills among the villagers and tribesmen? Remove the entire mountain. Hell, nuke the whole Middle East—we have weapons that can do that and leave the infrastructure intact. Take out every living thing there.”

  “Well, I think we’d all agree that that’s about ten steps too far.”

  “Well, to me it’s a case of all or nothing and something not really worth thinking too much about. It’s that clear-cut. You play by the rules or you don’t. What are we fighting for, our way of life? Yeah, some say oil, but let’s just look at the principles here. What are they fighting us for? To erode our way of life? To get us out of their homes? Well, they’re winning a lot of the battles.”

  “Is it too late then? Have we gone too far?”

  “I don’t think we have, but we have to acknowledge what we’ve done. Admit we’ve made mistakes, admit that at times we got suckered into fighting at their level. Only then can we set the standard. Only then can we fight on our own terms and have peace in sight.”

  Fox leaned across the table. he’d thought about this at some length; it felt good to articulate it all.

  “If we live like we do and then have this double-edged playbook? It comes back to bite us in the ass,” he said. “The lives that we are affecting by creating all these orphans, all those shattered families that are left behind, come back to haunt us bad. We’re saying it’s okay to fight like that, to torture when we have to. We take a guy off the street and water-board him and deprive him of all his rights; they pick a journalist off the street in Baghdad or Karachi and cut his head off—making sure to film it for all the world to see.”

  Silence. Fox was getting agitated, and fought it back.

  “You asked me what it was like for guys like Michael Rollins,” Fox said. He fidgeted with his hands, had a drink. “The only time I’ve come across someone with the same kind of trauma is from the world wars.”

  “Did any of your family serve?”

  “My great-grandfather, Clarry, fought in the First World War with his two brothers. He was just sixteen. His brothers didn’t return, but he did. He died when I was about seven…” Fox trailed off, lost in thought for a moment. “But I remember all these little things.”

  “Did he ever talk about it?”

  “The war? Not really. he’d talk about the campaign in Gallipoli, because it’s an entrenched part of Australia’s history and identity. But he’d never talk about the Western Front in France. His daughter, my grandmother, would tell me some stories she’d heard him tell her own mother, many years earlier. Climbing over mountains of bodies; the mud that sucked you down. Even though he escaped the shells, he was destroyed by the war.”

  Fox paused for a beat.

  “That’s what I saw in Rollins. That same hollowed-out sense of someone who’d been through too much. That same sense I’ve gotten out of veterans of the Second World War and Vietnam, guys all fucked up from being tortured. In many ways Michael Rollins is one of the few people I can really talk to. In many ways, I’ll owe him more than he’ll ever know.”

  Jane stopped her tape-recorder, closed her notebook and put down her pen. She smiled and had a sip of her martini.

  “Can we make another time to chat with some follow-up questions after you get back from Nigeria?”

  “Sure, I’ll let you know as soon as I’m back,” he said. He finished off his drink and motioned for the waiter to bring another.

  “They like you here.”

  “It’s my local,” Fox said. He noticed the look. “Yeah, I spend too much time here.”

  “I’m not judging,” she said. “God knows I’ve drunk myself to sleep some nights since being home alone.”

  “How long were you married for?”

  “Why don’t you tell me, you’re the perceptive one.”

  “Married about five years, I’d say.”

  “Close.”

  “Divorced—what, three? But it seems you haven’t quite moved on…”

  Jane gave a mysterious shrug.

  “Or not divorced … you’re separated.”

  A nod.

  “What was it, Catholic guilt?”

  Nothing—then a sparkle in her eye.

  “You won’t give him the divorce then.” Fox sipped his beer. “He’s moved on, maybe even while he was still in the marriage, and you won’t give him the divorce.”

  “Wow,” Jane said through a mocking smile. “You know so much.”

  “I know he was an idiot to cheat on you.”

  “Okay, now you’re on the right track,” Jane agreed, laughing. She had a sip of her drink. “Tell me more about The Idiot.”

  “He works in the industry—an editor, maybe, or likely now he’s a news producer on TV, some B-grade cable station. You fell in love with him for the same reasons as the next woman—his charm, power, influence. Sadly, it wasn’t until later that you realised he only liked house music.”

  Jane laughed hard.

  “If that wasn’t enough, he only liked Hollywood blockbuster films, Michael Bay-type shit. He presented himself as a serious highbrow media player, but secretly he only wanted to live the life of a superhero and have all that that entails, especially the female interest.”

  “Okay, that’s him,” Jane said, smiling. “I came home one night to an email in my inbox. It said he wouldn’t be coming home and his lawyer would call first thing in the morning.”

