The Saint Of Baghdad

by Michael Woodman

  “What the hell happened in there?”

  “Why were you following me?”

  More silence. Someone had to stop asking and start answering, and in the end it was the woman.

  “We weren’t following you.”

  “So you were watching Tratfors?” CJ nodded at the man pacing around the car. “Ex-cop, right? So what does that make you, a private eye?”

  “My name is Leila Rose. I’m a journalist. So now we’ve done the introductions. Why are you in America?”

  “I came to visit with the family of an old war buddy.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Okay. I’ll buy it. Alex Solo. Now give me the rest. Why else?” She reached into her bag. “I need to record this.”

  “Why do I get the feeling I’m on 60 Minutes?” CJ stood up but left one hand on the table.

  She dropped the phone back in her bag. “Off the record.”

  CJ slid back into the booth.

  “How come you know so much about me?”

  “I covered the Middle East for ten years.”

  “Iranian?”

  “I was born in Texas.”

  “But you speak Farsi?”

  She nodded.

  “And Arabic?”

  She nodded again.

  “Why were you watching Tratfors?”

  “West Coast Drum is their Gitmo. People arrive in cars and leave in barrels.”

  “You know that for sure?”

  “You think I’d be talking to you if I had it on tape?”

  “So your buddy here was watching the place?”

  “From the empty office across the street. And you magically appeared from inside—a person leaving a place that he never was seen to arrive at. A person who looked like he’d been auditioning for a zombie movie.”

  CJ pulled a paper napkin out of a dispenser and wiped blood off his face.

  “That better?”

  “Not much.”

  He gave up and drank more coffee instead. That was a big help. It was clearing his head, reviving him.

  “You must be an encyclopedia of the Shia militia,” he said.

  She stopped midsip, the coffee cup pasted to her lips, her eyes widening. She set the cup down, an easy smile curling her mouth. “I know why you’re here. May 17, 2007. A hundred militia show up like they’ve been waiting all week for you. So you have a couple of questions about that for the guys who sent you there. Only it looks like they wrote their answers on your face. Am I getting close?”

  CJ said nothing. He just tapped on the window.

  “Why all the drama? That guy’s not a journalist.”

  “Does the name Phil Jenkins mean anything on your side of the pond?”

  “Famous news anchor.”

  “That’s Phil. Inside stories like cruise missiles.”

  “I thought he died.”

  “He did. Suspiciously. He was my colleague and we were working the same story.”

  “Tratfors?”

  “And associates.”

  CJ looked out the window at her bald bodyguard. He was leaning back against the Prius, talking on the phone.

  “Is he good?”

  “He’s expensive. Why? You looking for a job?”

  As CJ leaned back to think about that one, he noticed a spot of blood he’d dripped on the table. He rubbed it off with another napkin.

  “I really need to take care of this.” He brought both hands up to frame his face.

  “How about we do a deal, you and me?” she said. “We’re both looking for answers. How about it? Una mano lava la otra.” She mimed it for him, one hand washing the other.

  “Why not? Have you got some encrypted messaging app?”

  She took his bloodied napkin and scribbled on it, then passed it back to him along with the pen. She’d written the name of two messaging systems, one keyed to her phone number and endorsed by a celebrity whistleblower, the other based on a username. CJ was familiar with both. He scribbled his username, ripped the napkin in two and pushed it back across the table.

  He stood up to go.

  “Wait.” She slid out of the booth and stood so close to him that their bodies were almost touching. “You can clean up at my place if you want. It’s just a few blocks away. I’m a certified hypochondriac. I’ve got a medicine cabinet that looks like an ER storeroom.”

  CJ weighed the options, looking out the window at the detective. The big man had finished his call and was reading something on his phone, holding it with both hands down below his belly like he had a vision problem.

  “He’s done for the day. And I’m thinking, if we can move this forward right now, why not do it?”

  “You trust fast.”

