Never Bloodless

by Steve Richer

  There was a trustworthy air about him, Preston determined. He looked like the very image of a wise grandfather. He was the type of man Morgan Freeman would have played to perfection.

  “This is Arly Traore,” Wyatt introduced. “Arly, meet Preston McSweeney.”

  Traore half rose from his seat and shook the young man’s hand. “I have heard a lot about you.”

  His velvety voice had the sluggish cadence of someone who hailed from Africa, carefully enunciating every syllable. Yes, definitely a grandfather anyone wished they’d had.

  “Take a seat,” Wyatt offered.

  Preston complied and by the time he sank into the thick cushion, the billionaire was already pouring him a glass of juice.

  “Arly was the only political opponent that President Nyassi ever had,” he continued. “He fought him tooth and nail throughout the nineties over everything, from health care to military spending.”

  “It was a different time,” Traore noted with a tinge of nostalgia.

  “What’s great is that Arly wasn’t really a rebel. He was the voice of reason in Katoga. He was an esteemed professor of economics.”

  “What happened? Why the past tense?”

  “Pneumonia,” Traore explained. “Silly, no? Nyassi won because I caught pneumonia. Some of my colleagues urged me to leave Katoga in order to get treated.”

  Wyatt selected himself some pretzels from the bowl of Chex Mix and then poured himself a glass.

  “Unfortunately, while I was abroad Nyassi managed to have my school closed down. Public funding was removed, permits were taken away. The other professors were harassed and urged to teach a more acceptable, government-approved curriculum. The school had to eventually be closed.”

  “You know, this is why I’m here,” Preston said. “Sure, Katoga isn’t exactly an economic paradise but it doesn’t appear to be as bad as some of the other countries in Africa.”

  “Yes, I like how you use the word appear. Nyassi is a master of illusion. He makes it appear like Katoga is a quiet patch of heaven. He never talks of the illegal arrests. He doesn’t show you the mass graves.”

  “I have friends in Washington, Preston,” Wyatt confided. “They’ve showed me reports about how Nyassi has stolen over three billion dollars in international aid money in the last twenty years. He’s made inflation go up more than a thousand percent in the last decade.”

  Preston drank some juice, using the gesture to organize his thoughts. “That wasn’t in any of the literature I got.”

  “Now do you see why your job is important? For once, my foundation can really help a people. With Nyassi out of power, Arly will lead his people toward a better future.”

  “If we can end corruption, we can collectively move forward.”

  “The world community will see that democracy is possible in Africa and it could lead the way for other regime changes on the continent. Katoga is everything, Preston.”

  The mercenary had to admit he hadn’t seen the situation in this angle. As a soldier, he was used to be mission-oriented. You get your marching orders and you get the job done, never looking past your objective.

  What Wyatt was talking about was basically a global operation. By paving the way for democracy in Katoga they would be offering hope for the entire African continent.

  “What I have trouble understanding, sir, is that you have to resort to something illegal. You of all people.”

  “You’re talking like someone who’s wearing a wire.”

  “I’m talking like someone whose ass is on the line,” Preston shot back. “And no, I’m not wearing a wire. I mean, I’m seeing your point but I just want to make sure that if I start a war it’s for the right reason.”

  “Of course,” Wyatt said. “Don’t think I came to that conclusion lightly. I’ve thought about it for years, weighed every option possible. These people are desperate. If we wait any longer there’ll be no saving Africa. Ever. I think sometimes you have to do something wrong in order to do something good.”

  “Yeah,” Preston whispered, thinking about having been drummed out of the military because he’d stopped a gang rape.

  Wyatt leaned forward. “Preston, can you help us?”

  Preston’s eyes moved between the two older men, unsure of his response.

  Chapter 36

  It took phone calls. Phone calls upon phone calls. If each call was to be represented by an orange, a pickup truck would have overflowed.

  Jasmine understood that her job relied on phone calls more than anything else. Most crimes she had resolved had involved information gathered by telephone. Being a Special Agent within Homeland Security wasn’t always about breaking down doors and getting a helicopter to swoop in on a suspected terrorist. Most of the time, it was about exchanging information on the phone.

  Now she had struck a victory and she could barely contain her excitement, tapping her foot nervously, as she sat in the passenger seat of the rental car. Gervasi was driving and they turned off Richmond Highway toward the main entrance of Fort Belvoir.

  Gervasi noticed her frantic demeanor with his perpetual amused grin.

  “You’d better stop that,” he said, indicating her jumpy knee.

  “You have a problem with that?”

  “Personally? Not at all. You can open a foot-tapping academy for all I care. It’s just that you start appearing nervous in front of the soldiers up ahead and you’re liable to get shot on sight. They’ll think you have a bomb strapped to your back.”

  “I’m not nervous,” she snapped self-consciously. “It’s excitement. We might learn something new for a change. You got to be excited about that.”

  “Keep still for a minute.”

  It was their turn at the gate, turning past the large brick wall with Tulley Gate inscribed on it.