  “Ouch,” Fox said, drinking. “Via email? The guy has class.”

  Jane was serious for a moment. Fox had missed something, or trodden too far with this little game.

  “I’m sorry…” Fox said.

  “Don’t be sorry,” she replied, then put her hand on his and left it there. She looked up to his eyes. “I just wish he’d said that. Just two simple words, nothing more, and it would have been
some kind of closure or acceptance on his part. But I guess I wouldn’t have believed it anyway.” Jane’s face was friendly in the permanent fine smile lines of her cheeks, her dark eyes soft, singing of emotions learned the hard, hurtful way. “So much for death do us part.”

  Fox had a look of his own, and took his hand away from under hers.

  “Some promises are too hard to keep.”

  13

  ARLINGTON NATIONAL CEMETERY, WASHINGTON DC

  McCorkell stood among a throng of black-clad officialdom. The coffin was draped with the flag in a military custom that had begun during the Napoleonic Wars. Back then, the dead that were carried from the field of battle on a caisson were covered with a flag. When the US flag covered a casket, it was placed so the union blue field was at the head and over the left shoulder. It was not placed in the grave, nor was it allowed to touch the ground. This flag was folded and a military chaplain handed it over to the widow as the casket was lowered into the ground. McCorkell had a hard time reconciling that they were giving this man military honours.

  A guy that had spent his life serving his country—fine, fair enough. A guy who in the last act of his life had been expelled from his office as the corrupt head of the CIA … that was harder.

  Robert Boxcell had left a mess that still required cleaning up. Would the situations in Nigeria and the Middle-East have developed like it had if there had been stable leadership in the agency? Maybe. Probably. They might have seen some signposts earlier in the piece, though.

  McCorkell looked around. There were a couple of press close by, a helicopter buzzing high overhead, long-lensed paparazzi out the side door. The President had had second thoughts about being here. It had kicked off a discussion in a senior staff meeting that had taken under a minute to conclude: McCorkell would be the only representative of the administration to attend. McCorkell was the right guy in the right place—senior but without a high degree of public visibility. It showed they cared enough not to have cleaned their hands of a guy who had done a lifetime’s good work, albeit that he’d gone out in disgrace, which the public didn’t know the half of.

  And so Boxcell had taken his own life. At sixty, leaving a wife and three adult kids to think about what their husband and father had really been. A traitor? Perhaps a traitor within the ranks, but not of treasonous proportions. he’d had his own measure of what he was doing, attempting to shift the balance of power within the intelligence community. But then, wasn’t everyone driven by the path they thought they should be on?

  The casket was lowered and the Navy pall-bearers gave a final salute and marched off. Those young men and women knew the deceased had been a decorated Vietnam Vet, a career intelligence man, the head of their leading intelligence agency who’d resigned and abruptly died. McCorkell guessed that they would speculate that the man must have known about a medical condition. The press had hardly touched on it, though. They’d allowed his family the dignity of grieving in relative peace.

  But McCorkell, and a couple of the senators present who served on the United States Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, knew differently. They knew Boxcell had schemed to new proportions against his sister agency the NSA. They were still not playing nice, despite being more unified since 9/11. Maybe there was more hope of unity on the horizon, as for the first time in a long time uniformed men were at each agency’s directorial posts.

  The seven Navy riflemen shot a volley into the air. McCorkell stiffened at the report that was part of a ceremony that dated back to halting the battle to remove the dead. Once each army had cleared its dead, they would fire three volleys into the air to signify that the fighting could begin again. The act of firing your gun empty, therefore being unarmed, signified respect to the dead.

  The last volley was fired. In the White House, the Pentagon, on the front lines in Iraq and Afghanistan, and in so many other places in the world at this very moment in time, it was back to business. But of course, those places never halted, never paused to take stock of what had been lost.

  McCorkell’s gaze had been drawn to the involuntary flinching of Boxcell’s wife at the sound of the final volley. She stood there, veiled, on the opposite side of the hole in the ground that her husband had just been lowered into. He realised she had probably been at home when the former DCIA had sent a 9 mm slug through the roof of his mouth.

  The rifles fell silent. The chaplain said his final words, and the gathered said their goodbyes. Dirt was tossed, roses fell.

  McCorkell made his way between solemn nods of greeting and respect to the widow. Her punch-drunk gaze was still on the high-gloss mahogany. He winced at having to do this. His posture spoke of the short straw that he’d drawn.

  “Mrs Boxcell,” McCorkell began. “On behalf of the President, our deepest—”

  “Tell him—” Her eyes, redder than the roses that she bore, met McCorkell’s. There was more vengeance there than remembrance. She pulled a folded piece of paper from her clutch. “Just give him this. I would have done it myself, if he were here.”

