The Guardian

by David Hosp

  ‘That’s Colonel Toney,’ the NSA Director snapped.

  ‘Retired,’ Ainsworth said.

  ‘I’m still entitled to the rank.’

  Ainsworth rolled his eyes again. ‘Mark? A few minutes?’

  Mark Humallah nodded and left the room without a word.

  ‘Now, Bill,’ Ainsworth said once they were alone. ‘What is it that seems to have disturbed you?’

  ‘You know goddamned well. I gave you a direct order that you were not to get involved in the Charles Phelan matter in Boston. You couldn’t resist, though, could you? You had to keep your finger in it.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  Toney’s face reddened even further. ‘Then I suppose it’s just a coincidence that I’m getting reports that Jack Saunders is in Boston, and that he has been accompanying Phelan’s sister around the city?’

  ‘Saunders is on vacation,’ Ainsworth said. ‘What he does on vacation is his business.’

  ‘I told you to stay out of this!’ Toney hollered.

  Ainsworth leaned back and folded his hand across his lap. ‘You know, Bill, you’re not technically my superior. I don’t know that you have the authority to give me orders.’

  Toney smirked. ‘You really want to play it that way, Lawrence?’ He walked around the table so that he was behind Ainsworth. ‘I am more than happy to turn this into an official inter-Agency complaint.’ He leaned in so that he was speaking quietly into Ainsworth’s ear. ‘Who do you think will come out on top in that event?’

  ‘I don’t know, Bill,’ Ainsworth said. ‘You’ve certainly kissed more asses in the administration, so I guess I’d give you the better odds.’

  The smirk disappeared from Toney’s face. ‘I’m serious, Lawrence. No more interference.’

  ‘Of course, Bill,’ Ainsworth said, relenting. ‘Like I said, Saunders is on vacation. I just have one question. You told me the other day that there was nothing to this Phelan issue.’

  ‘I did,’ Toney agreed.

  ‘So who do you have in the field who is giving you these reports?’

  Toney’s face was stone. He walked to the door. ‘Tell Saunders to get out of this,’ he said. ‘As far as I’m concerned, he’s a civilian in Boston. He will get hurt if he stays out there, and it will not be on my head.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  ‘My name is Akhtar Hazara.’

  The young man was sitting on the edge of the bed in a motel on Dorchester Street in South Boston. It was the kind of place where few questions would be asked, and memories would be short. Saunders was sitting on a battered faux-wooden desk chair. Cianna sat on the sofa facing him, her eyes vacant, staring through the floor as though she could see into the depths of hell.

  ‘My father was Mohmar Hazara,’ he continued. Seeing Saunders’s reaction, he said, ‘You remember him, yes?’

  Saunders nodded. ‘I didn’t know him, but I knew of him. And I remember when he was killed.’

  ‘I was with him,’ Akhtar said. ‘I was thirteen, and it was right after the Taliban fled. The Americans had not yet reached Kandahar, but we knew they were coming. Everyone knew it, and everyone was wondering what would happen. Many assumed that it would be the start of a new way of life for my country; that it would be the dawning of a new golden age for Afghanistan and its people, when we would be able to control our own destiny. There were those who welcomed the fall of the Taliban, and the possibility of a genuine democracy. My father was one such man.’

  Saunders nodded, remembering. ‘I was one of the first into the country,’ he said. ‘Even before the invasion, twelve of us were sent in to begin the process of separating the good guys from the bad. Your father was on my list of good guys. I’m sorry I never had the chance to meet him.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Akhtar said. ‘My father always said that his individual life was meaningless, though. What was important to him was that everything was done for the good of the country. If his death had sparked a movement toward all that he had hoped for, he would have been happy to die a martyr.’

  ‘But that isn’t what happened,’ Saunders said.

  ‘No,’ Akhtar agreed. ‘Instead, my country sank deeper into tribal squabbles that still set the tone for what is happening there today. Local chieftains and tribal leaders sell their loyalties to the highest bidder for whatever they can get, and those loyalties last only as long as whatever advantage has been gained. Until someone emerges who can unite the country, it will remain so. That is why I am here. That is why I need your help.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Saunders said.

