Never Bloodless

by Steve Richer

  The place wasn’t exactly the Library of Congress but it was utilitarian enough to be a library nonetheless. It reminded Preston of a high school library with its threadbare carpet, tin shelves with chipping gray paint, and below par lighting. Preston and Hewitt each carried a book of assembled old newspapers. They sat at a long wooden table.

  “What are we looking for exactly?” Preston asked just above a whisper even though the room was basically deserted.

  “Troublemakers, lad. We are looking for someone who was arrested a number of times for his views against the government. They’re bound to have written propaganda against such an unsavory character.”

  And with that, they started flipping pages and taking notes. The newspaper was in English and that was their sole blessing. They had to be meticulous about this, reading every headline on every page.

  Preston had suggested skipping the sports section but Hewitt nixed the idea, saying that learning about the local soccer culture could prove important. What if a football star had made enemies as he tried to negotiate a contract with a European team? Intelligence was in the details.

  Once they’d gone through their books, they retrieved new ones, going back a few more months. A cheap Casio clock on the wall marked their progress. They had been at it for three hours when Preston yawned for the first time.

  Then, Hewitt inspected their combined notes and smirked.

  “I think we found our gentleman,” he declared.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Finding the address was easier than anticipated. While it hadn’t been in the skinny Katoga phonebook, a 20-euro bill had convinced an aging woman at the post office to give them the address of the man they wanted to see. She even threw in personalized directions for free.

  The journey however was a little more complicated. The place was 30 miles outside the city and the road conditions left much to be desired. Having bought a four-wheel drive SUV was the smartest move they’d ever made.

  Preston quipped that there must have been a pothole-avoiding competition in this country. It took an hour to find the farmhouse of Gabriel Jammeh.

  The main house was a structure made of wood and the roof was covered with straw. It was an improvement over what Preston would have considered a traditional African hut. It sat in a clearing and next to the house, twice as large, was a pigpen where a dozen large hogs were grunting.

  Preston and Hewitt approached the pen and looked on with amusement as Jammeh, a gaunt man in his late 30s, attempted to catch one of the pigs.

  “Mr. Jammeh?” Preston called.

  The guy glanced up suspiciously and after a beat nodded.

  “What do you want?” he asked in a deep, soothing voice.

  “To talk.”

  The Westerners walked all the way to the fence and the African got closer as well, trying to remove mud from his body in the process.

  “About what?”

  “The weather, men’s fashion, your political views. The usual stuff.”

  Jammeh’s body tensed up, his face becoming a hard mask of belligerence.

  “You have no right to come here and accuse me! I haven’t done anything in six months.”

  “That’s a shame,” Hewitt whined. “We were hoping to meet a rebel today.”

  Preston joined his hands together. “Our research tells us you’ve been to prison on four occasions for having written against President Nyassi.”

  “They tell us we have free speech but only when you do not say anything against the government. I was a journalist. How can I work when muzzled?”

  “So you would support a new government?”

  Jammeh quickly looked around and got closer still. He had years of experience watching over his shoulder, being careful what he said in public.

  “Are you saying the government is about to be overthrown?”

  “I’m not saying anything. But we’d like to hire you to be our guide in Katoga.”

  “I’ve spent four years in jail in the last twelve years. I don’t want to go back.”

  “Will $50,000 convince you to take the position with us?” Hewitt asked.

  The African man smiled cautiously. Could it be possible? Could these foreigners be the answer to all his prayers? He would be paid and assist in what seemed like a change of regime, replacing the very leadership which had made his life a living hell for decades?

  Or could it be a ruse by President Nyassi to entrap him, making sure to silence him for good?

  Still, with $50,000 he could always escape the country if things got out of hand.

  Chapter 28

  Channel surfing late the night before, Jasmine had stumbled upon a movie called 2 Days in the Valley and she couldn’t help thinking that her current situation might have served as inspiration for this film.

  Except that the movie dated from the 90s, there were no hitmen after her, and, oh, she didn’t live in the valley. Other than that, yeah, it was the same.

  What she needed the most to continue her investigation were some files from a certain government which was famous for taking its sweet time. With the prospect of having to wait two days, she had returned to Long Beach where she had used the free time to get started on her report. The first six drafts anyway.

  She was in her cubicle now, wearing a dark blue pantsuit over a cream blouse. Her ankles were crossed in a ladylike fashion as she intently studied the files which had finally been delivered.

  Gervasi appeared over the cubicle wall and in his hands was a $4 grande latte.

  “What’s up?” he asked, having been summoned by her.

  He rounded the wall and set his coffee down on her desk. The look on her face was pure annoyance.

  “Please put a coaster underneath,” she chided.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He fished a paper tissue from his pocket and put it under the coffee cup. Jasmine felt a little guilty about pointing it out. She knew she was a little too anal sometimes but she couldn’t help herself.

  “It’s just that otherwise it’ll make rings and they’re hard to clean up.”

  “It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he assured her. “What are you looking into?”

  “IRS files.”