  McCorkell took the offered note and left the grief behind at the grave. It had been less than fifteen minutes at the grave-site, and he could see the next procession arriving. Two other marching units were close by. Burial peak hour. Death was having a busy time here.

  The fall sunshine glinted off the afternoon green of the grass, as a Secret Service agent opened the car door for his principal. McCorkell got into the back of the shiny black town-car and rested against the plush leather. The door slammed shut behind him, the tinted windows offering a bleak outlook. The agent got into the passenger seat and the driver set off.

  McCorkell took in the note in his hand. Dog-eared lined paper, folded in four. ‘Mr President,’ written in red ink. Well opened and closed in the four days since Boxcell’s death. He opened it.

  Boxcell’s suicide note? Impersonal. Maybe there was a family one too. The words were familiar, from another time and place when written and performed, and McCorkell remembered when he himself had discovered these words as a freshman. It was part of a poem from Sophocles’ tragedy Ajax. McCorkell read it aloud, softly, just for himself to hear. His mouth moved around the words as he spoke, ever present and mindful of the gravity not just of Boxcell’s action but of the symbology behind it.

  Thy son is in a foreign clime

  Where Ida feeds her countless flocks,

  Far from thy dear, remembered rocks,

  Worn by the waste of time—

  Comfortless, nameless, hopeless save

  In the dark prospect of the yawning grave …

  Better to die, and sleep

  The never-waking sleep, than linger on

  And dare to live, when the soul’s life is gone;

  But thou shalt weep,

  Thou wretched father, for thy dearest son,

  The best beloved, by inward Furies torn,

  The deepest, bitterest curse, thine ancient house hath borne!

  In his mind, McCorkell could still hear the Navy bugler playing Taps.

  14

  NEW YORK CITY

  Fox leaned on the bar in the downstairs room of Eight Mile Creek. On Mulberry Street between Prince and King, it was a little slice of Australia in lower Manhattan. The basement was dark, just a small bar and standing area at the back and along one side, a seating and live music area at the front.

  A young woman strummed at an acoustic guitar and sang in a soft, smoky folk voice in the mezzo range. There were two guys with her, one on a keyboard and bass guitar, the other with a small drum kit, a snare and a few cymbals. They started with some Australian stuff; James Reyne’s ‘Reckless’ had half the crowd singing along as she picked away at the six-string guitar. It ended to much applause; there were maybe sixty people down there, which was pretty packed for the space. A familiar song started up, just her picking away. Powderfinger.

  “This song is called ‘Nobody Sees,’�
�� the singer announced. More applause, then the crowd grew quiet to listen attentively. Conversations were whispers now, laughter more physical than vocal, movements were made to the rhythmic, haunting sounds.

  Fox watched Gammaldi from across the room, his friend sitting at a table with some of the GSR staff. Emma Gibbs, a member of the security team, and Gammaldi were real close. Whispers were being traded close to ears, toothy smiles were shared and their laughter was contagious. A hand touch here, a brush of lips there, a look just so. Good one, Al.

  “Can you send some more drinks over to that table?” Fox asked the barman. His Amex was behind the bar and he handed over a twenty for the guy’s troubles. The barman nodded, and refreshed Fox’s beer first. There were Aussie beers here; Fox was enjoying Coopers Pale Ale out of the bottle.

  “So you’re the lucky one buying tonight, huh?” a barmaid asked, filling up a tray of drinks to take over.

  “Yep,” Fox said. She would not have been out of place on the set of Coyote Ugly. “It’s a belated birthday party for my best friend—ah, here’s the man now.”

  Gammaldi came over, a couple of lipstick marks on his cheeks.

  “What are you having, mate? Bud Light?”

  “Hey, it’s my birthday, I’m not drinking lights,” Gammaldi said, deadpan.

  “It was your birthday yesterday.”

  “Well, okay, but it’s my party.” Gammaldi turned to the barmaid: “Bourbon and Coke, please.”

  “Better make that Diet Coke,” Fox added, earning himself a punch in the arm from Al when the barmaid turned her back to mix his drink.

  Fox looked at Gammaldi, all dressed up for his party—pressed slacks and short-sleeve shirt exposing his huge biceps. There was something different about his appearance that Fox had been trying to figure out for the past hour—and he had just spotted it.

  “Jesus, Al—you pluck your eyebrow?” Fox said, a Cheshire grin on his face as he tried to grab at one, his mate lunging back out of arm’s reach. “Look at you—you have two eyebrows now! They’re a bit on the thin side, though … shit, dude, now you’re looking more like Nic Kidman than Matt LeBlanc.”