by Jeff Buick
"Yes, Mr. Fleming?"
"Cherise, I'd like you to cancel the interview with the final applicant. The position has been filled."
"Yes, sir."
Fleming smiled. "Welcome to the inner circle, Carson."
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Chapter
3
Boston, Massachusetts
Russell Matthews closed the lid on his camera case. Then he opened it and checked his lenses, batteries and memory cards. For the sixth time. It was a habit - and a good one. Forgetting one piece of specialized equipment when heading to a country like Afghanistan could be disastrous.
"Are you ready?" a woman's voice asked.
Russell slung the bag over his shoulder and grabbed his backpack. "Ready as I'll ever be." He faced the woman in the doorway.
"You're crazy. You can still back out." She was leaning against the doorjamb, dressed in tight jeans and a white T-shirt. Long curly hair fell past her shoulders and tiny worry lines creased her skin near her eyes. They hadn't been there when she married Russell in Punta Cana three years ago. Living with a photojournalist who covered the world's hot spots wasn't easy.
Russell set the pack on the floor and pulled the woman close to him. At five-eight she was still six inches shorter than her husband. He pushed his blond hair back from his face and gave her his patented one-sided grin. Disarming to most women, but it didn't work on her anymore.
"It's only a month, Tina. And I'm embedded."
"I don't like it. Not with you traveling in the trucks with the soldiers. Most of the injuries in Afghanistan are caused by IEDs."
"I won't be in a truck. I'll be in an armored vehicle called a Stryker," Russell said. His face darkened slightly. "You're right about the Improvised Explosive Devices. I think they're a coward's way to fight a war."
"Well, cowardly or not, they work. Look at the body count." Tina Matthews pulled back from her husband and held him at arm's length. "It may be a good assignment, Russell, but I have a bad feeling about it."
"I'll be spending most of my time behind the wire - some in the villages. Anita wants the story on what it's like to be a soldier in Kandahar, but it's more than that. She's pushing for stories on the Afghan people and how all this is affecting them."
"Anita Greenwall is behind a desk at the television station. She's not the one with her life on the line."
"Anita's cool. You know that. She's the reason the network is footing the bill for this. And she talked them into having me cover more than just the troops. She pushed for the humanitarian angle."
"Sorry," Tina said. "Just venting." She sunk in against his chest. "I want you intact. Not with your legs blown off. Or dead."
"Man, you really know how to sweet talk a guy."
She was trembling now. Enough for him to feel her chest pulsing against his. She clutched him tighter. "I love you, Russell. I don't want a phone call in the middle of the night."
They stood entwined for a minute, then Russell said, "I'll miss my flight."
The mid-morning drive from the eastern edge of Cambridge to Logan International was easy - by Boston standards. Less than forty minutes from door to door. They alternated between banal conversation and prolonged stretches of silence. Two minds processing the same information. Both of them touching on the reality of what was happening and neither of them wanting to talk about it.
"How long until you're embedded?" Tina asked as they approached the Sumner Tunnel. She slowed for the toll and threw a handful of change into the basket.
"About five days," Russell answered. "Today's the 28th, so I should be in the field by August 1st or 2nd."
"And you're flying back on August 30th."
He tapped his camera bag, which doubled as his carry-on. "E-ticket is in here. Confirmed. I'm back about six at night."
"Good," Tina said, navigating the Saab through the thickening traffic. She slipped into an opening near the departures door and set the transmission in park. "Promise me something."
"Sure," he said.
"Come back alive."
Tina was crying. She dropped him at the airport every time he left on assignment. It was their routine. She was emotional, but never like this. Never tears. It shocked him into a sudden realization of the danger he would soon be plunged into. He was thirty-six years old. No longer an invulnerable twenty-something who couldn't see the frailty of life. Maybe it was time to rethink his career path. Maybe. He wasn't sure. One thing was certain. If he left the war and disaster zones to the younger pups, he'd miss the adrenaline rush.
"I'm coming home," he said. "My life is with you, and I'm not giving that up."
"To them - you're faceless. Just another white guy in their country messing up their lives. They could care less about the life you left behind. Or about me. I don't exist. Keep that in mind."
He kissed her and joined the throng of people in the Lufthansa line for the flight to Frankfurt. Security was a nightmare, with the line snaking all the way from the scanners to the main terminal. He made the gate eight minutes before his scheduled departure. The attendants had closed the flight, but reopened the computer file and ran his boarding pass through the machine. More and more people late for their departure times. In one way, the terrorists were winning by impacting millions of travelers every day.
Russell settled into the flight and played the mental tape of his meeting with Anita Greenwall. She had pushed for the network to take him on as a contract journalist to ferret out why the American involvement wasn't working. Why was Afghanistan a rat's nest of death and disappointment? Somehow, she figured, the answer lay with the civilians. He liked the angle. It was new and fresh. America was getting tired of seeing coffins draped in the stars and stripes on their local television stations. What they didn't see, were the coffins being unloaded off transport planes arriving at Dover AFB in Delaware. They didn't see the bodies being taken into the mortuary units for autopsy. There were a lot of things the American public didn't see. They needed a different perspective and it was up to him to deliver.
