‘You could have me moved to Venezuela,’ I said. ‘We don’t have an extradition treaty with them.’
Arlen reset the conversation with a pause.
‘Vin . . . I checked on Cheung and Macri. They’re good. You’re lucky to get ’em.’
‘They remind me of a joke I once heard, the one about the Chinaman, the Italian, and the American. Know it?’
‘I’ve heard ’em all, especially all of yours. Look, this is not funny, Vin. You get a guilty verdict on the 128, and you’re in a concrete box with razor-wire trim for a very long time.’
‘I know; I read the same books, remember?’
The books in question were the Uniform Code of Military Justice and the Manual for Courts-Martial, United States. One outlined the laws those of us in the armed forces must follow; the other documented the punishments meted out for not doing so. Our system wasn’t draconian but it often didn’t take into account mitigating circumstances, unless specifically outlined in the Code. If the court-martial found you did the crime, then you did the time stipulated in the manual. In the instance of Article 128, assault – and particularly, in my case, assault with a deadly weapon occasioning grievous bodily harm – the manual said a guilty verdict required confinement in a federal facility, showering without soap while keeping your back to the wall, for a period of eight years, along with a dishonorable discharge and the forfeiture of all pay and allowances. Like Arlen said, this wasn’t funny.
‘Anything else you need?’ he asked.
‘Another opportunity to kill Lockhart would be good.’
‘C’mon, trust the system, Vin.’
‘The system’s only as good as the people working it,’ I said vaguely, distracted, and the dead air informed Arlen that I wasn’t talking about what was really on my mind.
‘Let it go, Vin,’ he said. ‘You’re not responsible for Anna’s death. We’ve talked about this. The inquiry exonerated you.’
Yes, it did, but it also found that perhaps the situation at Oak Ridge, where Anna and I had confronted the suspects in the case that ended with her death, might have had a different outcome if I hadn’t made an aggressive, badly timed move to end the Mexican standoff that confronted us. I could conjure up the scene at will, as if I were hovering above it, because that’s how I dreamed it like it was on a loop. Helping me out with the details was the forensics team that had gone in afterwards and placed line-of-fire rods through the bullet holes in the walls, floor, and ceiling, so that the trajectories of each round could be visualized and the gunfight recreated.
This is how it went down: Anna was being held from behind by a man who also had a gun to her back. A second weapon was leveled at her by another man, sitting in an armchair in front of her, who had relieved me of my Colt .45. I was down on the carpet, an evil dyke bitch pointing a Glock at my head. The guy in the armchair took his eyes off me for a split second just as a fifth person, a bystander, blundered through the door, which, by a stroke of good fortune, took out the evil dyke bitch and her Glock. That’s when I went for the fucker in the armchair. But it was a bad move. In all, nine shots were fired in that room, most of them at Anna, or in her general direction. The last of these was the one I fired at the creep holding Anna and then the one he fired at me. Anna was between us. The bullet that took her life came from behind, but the weapon that fired it was never determined beyond any doubt, because she was wrestling with her assailant at the time – spinning, twisting, and grappling with him. I fired a Colt .45. The creep shot a nine-millimeter Glock. Ordinarily, that would have settled the question; however, the ammo we both used was ball. Both types left neat entry and raggedy exit holes, and the actual slug that killed her exited her body and was not recovered from the scene, all of which meant that she could have been shot with either a nine or a .45. Tissue damage didn’t resolve the issue either way, but that’s the point. It could have been the shot I fired. I could have been her killer.
Anna died in my arms. She took her last breath lying in a pool of her own blood, the black sucking hole in her chest leaving a bottomless pit in mine.
‘Vin . . . you still there? Hello?’
‘I’m still here.’
‘Hey . . . I miss her, too,’ said Arlen.