  Fort Belvoir is located in Northern Virginia, on the outskirts of Washington. Originally, the land had belonged to Thomas Fairfax, 6th Lord Fairfax of Cameron, a British nobleman who named his estate Belvoir. The house was destroyed during the Revolutionary War but the name stuck.

  The military vocation began in World War I when the Army established Camp AA Humphreys, a training facility and rifle range. Now it hosts elements of 10 Army commands as well as 16 different military agencies. There are 20,000 people working at Fort Belvoir, half of them being reservists.

  Their law enforcement credentials got them through and they headed for the Visitor Processing Center.

  Jasmine’s foot, momentarily stable during the encounter with the military police enlisted man, was back to its dancing groove. In spite of her usual deportment in which she projected an aura of calm and determination, breakthroughs in her investigations excited her more than anything.

  It was the buildup to a mind-blowing orgasm, though she never would’ve admitted it to anyone. She was especially mad at herself for having been caught by Gervasi.

  The despised phone calls which led them here had been performed in an effort to confirm Littman’s story about McSweeney killing General Fairbanks in Iraq. What Jasmine learned from all this was that the military was a convoluted beast.

  She didn’t know how American fighting men fared in terms of excellence on the field of battle but she was now in a position to affirm that they surpassed any bureaucrat she had ever encountered. The experience was definitely Kafkaesque.

  She’d been transferred from one department to another, from one officer to the next. She’d been fed inane lines such as “I’m not at liberty to divulge” and “I have to relay this up the chain of command.”

  They were being given the runaround.

  Eventually, she got to speak with Special Agent Watkins of the Criminal Investigation Division who understood the importance of the inquest. An hour following their conversation, she called Jasmine back and suggested a meeting at her headquarters. This was information that was better not shared over the phone.

  Although everyone refers to this agency, part of the military police, as CID, the actual name is
United States Army Criminal Investigation Command. This being a mouthful, the old acronym dating back to World War I is still used by its members. CID is even written on the official blue windbreakers, badge, and uniform shoulder patch. The agency has for mandate to investigate crimes committed by and/or against US Army personnel.

  Gervasi and his colleague were at last given directions to the Post Exchange. They went up Gunston Road and turned onto Gorgas where it was impossible to miss the large complex. It is only open to military personnel and family members and ID is required to benefit from the tax-free goods.

  The PX lobby holds a food court open to the public and that’s where they were to meet Special Agent Watkins. Being early, Gervasi elected to get some food. He overestimated his hunger and got several burritos from Taco Bell.

  Moments later a woman approached their table. She was in her mid-30s and she didn’t wear any makeup which made her look older. Her chin-length brown hair was parted in the middle and brushed back behind her ears. She wore black pants and a loose white blouse barely hiding the firearm bulge on her right hip. Jasmine instantly recognized a woman dedicated to her work.

  A woman like herself.

  “Special Agent Watkins,” she introduced herself, followed by two handshakes.

  Jasmine and her partner also introduced themselves.

  “Thank you for meeting with us. You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to actually speak with someone who knew what we’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, sometimes I think we could defeat our enemies just by sending them forms to fill out and putting them on hold for an hour. They’d just shoot themselves, save us the trouble.”

  “You are officially my new best friend,” Gervasi said before taking a sip of his soda.

  The woman smiled and pulled out a chair for herself. The smile then vanished and she was all business. She produced a manila file from her aging leather briefcase and handed it to Jasmine.

  “Here’s the CID report on the General Fairbanks incident.”

  Jasmine didn’t waste a second and immediately started reading the report. Gervasi was feeling a little left out.

  “You want a burrito or something?” he offered.

  “I’m on the Watkins diet.”

  He frowned. She didn’t look like she needed to lose weight. Women. “You’re on Atkins?”

  “Watkins, made it up myself. I’m sticking with MREs, lost 10 pounds so far.”

  “Voluntarily eating MREs? You deserve the Medal of Honor.”

  And with that, he enthusiastically bit into a grande burrito with sour cream and hot sauce oozing out of it.

  Jasmine looked up from the file. “This report indicates that General Fairbanks was killed by insurgents, is that correct?”

  “Affirmative,” Watkins declared. “That’s what the team on the ground established.”

  “Is it possible that Preston McSweeney fired the bullet that killed the general?”

  “Possible? I guess anything is possible. Those Iraqis were shooting M-16s just like the private contractors and military personnel. They get their weapons from our dead soldiers. There was a shootout, the bullet could have come from anyone. There was a lot of confusion at the time. Pretty understandable, really.”

  She had herself conducted investigations in Afghanistan and while she was walking a grid, canvassing for evidence, she had found herself taking fire from Taliban gunmen. She knew firsthand that battle was chaotic.

  “But did you consider McSweeney as a suspect?”

  Chapter 37

  Watkins leaned forward over the table. The food court was basically deserted and there was no one within earshot but confidentiality was a way of life for a CID agent.

  “Look, there were dozens of eyewitnesses who swore the general fell under Iraqi bullets. No prosecutor would have touched this case even if the report had been different.”

  “But an autopsy was performed anyway,” Jasmine uttered, somewhere between a statement and a question.