  “I play hunches. Follow my gut. Besides”—she shifted her body closer, blocking anyone’s view as her hand emerged from her bag with a hammerless .38 Special, its snub nose inches from his groin; she looked up at him and waited until he caught her eyes—“I can take care of myself.”

  CJ’s phone intruded. Enya’s ringtone popping the tension like a bodkin in a bag of balloons.

  She slipped her gun back in the side-pocket holster of her bag as CJ pulled out his phone, but the ringing stopped before he could answer.

  Leila Rose was still waiting.

  “I play hunches too,” he said. “And my gut tells me we have things to do together. But not today.” He tapped his phone. “I’ve got things to take care of.”

  She waited some more, looking him over like no was an answer that she just didn’t process.

  “Twenty-four hours,” she said finally. “Or I’ll make you the star of my show whether you like it or not. And judging by your face, a lot of your old colleagues would not look favorably on that.”

  She watched him spinning it all out in his head for a beat, then headed for the door.

  Seventeen

  Enya rang again, and CJ answered it as he watched Leila exchange words with her ex-cop partner before driving off. Enya updated him with the latest travel news, lacing it with sidebar editorials. The air traffic controllers were not on strike. It was a slowdown designed to embarrass the government by stacking planes in perpetual circles above the city and simmering thousands of angry passengers in bottlenecked departure lounges. CJ listened in silence as he studied the menus written above the service counter. So many combinations. He was torn between the ready meals and à la carte, and he got so distracted by it he almost missed her bottom line.

  I’m about to board now.

  He noted it all down in his head. Flight times and numbers. Then they traded lovers’ words and rang off.

  Plenty of protein was the order of the day—food to rebuild damaged tissue. So he went to the service counter, and five minutes later, he was tucking into a Four-by-Four, a selection lavishly described as four burgers in one bun, decorated with squirts of mustard and succulent lettuce and tomatoes. No fries. But the extra pickles and onions made up his all-important five portions of veggies a day. CJ washed it all down with another jumbo coffee.

  Suitably nourished, he left the restaurant, crossed Venice Boulevard and found a drugstore and a pharmacy, where he stocked up on antiseptics, salves and first-aid dressings. He headed back to Santa Monica after that, parking the Cadillac opposite his apartment. That was risky. But he had no intention of leaving it there for long. He was planning to clean up his wounds, then dump the car downtown on the sort of street where no one in their right mind would leave a Cadillac. From there, he could get a cab to the country club neighborhood, pick up the VW and drive it to the airport to pick up Enya.

  He stood under a hot shower for twenty minutes, soaking and cleaning his wounds. He could feel the water as it bounced off his skin, but the sensation, like the pain of his wounds, was remote. Bloodying the towel as he dried off, he inspected each trauma site, giving each its due, a summary dismissal, a smear of antiseptic or a surgical dressing. When he was done with that, he put on a fresh set of clothes and was watc
hing the news when the doorbell rang.

  Only it wasn’t like that.

  The doorbell was ringing. That was for sure. The front door downstairs. But not then. Not right after he’d cleaned up. Way later. It was dark already.

  Not even that.

  It was getting light already. He’d fallen asleep watching TV and now it was the next day. He staggered up off the couch, disoriented. He’d pushed himself too hard. His adrenaline batteries must have run flat. The fight with Grambo, the beating, his escape and the confrontation with Leila. The cost of it all was exhaustion. And then came the coup de grâce. That fat-laden Four-by-Four. He felt more like he’d been hit by one rather than eaten its namesake sandwich.

  Knock, knock.

  Now his visitors were banging on the apartment door, having bypassed the front door security. Not a good sign. But at least they were knocking on the door. Not knocking it down.

  He struggled to catch up, his head murky, crawling out of dreams. All the usual suspects had shown up there. Enya and Alex, of course. And Leila too. He scrambled around and found the napkin she’d scribbled on. She was real. Not just a dream. That was her writing. And his blood. He slipped one of his guns under a newspaper lying on the table by a bowl of fruit and held the other one at the ready as he checked the peephole.