Arlen and Anna had been pals from the start, when I introduced them after the conclusion of a case she and I had worked in Germany. Both of us were in the hospital at the time. And ever since, whenever things got a little rocky between us, Arlen had been our go-between. I had first met her twenty-four hours after my divorce had gone through. The last thing I wanted was another relationship, but Anna walked into my life and the fireworks were there from the start. Occasionally, they burned us – so much so that along the way we’d had time apart to cool off. Anna even became engaged to a piece-of-shit JAG attorney with questionable morals, to get, as she put it, a little control back into her life. She came to her senses about the engagement just days before walking into the Oak Ridge office and collecting a round from a nine-millimeter. Or a .45. Now she was gone forever. And the guy responsible – me – was still here. That, not my lack of trust in the system or the shower block at Leavenworth, was my problem.
‘Are you listening?’ Arlen asked.
‘What?’
‘Stay with me, Vin. I said there’s an investigation underway into Lockhart.’
‘Did you initiate it?’
‘Me? Absolutely not.’
‘Then who did?’
‘Your court-martial has attracted a lot of press, especially after the Afghanistan thing. You’ve got plenty of public support. I think maybe the wife of some general up the food chain smelled injustice and leaned on her old man.’
I didn’t believe a word of that. An inquiry into Lockhart was a ball only Arlen would have kicked into play. He would have to play it carefully. News of an investigation into the DoD contractor might make it look to Judge Fink that Cheung and Macri were playing dirty pool, hoping to pressure Lockhart into withdrawing his testimony. As the star witness for the prosecution, his withdrawal would destroy the government’s case.
‘Lockhart has powerful friends,’ I said. ‘Asswipes like him can’t operate without them. Have a look at a guy by the name of Piers Pietersen, from a company called Swedish American Gold. And while you’re at it, check out a black guy by the name of Charles White. He’s thick with Pietersen.’
‘What’s their connection to Lockhart?’ he asked.
‘I’m betting they do his dirty laundry.’
‘I’ll see what turns up.’
‘You should also look into the Congolese and the Rwandans at Cyangugu.’
‘Forget about them, Vin. They’re beyond our reach.’
I wasn’t happy about that, but I understood. Africa swallowed whole populations. It’d be easy for a few connected individuals to disappear. ‘What about that M16 with its numbers filed off?’ I asked.
‘We’ve got no serial or batch numbers. We know it was made by FN Herstal, but without the numbers the weapon’s untraceable.’
Disappointing. I’d carried the weapon all the way through the Congo rainforest believing it would shoot someone important in the foot – hopefully, Lockhart.
‘What about the French Armée de l’Air pilot André LeDuc?’
‘Interpol has a warrant out for him.’
‘Can you get access to his records?’
‘Paris will cooperate. What are we after?’
‘His head on a plate.’
‘See what I can do. While we’re on the subject of the French, I believe they’re going to launch an inquiry into Fournier’s death. You’ll be called as a witness.’
‘Bring it on.’
‘Hey, I have to go, Vin. I’ll try to drop by soon. Hang in there, buddy.’
‘By the neck,’ I replied.
I heard the dial tone, put the cell in my jacket pocket and turned into the double driveway that lined up with the double garage attached to the double-fronted house with its two flags waving in the br
eeze over the landing. Just some of the perks of criminality.
I took a long bath in the master bathroom and watched a little high-def spring baseball on the flat screen TV with the 5.3 surround sound system turned up. I was eyeing the liquor cabinet when the doorbell rang. Cheung and Macri were early.
‘You’re early,’ I said, as I opened the door to a man I didn’t recognize.
‘Mr Cooper,’ he said, holding forth a hand. ‘My name is William Rentworthy. I’m a reporter from the New York Times. If you’ve got a few minutes, I’d like to talk to you about the—’
I didn’t recognize him, but I knew who he was.
‘Speak to my lawyers,’ I said and shut the door in his face, wondering who’d let him loose on the base.
Cheung and Macri arrived twenty minutes later.
‘We brought some food,’ said Macri, as he came through the open door behind Cheung. ‘Hope you like vegetarian.’
‘I like anything that eats grass,’ I said. ‘Especially if it’s medium rare.’