  ‘For four centuries, my family has guarded the Sacred Cloak of Mohammed from within the center mosque in Kandahar. It is one of the three most sacred relics in all of Islam, and it has great power. Three weeks ago it was stolen. I need your help in finding it.’

  ‘That’s why my brother was killed?’ Cianna demanded, her voice so loud that it startled Saunders. From the look on his face it appeared that Akhtar had forgotten that she was in the room. She hadn’t said a word since the three of them arrived at the motel. Now her eyes were wide and burning furiously, and she stood, leaning over, putting her face right up to the young man’s, spitting her words out with contempt and outrage. ‘For some shitty piece of cloth—!’

  ‘It is far more than cloth!’ Akhtar protested, clearly offended. ‘It is the Heart of Afghanistan. The prophet Mohammed himself wore the Cloak into battle. It was brought to the sacred mosque in Kandahar by Ahmad Shah Durrani, the first king of Afghanistan, four hundred years ago. Since that time, my family has guarded it with our lives!’

  ‘And my brother paid for it with his! Why? For what purpose?’ Cianna waved her arms in the air as she screamed at Akhtar.

  Saunders reached a hand out and put it on her shoulder to calm her. ‘It’s not his fault,’ he said. ‘He didn’t kill your brother.’ She looked at him, and for a moment he thought she might punch him for taking the young man’s side. After a brief pause, though, she reluctantly sat back down. ‘Akhtar is right, it isn’t just a piece of cloth,’ Saunders said in an even voice. ‘For a Christian, it would be the equivalent of the robe that Christ wore at the last supper.’

  ‘Christians don’t kill for relics,’ Cianna pointed out.

  ‘No?’ Akhtar replied. ‘I must have misread the tales of the Crusades, then.’

  ‘This isn’t the fucking Middle Ages!’ Cianna screamed back. ‘This is the twenty-first century, and my brother is lying dead in a boathouse with one hand! So don’t talk to me about the injustices of five centuries ago, okay?’

  ‘This isn’t about what happened five centuries ago,’ Saunders said to Cianna. ‘This is about right now. This is about who will succeed in taking power in Afghanistan.’

  ‘What the hell does some cloak have to do with that?’ Cianna demanded.

  ‘The Sacred Cloak has everything to do with that,’ Akhtar said. ‘It is said that the Cloak will only sit on the shoulders of those chosen by Mohammed himself to lead my nation. He who can show that he holds the Cloak without tragedy befalling him will be able to unite all of the tribes of Afghanistan.’

  Cianna shook her head in disbelief and looked at Saunders. ‘Are you listening to this superstitious crap?’

  ‘It’s not just superstition,’ Saunders said quietly.

  ‘You really believe this?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter whether I believe it.’ Saunders walked to the window and looked out toward the highway onramp. ‘Many of the people of Afghanistan believe it.’

  ‘It is not just that they believe it,’ Akhtar said. ‘It has been proved in the past. The Cloak has only been seen in public three times in the past four centuries. In 1760, Ahmad Shah, the founder of Afghanistan, displayed the Cloak around his shoulders as he announced jihad against his rival Pashtun and Marathan tribal leaders. He swiftly defeated his enemies and created the first united nation of Afghanistan, which his family ruled for generations. In the 1930s, a dead
ly outbreak of cholera threatened to lay waste to the city of Kandahar. The Cloak was taken out and held aloft from the roof of the mosque over the city. The disease disappeared within a week.’

  ‘And the last time it was displayed?’ Cianna asked skeptically.

  Saunders looked at Akhtar, and the young man bowed his head. Akhtar spoke penitently. ‘The last time was in 1996, after the Soviets fled from my country. A civil war erupted and it seemed as though it might never end. One of the strongest leaders in the country came to my father, and asked to see the Cloak – to give him inspiration, he said. My father allowed it, against his better judgment, and the leader stole the Cloak and took it with him to a rally of his people outside of the mosque. He held it aloft and claimed his legitimacy based on the touch of Mohammed. He later returned the Cloak to the mosque, but his brief display was enough. Two days later, inspired by the stories of the Cloak, his forces were able to finally take Kabul. He was installed as the leader of Afghanistan.’