  “You really should have a burrito, she’s nowhere near done.”

  Gervasi winked at her and finished eating his burrito.

  Watkins ignored him and focused her attention on the ICE agent. “An autopsy is standard procedure for senior military personnel.”

  With this information, Jasmine flipped through pages. “That’s weird, it says here that there were seven 5.56 millimeter rounds found in the body.”

  “That’s right, caliber used with M-16 rifles.”

  “But there was also another projectile found in the thorax. Something called .479 caliber. Who fired that round?”

  “You’ve just said it yourself, seven 5.56 millimeter rounds found in the body. No way the General could have survived that. It was probably the backup weapon of one of the insurgents.”

  “Where I work they call that loose ends,” Jasmine said in a tone which bordered on accusation.

  “Well, where I work there is a particularly unpopular war going on. Loose ends keep the boat from rocking and that makes people in Washington happy.”

  Watkins was shaken by this finger-pointing. She was doing a favor to these two agents by talking about the case with them. She hadn’t personally worked on the case, had no firsthand knowledge, and for some reason she was being treated like a hostile witness.

  In frustration, she grabbed one of the leftover burrito, peeled off the paper, and took a large bite. To hell with the diet.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Their time in the Washington area was coming to an end. Jasmine was in her room at the Days Inn and she was meticulously packing her suitcase. They had told her at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Glynco, Georgia, that you should never fold clothes when traveling. The best way to avoid wrinkles is to roll the garments.

  That’s what she was doing, ergonomically lining up the rolls to maximize the space within the suitcase. It made no difference to her that the clothes were dirty and would go directly into the laundry basket once she got home. What was worth doing was worth doing right.

  The TV was on CNN and proof that there was nothing worth reporting at the moment came when the newscasters started talking about a 12-year-old’s devotion to his collection of trout fossils. Jasmine was barely listening but it was a habit of hers to leave the news on in case something important happened.

  She could also hear some chatter coming from the next room. The connecting door leading to Gervasi’s room was ajar and he’d been on the phone for hours. She wondered how he’d get time to pack so they wouldn’t miss their flight to California. Knowing him, he’d probably throw everything in, oblivious to wrinkles.

  She heard him stop talking and half a minute later Gervasi appeared in the doorway, knocked, and entered her room. He was carrying his laptop computer.

  “You know,” he began. “When you ask tough questions you give me a lot of work.”

  “Sorry but you guys at the ATF are best positioned to provide answers.”

  “Don’t apologize, I can use the overtime. I’m redoing my kitchen.”

  He set the computer on the desk next to the TV, popping up the lid and Jasmine looked over his shoulder as he called up a file.

  “Find anything interesting?” she asked.

  “The .479 caliber is extremely rare.”

  “Rare like only a few shops carry this bullet?”

  “Rare like custom-made rare,” he said as he sat on the edge of the bed, moving her suitcase to make room. “Listen to this, this caliber was designed for a brand new rifle intended for the Spanish Army which in the mid-90s was conducting trials to replace their CETME model L.”

  She noted that the document on the screen was the ATF report on the subject. She scrolled down to textually follow his explanation.

  “And?”

  “This rifle, the SAF 479, wound up being too powerful and too expensive to produce. Those jolly Spaniards instead went with the H&K G-36. So the Swiss company, Schweizerische Arma Fabrik? Am I pronouncing this right? Anyway, they sold off al
l sixteen prototypes before going back to their roots of making artillery shells.”

  “Sixteen prototypes?”

  Gervasi pulled his lips into a satisfied grin, anticipating her train of thought. “You know, I love the Swiss, they keep records of everything. Ten of the rifles were bought by employees and the rest were sold at auction.”

  “You have names?”

  “I told you, I need the overtime, I’m redoing my kitchen! You’ll be especially interested in page seven.”

  She almost tripped over herself scrolling further down the document. She put her finger against the LCD screen as she read the names.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered.

  Talk about a bombshell.

  Chapter 38

  The Commune de Matonge was alive this evening. Music could be heard coming out of every shop, restaurant, and bar. There were the traditional rhythmic sounds of bongos and the harmonious choirlike voices singing in an upbeat tempo.

  The songs had an old-fashioned feel to them but Preston could detect a tinge of reggae and rap. There were also modern pop hits coming from car radios traveling along Avenue Kasa-Vubu. It was like being in the middle of a carnival.

  Hewitt and the American had arrived in Kinshasa earlier that day on an old prop plane dating back to one civil war or another – barely fixed bullet holes were still visible. The plane was a shuttle between Katoga and the Democratic Republic of the Congo and it operated twice a week. They had been lucky to snatch the last two seats available.

  Though he didn’t show it, Preston was impressed by the city. It was huge with over 10 million inhabitants. It was as big as Los Angeles only with fewer skyscrapers.

  In fact, the only notable, remotely recent high-rise was the Sozacom building, a brown structure which had once served as headquarters for the state corporation responsible for marketing the country’s mineral exports.

  The United Nations had forced the company to close when it was discovered it was used by dictator Mobutu and his friends to make $1 billion on the black market.