In fact, I don’t like vegetarian food at all, though I have dined a few times at Summer Love, a little joint on the ground floor of my apartment block. The only thing I like the look of there, though, is Summer herself, who’s hot in a hippy-chick way, with legs so long they could give you a nose bleed just thinking about them.
‘You guys want a drink?’ I asked as I headed for the kitchen. ‘I can offer you single malt or Jacks.’
‘Thanks, but I need something solid,’ said Cheung.
‘I’ll put rocks in it,’ I suggested.
Cheung smiled and shook his head. ‘No thanks. Mind if I set the table?’
‘Go right ahead. How about you, Counselor?’ I asked Macri, passing Cheung some forks.
‘Not for me, either,’ he said, as he divested his briefcase of several pounds of notes and forms and dumped them on the dining-room table.
I fixed a Glen Keith with ice and a little soda and left the kitchen with the bottle so that I’d have an ally with me.
Cheung and Macri sat themselves down at the table, the folders they had brought with them now placed on the floor. Food waited for me on a disposable plate.
‘What’s this?’ I asked.
‘Asparagus and eggplant lasagne,’ said Macri, his mouth already full. ‘It’s pretty good.’
I gave it a go and was pleasantly surprised, though half a pound of ground beef would’ve improved it.
‘I had a visit from the New York Times,’ I told them. ‘A guy called Rentworthy.’
‘What did he want?’ Cheung asked.
‘Dirt. What else?’
‘Twenny Fo and Leila will be called as witnesses, so we can bet on this court-martial getting plenty of media attention, which might hurt or help your case. We’ll see how it goes . . . Might be worth lodging a petition for the court to be closed.’
‘Won’t happen,’ said Macri. ‘Fink’s got a bad case of ASD – attention-seeking disorder. Next time the Times approaches you, Vin, hear him out before slamming the door in his face. If he’s got something important pertaining to the case, and he’s about to report it, he’ll come to you first. You can always refuse to comment. But we’d rather have some warning.’
‘Who said anything about slamming doors in people’s faces?’
‘He’s a reporter out for a little fame and glory at your expense. What else you gonna do?’
‘Let’s get started with a little background, shall we?’ said Cheung, changing the subject. ‘You’ve got an interesting record, Cooper. I see you’ve been up on assault charges before.’
I gave no response.
Cheung sat back. ‘Cooper, I know this is going to be hard for you, but we’re on your side. Here’s the deal. We ask you questions and you answer them without holding back. And if you think we’re not asking the right ones, then you volunteer the information you think we should be getting. This can’t work any other way, all right?’
I shrugged. I didn’t have a lot of choice.
‘There are twenty witnesses lined up against you, Vin,’ Cheung informed me yet again. ‘Frankly, it’s going to take every trick in the book and a lot of luck to pull this one out of the shitter.’
Macri picked a folder up off the floor. He flicked through it on his lap, eventually pulling out a sheet of paper.
‘So you want to tell us about the colonel you, ah, beat up?’
‘The government dropped the case. It’s not admissible,’ I said.
‘We know,’ Cheung responded. ‘But would you mind filling in the background anyway?’
I sighed. There was a time when I would have found this difficult, but now hashing over the facts of my divorce affected me about as much as scratching a rash.
‘My ex-wife and I were in marriage counseling. The counselor was an O-6 reservist. Turned out that he was regularly counseling my ex privately. I came home and found them in the shower. He was giving her some therapy around her epiglottis at the time.’
Macri glanced at Cheung.
‘As I see it,’ I said, ‘the colonel got the life sentence.’
They seemed puzzled, so I put it together for them. ‘He married her.’
‘What about the two drunk and disorderly charges – one substantiated?’ asked Macri.
‘I went through a bad patch.’
Macri gazed at me. ‘You’re a difficult case, Cooper. With a record like this, you’ll never make lieutenant colonel. Why’re you still in the air force?’
I’d thought about that question plenty of times, especially since Anna’s death. She’d planned to leave the service, and wanted me to go with her. I remember thinking at the time that I just might. Would I have gone through with it? Now that she was dead, I’d never know.