Usually he didn't mind the danger, but Tina was right, this time felt different. No reason - it was the same as Iraq or Somalia or Haiti after the earthquake. Places he had been and had survived. Mogadishu was the worst. A failed government, militia serving all-powerful warlords, and street thugs with loaded guns. Nothing nice about the Somali capital. Blackhawk Down, one of his favorite movies of all time, had portrayed it for what it was. A total clusterfuck.
He had faced irate men armed with guns and had seen people die violently. His memories harbored injustice beyond what any normal person could imagine. The worst of what he filmed was deemed too offensive and never aired on the major networks. This was the footage that got buried in the vastness of the Internet, where the government had trouble sterilizing things. He wondered if the film from this trip was destined for the digital bone yard, or if it would be edited for the six o'clock news. He had mixed feelings about that. Part of him wanted it on the major network - part of him wanted the story that could never be told. It was the stories that never made the news that held the most impact.
Anita was the reason he was on the plane. She was a veteran newswoman who knew the industry and pushed for the truth. He respected her and knew she would do everything she could to get the best stories on the air. But even she had her limitations. The American people could take only so much truth. At least that was the network's logic.
A flight attendant passed by and offered him snacks and a drink. He thanked her and ripped open the small bag of pretzels. Such a simple thing, having a bite to eat on an airplane. Yet in five days he would enter a world where opening pretzels was a treat and flying to another continent was unthinkable. Where war had raged continuously for twenty-fi
ve years and survival was the order of the day.
He'd seen it before. The vile acts of murder and rape, always perpetrated on the weak and vulnerable. He hated it. The scenes haunted him while he slept and even when he was awake. The eyes - the stares of those about to die - burned into his soul. There was no escaping the horror. And now he was heading directly into the storm.
He asked himself the same questions he did every time he left the comfort and safety of Boston and climbed aboard a plane destined for a war zone. Why? Why did he do it? Why risk his life to give the world such sad images? Why did he care? The answer was always the same. The oppressed deserved a voice and if he didn't do it, who would?
He finished the pretzels, pulled the window shade down and settled in to sleep.
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Chapter
4
Soho, New York City
"When do you start?" Nicki asked.
"July 29th," Carson said. He stirred a touch of cilantro into the spaghetti sauce and tasted it. Perfect. He spread it on the steaming noodles and sat opposite Nicki at the rickety table.
"That's tomorrow." She broke a piece of bread and dipped it in the sauce, then bit into it and rolled her eyes back, a smile on her face. She touched her napkin against thin lips. Her hand unconsciously traced the bones above her gaunt cheeks. "This is good. Really good."
He smiled. "I'm not trying to take over the kitchen. It's still your domain."
She toyed with the strands of pasta for a minute, then said, "It's getting harder, Carson. I don't know how much longer I can cook."
He reached across the table and touched her hand. She had never asked to be born with cystic fibrosis. The disease was genetic. It just happened. "We can deal with it."
She grasped his hand and squeezed. "Why are you marrying me?" she asked. "You know this isn't forever."
"I'll take whatever time I can have with you." He looked around the cramped room, at the peeling cabinets and scratched laminate. The wallpaper had teapots on a floral background and the curtains were striped polyester. Two years was too long. Twenty-four months of living in a rental that needed work while they saved every extra dollar toward a place of their own. He was done with the apartment. Nicki deserved more than this for the waning years of her short life. "Let's hand in our notice and move."
"When?"
"Now," he said. "We have the down payment for a small place in Midtown. The new position is almost twice my salary and the bonuses will push it to four times. I'll check around the office and see if anyone knows a good Realtor."
Nicki set her fork on the side of the plate. Her breathing was shallow and she coughed, bringing up liquid into her napkin.
Carson stood and came around to her side of the table. He knelt on the chipped lino and pulled her against him. She shuddered and sucked air into her damaged lungs, tears running freely. This was the hardest part of their relationship. Making Nicki understand that he didn't want to be with anyone else. That there was no pity in the gamut of emotions he felt for her. Love, caring, adoration - but not pity. Not an ounce.
He wanted to tell her that he had lied to William Fleming about why he was marrying her. It had nothing to do with commitment. It had everything to do with love. But that was one secret he would take with him to the grave. He would never repeat those words again. Ever. He'd assessed the moment and guessed at what the man wanted to hear. The reward was a job almost every Massachusetts Institute of Technology MBA would kill to have. High Frequency Trades accounted for over seventy percent of the daily stock trades in the US. And he was running the division of a major player. It was an opportunity to influence business on a global scale. The chance of a lifetime. Telling Fleming he was marrying Nicki because he had committed to her was a white lie with no downside.
If that was the truth, he wondered why did he feel so dirty.
Carson lifted her chin and wiped a tear from her cheek. "You and I," he said quietly, "are going to find a nice, cozy place close to the park. We'll get a dog and call it some stupid name that means something to us and no one else. And we'll walk the little guy every day."