  Ashford and Colby.

  Not unexpected. Enya had sent them a virtual wish-you-were-here postcard when she’d dialed the apartment’s landline. He opened the door and stepped back, giving them plenty of room to see the gun hanging at his side.

  “May we come in?” Ashford, the gentleman. So British. Colby said nothing, but her body language was a world away from that, eyes unblinking and focused on the gun.

  “Please.” CJ waved them in, and they walked into the living room, where Colby spun a pirouette.

  “You’re not going to need that.” She was holding a small frame 9mm and pointing it at CJ. Nice move. Ashford had shifted his body as they entered the room long enough to block CJ’s view of her.

  “Put it away,” Ashford said. “He knows we’re just here for a chat. Don’t you, CJ?”

  “Sure. I wasn’t expecting visitors, so I got nervous. America’s a dangerous place. I thought it was probably a home invasion.” He hefted the gun. “I found this in a drawer.” He went to the kitchen counter and stuck the gun in the shoulder holster and left it there next to the coffeemaker. He sat at the table and waved them towards the couch. Ashford sat down, but Colby was still standing there holding her gun.

  “Alicia, please.” Ashford patted the sofa at his side. It took her a while. She had a point to make first. But then she slipped her gun back under her arm and joined him.

  “You should have called,” CJ said. “I could have organized some catering like the last time, or—”

  “Cut the bull,” Colby said. “There’s an arrest warrant out for you.”

  “So where are the cops?”

  “She’s talking about the UK.”

  CJ thought about that. He didn’t believe it. But who knew?

  “Extradition takes forever,” he said. “The British Embassy has to serve papers on the secretary of state, then—”

  “You want to see how fast that can happen?” Colby was bunching up on the edge of the couch.

  Ashford touched her arm. “Take it easy, Alicia. CJ’s a smart chap. I can see he’s been looking into his options. I’m sure he’ll do what’s in his best interests.”

  “I didn’t kill Sami.”

  “Like hell.” Colby lurched forward, jerking to a stop when Ashford grabbed her shoulder. “You tortured him. You held his face on a hot plate and sizzled it like a steak. You found the video on his computer. Then you lost it. A hundred and eighty stab wounds. That’s not personal. That’s psychotic. The sort of thing an ex-secret agent on Mars might pull.”

  CJ winced. Another ouch moment.

  Total Recall was a movie from his favorites catalog in Iraq. Someone in the hospice had been mouthing off.

  “She’s right, CJ. The police got your medical records. It doesn’t look good. There’s nothing about your recovery that suggests psychological stability.”

  “I’m the perfect fit. Of course I am. It was a murder made to measure.”

  Ashford pulled himself forward.

  “Nobody wants to see you in court.”

  “She does.”

  “Alicia was a military police officer. She has certain trained reflexes. But like all of us, she can see the big picture. You served with distinction in our armed forces. And as for what happened that day in Iraq, maybe you’re right. Maybe there was a leak somewhere, and maybe you didn’t kill Sami. But there’s enough evidence for a warrant and maybe even a charge. Of course, you could plead out of it. Diminished responsibility. Mental disorder. I’m not a lawyer. But I’m sure they can spin your medical reports into one hell of a defense. You know the rest. You’ll be sectioned. Detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure. They’ll throw away the key. But who wins in that scenario? The tabloids will have a field day. Brit Wolverine. That’s what they were calling you when you came out of that coma. You won’t end up in the dock. The doctors will. The system will be on trial. They’ll drag out the Iraq War again. It’ll be a circus.”

  “What he’s trying to tell you, Brink—in his roundabout way—is back off. This vendetta has gone far enough.”

  “Nicely put, Alicia. So give him our recommendation.”

  “Get lost. Just head on south back over the border.”

  “Why do you care about all this? About me. About Sami. About Enya O’Brien’s computers.”

  They shared a quizzical look.

  Colby sat back like she was giving up—on talking, at least—her arms crossed under her breasts, her right hand under her jacket.

