Eden in Winter

by Richard North Patterson

  Leaving the railing, Adam sat across from him. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘Then let me try an analogy,’ Charlie proposed. ‘By your account, Carla has worked hard to find out who she really is. The more she succeeds, the less skilled she may be at imagining she’s someone else. Perhaps that’s another reason she decided to give up acting.’ He paused, as though to underscore his point. ‘What you may be saying to Carla, whether she understands it or not, is that you hope for something you haven’t let yourself imagine since Jenny. Even if Carla’s not right for you, that could be a very good sign.

  ‘But it may complicate your life in Afghanistan. All the weapons you deploy against everyone else – disconnection, avoidance, deception, and fatalism about death – have kept you alive. By embracing the possibility of a different future, you may lose the detachment you’ve relied on to survive.’ Charlie seemed to inhale. ‘So, here’s the challenge you’re taking with you: to hope for a better life, and still live to find it.’

  Adam could say nothing. But when he stood to leave, to his surprise, Charlie clasped his shoulders, looking into his face. ‘Good luck, Adam,’ the therapist said. ‘Like Carla, what happens to you matters to me. I want you back here sitting on this porch. After all, we’ve still got work to do.’

  NINE

  Refreshed by the early morning A.A. meeting in Vineyard Haven, Carla emerged into the slanting sunlight of a crisp, cool day, the first harbinger of fall. At this hour, the streets were still empty, and no one would notice her: a good time to take stock of herself with others who understood.

  This morning, her sponsor – a former popular singer – had celebrated five years of sobriety. Carla felt pleased for her, and buoyed by the example she set. Standing by her car, she paused a moment, reflective, then drove to the Catholic church in Oak Bluffs.

  Carla had left the Church years before, and she still did not know if anyone heard her prayers. But a central tenet at Betty Ford was to seek help outside herself, and the rituals of Catholicism were familiar to her. Our Lady Star of the Sea, the most modest church on the island, was set amidst gingerbread houses on a tree-lined street, away from the bustle of a resort town where tourists thronged. The white wooden structure was plain in design, with a clapboard steeple topped by a simple cross. Its lack of pretence pleased Carla, and its parishioners – many of whom were immigrants whose first language was Brazilian Portuguese – had more pressing concerns than the travails of a fading celebrity. So Carla had begun attending the 8 a.m. mass on Sundays, slipping into the back just before services began.

  Today, a Monday, Carla considered her choices. The grassy park across from the church offered benches beneath the shelter of venerable oaks, and often Carla would sit there to pray and reflect. But this morning she decided to enter the church itself.

  The interior was hushed. Its stained-glass windows cast a serene dappling of light and shadow on the pews, and the carved image of Jesus behind the altar portrayed a man in prayer instead of a tormented martyr. No one else was there. Sitting near the front, Carla began renewing her connection with the rituals of her youth.

  As a child, such a place had been her refuge from the fear she had felt in her parents’ home. Now, when the enemy might be herself, she sought a sense of peace and order, and Christ’s divinity meant less to her than his compassion. Eyes closed, she recited the Hail Mary, the Our Father, and the act of contrition, seeking the strength to achieve the life she now envisioned. Then she prayed for the safety of her unborn child and, at last, for Adam Blaine.

  *

  When Carla returned, Adam was sitting on the porch of the guesthouse. Seemingly surprised, she told him lightly, ‘Funny you should be here. I was thinking about you a while ago.’

  Adam stood, hands jammed in his pockets. ‘In what context?’

  ‘The other night. I still owe you money for soup, candles, and a flashlight.’

  ‘Then let that be on your conscience, Carla. I’m just here to say goodbye.’

  Carla nodded, looking down. After a moment, she said, ‘Actually, I was wishing we had time more time, just to talk. It feels like we’ve been interrupted.’

  The same feeling of regret made Adam wordless for a moment. Wondering if they would ever see each other again, he felt the loss of something precious. ‘I know,’ he acknowledged. ‘But there’s no help for that right now.’

  She looked up at him again. ‘Can you at least write letters? Back in the Victorian age, I’m told, men and women used to do that.’