"Every day," she repeated. The tears had stopped. "Dogs need walking every day."
"Except when it's brutally cold."
"Okay."
"And raining or sleeting or snowing. Or too hot. We can't walk him if it's too hot."
She smacked him on the arm. "Let's get a wiener dog. A little brown one. They're cute."
He shook his head. "No way. They take too long to let in when it's cold outside."
"Funny," she said. She kissed him and pushed him away. "Go back to your side of the table and eat your dinner. You're only over here because you're after my spaghetti sauce."
Nicki finished her dinner and headed for the living room. She plopped into her favorite spot on the couch and flicked on the television. A news program was on but it didn't register. She was thinking about Carson - and her disease.
The CF was progressing. Attacking whatever healthy cells were left in her lungs. Making it almost impossible to get enough air. It was like breathing through a tiny tube - constantly feeling like she was asphyxiating. Which she was. Not quite enough to kill her. Not yet. But that was coming, and faster than she had hoped. She was a realist and had long accepted that she wouldn't live a long life. No children, few plans for the future, and until a couple of years ago, no partner. No one to share the days and nights with. Until Carson.
She glanced into the kitchen. He was at the sink doing the dishes. She wanted to help, to wash or dry, but it wasn't possible. The effort was too much. The last time she had tried to stand for long enough to clean the kitchen she had collapsed. Broke her finger when she threw her hand out to cushion the fall. That was the last time he had allowed her to stand at the sink for any length of time. Most days he came home from work, cooked dinner, served it, ate and cleaned the mess. Then he sat on the couch with her and held her hand as they watched a movie or one of their favorite programs. She teared up watching him. He was so kind, so thoughtful, so loving. And he was hers.
He wanted to marry her. A woman with end-stage cystic fibrosis. On the list for a lung transplant. Waiting. Enduring each day, hoping for the call that might extend her life. She had no idea why he loved her. He did though, and that was good enough.
"What's on?" Carson asked, joining her.
"Good movie on HBO."
"Romantic comedy?"
"Boy movie." She snuggled in against him. "You deserve it. Big promotion at work, excellent spaghetti sauce, and you cleaned the kitchen. I think you should have a movie with guns and stuff."
"You're the best," Carson grinned.
* * *
Midtown Manhattan, New York City
Fleming dialed Jorge Amistav's cell phone and waited. He hated waiting. Line-ups. Traffic lights. Ringing telephones. Waiting on things or people cost him money. He had calculated the rate his net worth was increasing, then broke it down to the second. If he added an additional five-hundred million a year to his bottom line, and there were 31,536,000 seconds in each twelve month period, then he was earning $15.85 every second of every day. He counted silently as he waited. Amistav answered after five rings - twenty-seven seconds. Waiting for the arms dealer to answer the phone had cost him $427.95 in lost time.
"I have a couple of questions about the deal," Fleming said.
"Go ahead."
"Where will the arms be deployed?"
"The 5th Stryker Brigade, 2nd Infantry Division is entrenched in Spin Buldak. It's in Afghanistan, about 60 miles from Kandahar. The delivery works well for them."
"Why?"
"The Stryker is an eight-wheel armored combat vehicle that carries six to eight Jave
lin shoulder-fired anti-tank rockets. The soldiers accompanying the Strykers can blow up buildings where snipers or Taliban troops are hiding. Problem is, the Javelins cost eighty grand each, so the military brass only put two, maybe three, on each vehicle. The infantry hate that. So we come in with two hundred and fifty of these things and they love us. That puts a cool twenty million in your pocket."
"You can reroute the Javelins to Spin Buldak?"
"Easily. We make sure it's a normal shipment, with a couple of 81mm Mortars, some M134D mini guns and the M-4s."
"M-4s?"
"The M-4 is an M-16 with a shorter barrel and a collapsible stock."
"Okay. So is that the entire shipment?"
"That's it. We'll throw in a few cases of ammo so the thing looks legit."
"What's the cost on the mini guns and the large bore mortars?"
"The mortars are one-point-five each and the mini guns run about a quarter million."
"Two hundred and fifty thousand for a mini gun?"
"That's not a very accurate name. They fire three thousand 7.62mm rounds a minute. Nasty machines."
"What about the M-4s? They're cumbersome. Can we eliminate them?"
"The small arms are part of the deal. It's all or nothing. My guy won't ship the big-ticket items without including the rifles. He's adamant on that."
Fleming toyed with the idea of simply hanging up and getting on with the next deal. There was risk associated with Amistav's proposal. What bothered him most was the bulk of the shipment. The M4s didn't add much profit to the bottom line. Still, thirty-five million and no tax. It would buy him a house and yacht in St. Bart's. He didn't have a place in the Caribbean. Hadn't since he'd sold his Cayman Island estate in 2006. He liked the Caribbean. A new place would be nice.
"If I can invoice the Pentagon through a shell corporation I have in the Caribbean, you have a deal," he said.