  “You know, the April deadline lapsed a few weeks ago.”

  “I’ve been thinking about McSweeney. That guy in Washington said he shot those soldiers three years ago and that’s what got him to leave the Army.”

  “I’m with you so far.”

  “Okay, but McSweeney’s boss said he was troubled over something that happened a year ago in Iraq. He wasn’t in the military anymore.”

  Gervasi displayed his pearly whites. He said, impressed with her reasoning, “So you checked the IRS files.”

  “Since leaving the Army, he’s made almost $400,000.”

  “I thought that was one of the higher-end trailer parks.”

  “I was able to track down a divorce which took away half of that and then medical bills for his father cleaned out the rest. But that’s not the point. The point is he went back to Iraq as a private military contractor, that’s how he made those 400,000.”

  She showed him the file.

  “MHU Security,” he read. “Looks like we’re going to Virginia.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Paul Gervasi had always had a problem with the state of Virginia. It wasn’t the location or the weather, the beautiful vistas and luscious forests, but rather the state’s name.

  The original 13 colonies had been named as a way to suck up to the people in charge back in England. Georgia was named in honor of King George, the Carolinas named after Charles I. There was Maryland for Henrietta Maria, Chuck’s wife, and Delaware which took its name from nobleman Thomas West, 3rd Baron De La Warr.

  Gervasi thought that he’d have trouble seeing it as a mark of respect to have a state called Carolina in his honor. Way too feminine for his taste. But the worst had to be Virginia. Sir Walter Raleigh had named the place after Elizabeth I, the Virgin Queen.

  Some
how, Gervasi mused, being celebrated as a virgin seemed more like a putdown than anything else. Following this logic, New York should have been called Slutia. He wondered what Massachusetts meant. Land of the Syphilitic Pilgrim?

  He was with Jasmine in Alexandria, on the outskirts of Washington. It was a city where everybody was on the federal government’s payroll. Those who weren’t, worked for subcontractors who did get federal money.

  The median family income was in the six figures. They were in the Seminary West neighborhood, in a brand-new two-story building which, to the untrained eye, could have been a law firm or distribution center for a dietary supplement company.

  In fact, it was the corporate headquarters of MHU Security, one of the largest private military contractors in the United States. They were in the business of supplying mercenaries for the ever increasing outsourcing federal government.

  These companies hired soldiers which had been trained at great expense by the US military, paying them obscene amounts of money, to do jobs which until then had been performed by American military personnel. The logic was mind-boggling to Gervasi. It was all about politics and contracts and connections.

  The interior of the building reflected its modern exterior. The waiting room was especially posh with its leather couches and glass coffee tables onto which were gorgeous lilies in colorful blown-glass vases.

  Gervasi sat while they waited but Jasmine was on her feet. She was lingering about, her eyes riveted to pictures on the wall depicting mercenaries in action. She saw ferocious-looking men pointing submachine guns, helicopter gunships in banking maneuvers, other guys in suits and sunglasses on protection detail.

  A few moments later, a stylish man in his 50s went over to them with a file in his hand. They had met him a few minutes before. He was MHU Security vice president Dwayne Bledel. He had the posture of a former Marine and his eyes were extremely alert, darting everywhere, missing nothing.

  “I have the document, please come with me.”

  The federal agents followed him away and they soon found themselves in his office. The place was made of money. The floor was black granite and the furniture was all steel and leather, cold and impersonal. The outer wall was in essence a large window with incorporated blinds within two panes of glass.

  The executive sat behind his modern glass desk while his guests took a seat across from him.

  “Well, I’m afraid there isn’t much to say about this gentleman.”

  This wasn’t starting well and Jasmine said, “We’ve been hearing that a lot lately.”

  “You understand, our company has been getting a lot of Department of Defense contracts in Iraq. We have thousands of employees, most of them temporary, so it’s hard to keep track.”

  “Surely, as vice president you have a way of answering the federal government’s questions. You’re in charge of personnel, are you not?”

  “I’ll try to tell you as much as I know.”

  “What about Preston McSweeney? What can you tell me about his career here?”

  “For the first year that he worked for us, he was assigned exclusively to convoys, either driving or protecting them. During his second year with us, he provided security for oil wells in the north of the country.”

  “Why did he stop working for you?” Gervasi said, jumping into the heart of the matter.

  Bledel glanced at the file, pursing his lips as if he wasn’t sure how to break the following news.

  “He was let go for incompetence.”

  “How can that be? The man was a decorated Special Forces operative, having fought on the frontlines in two wars, not to mention the black ops that are not even in his file. How could he be incompetent? What did he do to get fired?”

  The corporate guy cleared his throat. “Our records don’t specify the reason.”

  He handed the file to Jasmine who quickly perused it. It consisted of only one page with no other detail than what the executive has already provided.

  “Your records don’t specify the reason?” an irritated Gervasi said. “What kind of answer is that? You must have timesheets, pay stubs, that sort of thing.”