  ‘Who was he?’ Cianna asked.

  ‘Mullah Omar,’ Akhtar replied. ‘The leader of the Taliban. The dark age that swallowed my country for the next five years was in large part due to my father’s mistake. Now there are only two people who can possibly lead Afghanistan, and they are both searching for the Cloak to provide the legitimacy they need to take power. I must make sure that the better of these two succeeds, and that the worst fails.’

  ‘Who are the two?’ Saunders asked.

  ‘One is a man I work for in Kandahar named Gamol. He is the better of the two. He is older, and he remembers the days, even before the Soviets, when Afghanistan was a land of hope. He is a politician – in all that means, both good and bad – but he would at least take the country forward, and that is what is needed.’

  ‘And the second man?’

  ‘The second man you met at the river tonight.’

  ‘Fasil,’ Saunders said.

  Akhtar nodded. ‘Fasil. He is the only other who stands a chance of uniting my country.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘He is a fanatic. A rising star in the Taliban before the invasion, he has stayed true to their principles. Even more, his view is that the Taliban was too lenient against non-Muslims, and those Muslims who strayed from what he believes is the true path. He believes it was that weakness that led to the fall of the Taliban. For several years, he has been consolidating power among those who believe that the true glory for Afghanistan is a return to the ways of the Taliban. The Sacred Cloak of Mohammed is the only thing that could draw him out of hiding in the mountains. Twice before he has tried to capture it, but he has failed. My father was the mullah of the mosque where the Cloak has been kept for centuries. For generations, my family has had the great honor of protecting the Cloak from harm, guarding it with our lives. We had been successful throughout history. Now it would seem that we – I – have failed. That is why I am asking for your help. I am trying to save my country.’

  Cianna stood up and looked at the young man. ‘I don’t give a shit about your country,’ she said. ‘I cared about my brother, and now he’s dead ! He didn’t take your goddamned relic; he took a dagger. Maybe that was wrong, but he did it for me, and he never meant to hurt anyone. You may not have pulled the trigger, but it’s people like you who killed him. You and your whole goddamned country can go to hell!’

  She walked toward the door to the motel room. Akhtar stood up and went after her. ‘Where are you going?’

  She spun on him. ‘I am going to kill the man who murdered my brother.’ She held his gaze for a moment before she turned and reached for the doorknob.

  ‘Wait!’ he said. She turned to look at him once more, and again it looked to Saunders as though she might strike out at him. The young man seemed unintimidated. ‘I share your rage,’ he said. ‘I am not like Fasil, though. He wants a return to the darkness. He wants to kill all those who do not believe as he does. I understand your hatred, but I want only peace for my country.’

  Cianna stepped toward him and put a finger in his chest. ‘You cannot possibly understand my hatred after what I saw today,’ she said in a slow-burning rage.

  ‘No?’ he replied. ‘When I was thirteen, just after the Americans invaded my country, the Taliban sent a messenger to my father. He reached my father as I was walking with him in the center of the city. This messenger demanded that he release the Cloak to the Taliban so that they could inspire confidence in their supporters once again. My father refused. He had seen what the years of Mullah Omar’s rule had wrought on my country. He would not make that mistake twice. The messenger smiled as though he knew my father’s answer even before he gave it. It was almost as though it was the answer he had wanted. Then he pulled a long knife from under his robe, and sliced through my father’s throat. I was standing there, and I watched as the life poured out of his body. I held him as he died.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Cianna said coldly. ‘Don’t you get it?’ She turned and started back toward the door, but Akhtar grabbed her by the arm and spun her back around.

  ‘The Taliban messenger who killed my father? He is the same man who killed your brother today.’

  She looked at him. ‘Fasil,’ she said.

  ‘That is correct. So do not think that I misunderstand your hatred. That is why I am asking for your help. It is not just for my country; it is to avenge my father. To avenge your brother. Otherwise, all is lost.’