‘You want to hear me say that I probably couldn’t cut it anywhere else?’ I said.
‘That’d be honest, wouldn’t it?’ Macri replied.
‘And here I was thinking this wouldn’t be a pleasant evening.’
Cheung gestured at Macri to pass him the folder. ‘I note that a significant amount of your record is classified, much more of it than I would have expected,’ he said. ‘There are big holes.’ He put his fork down and flipped through a few pages. ‘You studied law at NYU?’
‘Know thine enemy,’ I said. There was a flicker of a smile from Macri.
‘You joined up in time for Kosovo and trained as a combat air controller. You also deployed to Afghanistan as a special tactics officer, and then transferred to the Office of Special Investigations, where you cleared a couple of significant cases.’
‘Beginner’s luck,’ I said.
‘Then come those holes.’ Cheung flipped a few more pages. ‘You’ve earned quite a few commendations. In fact, there is plenty of good here . . . perhaps enough to outweigh the bad.’ Macri made a note on a legal pad. ‘You’ve got your jump wings, you’re current on High Altitude Low Opening insertion,’ Cheung continued. ‘I see you’ve done a lot of work with Special Operations Command. You deploy to Iraq?’
‘Not officially,’ I said.
‘There’s the Air Force Cross submission pending . . . Why would you volunteer for personal security ops in Afghanistan? You have some kind of death wish?’
‘I lost my partner. We were close. I needed a distraction.’
‘Can you tell us the circumstances?’
‘Her name was Anna Masters. She died of a gunshot wound to the chest. I was with her at the time.’
They waited for more, but I was reluctant to give it. I freshened my drink.
‘Okay, so your third and most recent deployment to the ’Stan. The mission wasn’t classified. Why don’t you take us through that?’
Cheung sat back and waited for me to begin. I could see what the weeks ahead would be like – every detail that wasn’t classified would be picked over by Charlie Chan and Tony Soprano here, then strategized into a fairytale of life achievement that even I wouldn’t recognize as my own.
‘If I have to,’ I sai
d.
‘You do,’ said Macri.
Kabul
Afghan Interior Minister Abdul al-Eqbal shared the delusion of all politicians who had well and truly reached their use-by date: that his position and power were preordained and that his people would love him no matter what shit he pulled, who he screwed over, or how he behaved.
Al-Eqbal was fat in a country of skin and bone. He was unpopular because he took bribes. And while this was a society where everyone took bribes, Abdul al-Eqbal was in a class of his own – he took baksheesh from one side and put his hand out to the other, then simply made himself scarce and let the parties slug it out or had the next layer of bureaucracy turn up with its hand out for a cut. Intelligence hadn’t confirmed it, but the word on the street was that al-Eqbal had stiffed the wrong crowd once too often and was now a high-priority target for the Taliban.
After the mess in Oak Ridge, I wanted the ugliest, most dangerous assignment the Air Force had to offer. I felt I deserved it. That turned out to be personal security operations in Afghanistan. The day I arrived in-country, I learned that volunteers were being sought to make up al-Eqbal’s detail. This was the highest risk assignment in the highest risk command. It sounded like the reason I was here, so I took the step forward. And that’s how I found myself in charge of a joint PSO unit racing in a three-vehicle convoy down a minor through-road on the outskirts of Kabul. At the time, we were on al-Eqbal’s turf. His people lived here; the ones who’d voted for him, supposedly. I could hear the guy wheezing and humming a local ditty as he leaned forward in his seat and watched the dung-colored homes flash by.
‘How’s it going back there? Anyone cold?’ asked Staff Sergeant Chip Meyers, occupying the front passenger seat and throwing the question over his shoulder.
Meyers was a fellow special agent in the Air Force Office of Special Investigations, the OSI. He’d been a male model before joining up, his baby blues and six-pack gut selling underwear for Calvin Klein. I was told that he liked to date married women because dodging their husbands added to the excitement. Maybe one day he’d make a good relationship counselor. Apparently, death threats had chased him into the recruitment office.
Ghost Watch Page 2