  Ashford leaned forward as if to share a confidence.

  “You want justice, right? At least that’s what you think. But to me, it looks like something else. Alex Solo. Declan O’Brien. You had their backs and now they’re dead. You failed. It’s time to understand these things. Vigilantes never die well. Do yourself a favor. Stop remembering and start forgetting.”

  CJ ran his sermon back and forth in his head. There was some truth in it, but not enough to camouflage the pile of lies underneath it.

  “We could even help you financially,” Ashford said. “You’re an orphan. That makes it easy. We all love a Dickens story, and it turns out you have great expectations thanks to a distant cousin who made a name for himself in the mining business in Australia. Poor chap just passed away. No kids. So you’ve got a tidy sum on the way.”

  “That’s very generous,” CJ said. “Is that memory card really worth that much?” Ashford glanced over at Colby, but she kept her eyes on CJ and her hand tucked into her jacket. “Why else would a cash-strapped British government write me a check and deal me a get-out-of-jail-free card?”

  “You know what we’re up against,” Ashford said. “You’ve experienced it firsthand. Inhuman brutality. We don’t fight in the gutter. That’s their turf. We have a rulebook. But it has too many pages. And sometimes, we have to skip a few. Whatever happened—it was not what was meant to be. You still have options. I’m here to help you make the right choice.”

  CJ stared back at him, all out of conversation. “You want a coffee?” he said standing up and making a move towards the coffeemaker and the gun sitting next to it.

  “Sit down.” Colby’s gun was out and she was on her feet. CJ froze—hands up—a nice show of compliance. She collected the holstered pistol from the kitchen counter as he eased himself back in his chair, noting the time on his wrist. It was half past Enya already. She’d arrived hours ago.

  So why hadn’t she called?

  He had to get rid of Ashford and Colby. They weren’t here to help him. They were working damage control, part of a coverup. Why else would they want him out of the way? As for sending him back over the border, that set off sirens in his head. He could just see the headlines. Britain’s Bionic
Man Gunned Down in Mexican Drugs Deal. How easy would that be to arrange?

  Colby lifted his pistol up to her face and sniffed the barrel poking out of the holster.

  She glanced at Ashford. “He’s fired it.”

  “Okay, I agree,” CJ said. “I’ll head south.”

  His quick gear shift had them wobbling. But Colby’s cop reflexes were still driving the conversation.

  “Who did you shoot with it?” She raised her gun.

  That was an interesting question. It told CJ that they didn’t yet know about the bodies at West Coast Drum.

  “Sean Kowalski. He was beating the crap out of me. He pulled a gun. We struggled and it went off. The bullet clipped his leg. He’s in hospital. You can check it out if you don’t already know it.”

  “Why would we know it?” Ashford said.

  “Because they work for you. Or else you work for them. I haven’t got that part figured.”

  “We haven’t used Tratfors for years. Too much bad press. And looking at your face, I’m sure you can guess why. I’m assuming you didn’t pick up that minced beef complexion at the local mall.”

  “I met with them, and it didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. So California is not going to be the best place in the world for me to hang out. That’s why I’ll take your offer.”

  Colby passed the holstered gun to Ashford, and as her eyes slid away from CJ, he spun out of his chair, grabbed the other Sig from under the newspaper and closed the gap on Colby. She jerked up her pistol, but he snatched it out of her hand. She yelped and held her hand up to her face, her index finger hanging weirdly to one side.

  “Toss it.” CJ nodded at Ashford, and he threw the holstered Sig at his feet. “Now stand up and take your jacket off.” He made Ashford spin on the spot. No guns. “Now fix her finger.”

  Ashford reached out tentatively towards his colleague’s dislocated finger, but she was having none of it. She swerved away from him, nursing it with her good hand. So CJ did it instead. He stuck her gun under his arm, grabbed her hand and snapped the finger back in one fluid move. She grunted and stared down at it. Ashford glanced at the holstered gun on the floor, but made no move to go for it.