  She stared at him for a moment before answering. ‘All is lost already.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Detective Morrell made his way through the parking lot at the boathouse along the Charles River. The place was a maze of police cars and uniforms, with crime-scene tape draped across stakes hammered into the ground at regular intervals across the lot. He held his badge up, and met every curious glance with a look that made clear he would not be deterred. This was Cambridge, and he was outside of his jurisdiction. He wouldn’t be prevented from looking around, but the local authorities would be wary of the outside intrusion, particularly from a Boston detective. The two forces worked well together when necessary, but the Cambridge cops felt the condescension occasionally directed their way by police officers from the neighboring big city. Under normal circumstances he would try to be sensitive to that dynamic. These were not normal circumstances, however.

  After a moment, Morrell caught sight of Peter Amano, a detective with whom he’d worked in the past, and made his way toward him. The expression of recognition on the man’s face when he looked up and saw Morrell soured quickly.

  ‘Pete,’ Morrell said as he drew close. He didn’t offer his hand. He touched people in a familiar way as little as possible.

  ‘Detective Morrell.’ Amano forced a smile. ‘What brings you out to our little suburb?’

  ‘My brother was murdered last night.’

  The smile faded from Amano’s face. ‘I heard. I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘Fuckers used a power drill on him. It wasn’t pretty.’ Morrell spoke evenly, letting each word fall like lead.

  ‘Yeah,’ Amano said. ‘I heard that, too. Like I said, I’m really sorry.’

  ‘I hear you got a nasty one out here, too.’

  Amano nodded. ‘It is that. There are some very sick people sharing our world with us.’

  ‘And you haven’t even met any of my ex-wives.’ Amano looked curiously at Morrell, as though he couldn’t tell whether the older detective was making a joke or not. Most humor springs from truth, Morrell thought. He kept the notion to himself, though. ‘What happened?’

  ‘We’re still not sure. It’s remote over here; no houses or other buildings for a few hundred yards in any direction. A few people taking a night stroll along the river, though, heard what sounded like a full-on shoot-out in there. Unfortunately, they didn’t have their cell phones with them. It was twenty minutes before we even got the call; by then, whatever happened out here was over. It sure as hell left a mark, though.’ Amano turned toward the east wall. ‘We’ve p
ulled twenty shells out of the plaster in this wall alone. We’re still finding more. Military-issue. Looks like one hell of a battle.’

  ‘Two dead?’ Morrell asked.

  Amano nodded. ‘Two dead. One shot in the forehead at close range. Looks like he was executed. Same with the second except he was shot in the back. But he wasn’t involved in the shoot-out.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It’d be hard to pull a trigger with no hand.’

  Morrell looked at him. ‘No hand?’

  ‘Yeah. Like I said, there’re some fucked up people in this world.’

  ‘You know anything about the vic?’

  ‘We’re learning. Ex-military. Just got back from Afghanistan. Grew up over in Southie, but no present address we’ve been able to identify yet. Apparently he has a sister who lives over in Boston, but we haven’t been able to track her down. I’ve got people over there waiting to see if she makes it home. This can’t be the kind of news she’s looking for today.’

  Morrell’s eyes narrowed. ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Over on Mercer.’

  ‘In Southie,’ Morrell commented quietly.

  Amano’s face curled into a frown. ‘Yeah, in Southie. That mean something to you?’

  ‘Maybe.’ His memory went back to the little apartment near the projects, and the girl there who had seemed so familiar. His heart was pounding. ‘You got a name?’

  Amano now looked suspicious. Morrell knew what the man was thinking. The last thing he needed was for a Boston Detective to come over to his town and solve a high-profile case like this. ‘Phelan,’ he said at last. ‘Charles Phelan.’

  Phelan. It all came swarming back on him in an instant. Charlie Phelan. Cianna Phelan. He’d met them the few times he’d been by Nick’s bar years ago. They were kids – like mascots in the place – who did dishes and waited the occasional table. It was a long time ago, but it was too much of a coincidence. Morrell felt a rage welling up within him. He had to find the girl. He was so lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice Amano studying him carefully.