  “Sir, this is a company that hires young men to do the most dangerous jobs in the world’s most despicable hellholes. We have a hundred new employees every day. Excuse me if our records don’t meet your perfect bureaucratic standards.”

  If Gervasi knew anything about how companies operated it was that they were meticulous in keeping paperwork. That such a large corporation didn’t have these documents was astonishing. He thought about issuing a subpoena but if they had anything to hide the documents would have been shredded already.

  Jasmine and Gervasi walked out of the office a few minutes later with the feeling of having wasted their time. This was the kind of information that could have been gathered over the phone. She had hoped that the presence of federal agents would have rattled some cages.

  But no, these guys were too smooth. She should have realized that earlier. These were the kind of people who had martini lunches with senators, paid the private school tuitions of congressmen’s kids, all with the knowledge that favors would be returned during contract season.

  Jasmine was exasperated.

  “Is there some big cosmic reason why we’re being jerked around all the time?”

  Gervasi was older and not much fazed him anymore. “Hey, you’re the one who wanted to be a cop. I just fell in with the wrong crowd.”

  He smiled at her but it failed to lift up her mood.

  And then she had an idea.

  Chapter 29

  Preston’s apartment was an improvement over his trailer. It was only marginally larger but the ambience was far less depressing. Gone were the cheap faux wood paneling, overstuffed furniture, and smelly tufted carpet. No, this apartment was much better.

  The walls were made of narrow slats of wood, painted white, and the floor was covered with maroon terra-cotta tiles. The furniture was basic and utilitarian. For instance, the living room couch consisted of what could be construed as a park bench, only thick cushions had been added for comfort.

  What Preston loved the most about his Katogan getaway was the veranda. Broad French doors in the living room opened on a spacious balcony which ran for the entire length of the apartment. The terrace was eight feet wide and had its own furniture from the African Secondhand collection.

  Preston was away at the moment. He had let his partner use the place since Hewitt’s own apartment didn’t come with a veranda and at noon the sun turned it into an oven.

  Hewitt was alone with Jammeh on the balcony. Preston’s apartment was also stifling but the veranda offered a nice breeze. A laptop computer had been set up on a low table and they were looking at photographs.

  “What about this one, Jammeh? Do you know him? Do you think he could be useful to us?”

  “No, I am not confident about him.”

  They had been doing this for hours and Jammeh’s eyes were getting strained. Over the past few days, Preston and Hewitt had scoured the city with their cameras. They had taken pictures of every high-ranking government employee they could find.

  They needed allies for the coup to succeed and Jammeh was doing his best to identify people who might be able to help.

  Oftentimes, Hewitt knew, important officials were more interested in their post and privileges than in any specific ideology. These people could be easily convinced to offer assistance if they appealed to their mercenary nature.

  Even more imperative would be their sense of self-preservation. It wasn’t uncommon for people to stay on the fence when a country was overthrown. There was a wait-and-see attitude.

  Hewitt remembered the July 20 plot/Operation Valkyrie which was to assassinate Adolf Hitler, neutralize the SS, and establish a government that would end World War II.

  Colonel General Friedrich Fromm, for example, waited to see if the coup worked before supporting it wholeheartedly. Still, the fact that he knew about the failed plot was eventually uncove
red and he was executed with Colonel Count Claus von Stauffenberg and the other conspirators.

  Hewitt pressed a button and another picture appeared. This new image was taken outside the Katoga military compound. It showed a large man in his 50s with deep jowls in the crisp khaki uniform of a flag officer.

  “And this lad?”

  Jammeh studied the picture, squinting to overcome his growing myopia. If there was one person who was familiar with the higher Katoga hierarchy, it was him. He had started his career at the local newspaper as a child, running errands, delivering copies between desks.

  When he was finally given a chance to become a full-blown reporter, he decided to use his power to improve the life of his fellow citizens. He wrote stories about ministers who commandeered houses for their mistresses and about general officers who shook down shopkeepers for protection money.

  The first time he was arrested he wasn’t yet 20 years old and the judge let him go with a warning. Jammeh eased off on corruption stories for a while. He instead focused on what he called travel pieces in which he extolled the virtues of other countries, lingering on all the liberties these fortunate foreigners could enjoy.

  Over the years he grew bolder. He returned to writing about government sleaziness, about the corrupt Katogan administration. The first three stints in prison did nothing to quell his voice. His last year in prison however took its toll.

  His wife and son died during childbirth because as family members of a known criminal, a traitor, they were not permitted to receive medical attention. Grief stricken, he finally broke down.

  At a time when another would have been empowered, determined to bring down the monsters who had enacted such laws, Jammeh reached the end of his rope. He couldn’t do it by himself anymore.

  But now these foreigners were giving him hope.

  “Yes,” he said. “He is Brigadier General Tombo. He has not been promoted in ten years. There is a rumor that the president does not like him but that he cannot get rid of him because he is afraid of the men he commands.”

  “Jolly good!” Hewitt exclaimed as he took some notes. “Now we need to identify someone who works within the government.” He paused for a beat, realizing his mistake. “Okay, that was an oxymoron.”