  Adam smiled. ‘The postal service on the Afghan–Pakistani frontier leaves something to be desired. But I can send emails. They just can’t be about my day at the office.’

  A shadow of worry crossed Carla’s face. ‘I was hoping you could tell me more about yourself. Anything, really – memories of being young, your greatest sports heroics. Maybe even what you think and feel.’

  If only it were that easy, Adam thought. ‘As long as you reciprocate,’ he answered. ‘I already know about my own life, for better or worse. But I’d like to hear more about how you got from there to here.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Carla answered, and smiled a little. ‘Anyhow, my new incarnation seems to require that. Something about a “fearless moral inventory”.’

  ‘One more thing, then. Please keep me posted on how you and the baby are doing. Otherwise, I’ll wonder.’

  Her eyes grew serious again. ‘I’ll be fine. But if you want me to, I will.’

  Though Adam did not wish to go, he could think of nothing more to say. Instead, he reached out to cradle the side of her face, his own face moving closer. With a questioning look, he asked, ‘I get to do this, yes?’

  Her expression was grave and, he thought, a little sad. ‘Yes,’ she answered softly. ‘Later on, maybe we can figure out what it means.’

  Adam felt a thickening in his throat. Then he kissed her, gently, lingeringly, feeling her body move into his, the warm reciprocity of her lips. It was he, finally, who leaned back to look at her. ‘Take care of yourself, Carla. For both of you.’

  He touched her face again and then, turning, walked away. He did not look back. Saying goodbye to Carla Pacelli hurt too much for that.

  *

  Before Teddy drove him to the airport, Adam went to see his mother.

  Fleetingly, he kissed her on the cheek. Feeling the thinness of her shoulders, he had the first premonition of Clarice Blaine, always trim and beautiful, as an old woman.

  Tears welled in her eyes. ‘Ten years,’ she said in an uncharacteristically thick voice, ‘and I hardly saw you. Now you’re going again, carrying such resentment. And I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Just give it time, Mom. I’ll be back soon enough.’

  Her throat worked. ‘Will you, though? I’m sorry, but I can’t keep myself from worrying.’

  Adam tried to smile this away. ‘I’ll be okay. I always am.’

  Clarice shook her head in demurral. For an instant, he imagined her saying, as she had many times before, how much he was like Benjamin Blaine. Instead, she asked, ‘Have you been to see Jack?’

  ‘No. Please say goodbye for me, all right?’

  Her lips parted in an expression of sudden anguish. ‘Will you ever forgive him? Or us?’

  Once more, Adam felt the weight of all that he concealed from her. ‘This isn’t about forgiveness, Mom. I just have to unlearn some things, and accept others. I’m sure that next year will be different.’

  Assuming, Adam thought, that next year ever comes.

  *

  When Adam climbed into the passenger seat of Ben’s old pickup truck, his brother asked, ‘How was it?’

  ‘More or less as usual. Like two people looking at each other through glass.’

  Pulling away from the house, Teddy glanced at him. ‘Sometimes it feels like all of us are looking at you through glass.’

  Yet again, Adam wished that he could tell his brother all he knew. ‘I may have my emotional limitations, Te
d. But I’m always home to you.’

  ‘I know that,’ Teddy answered. ‘But where is your home?’

  Silent, Adam gazed at the road ahead, winding past pristine ponds and old houses sheltered by trees. ‘I have a favour to ask,’ he said at length, ‘and you’re the only one I can ask.’

  Teddy gave him a quick, curious glance. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Look in on Carla now and then, and make sure she has your phone number. She has no one, really, and I think she may be worried about the baby.’

  Teddy looked bemused. ‘What’s this about, exactly?’

  ‘Carla’s a decent person, that’s all. If she hadn’t agreed, I never could’ve reclaimed the estate for you and Mom. If you’re not feeling grateful enough, just do it for me.’

  ‘For you, then,’ Teddy allowed with a smile. ‘You’re a mysterious person, bro – in many ways. Am I permitted to guess that your feelings about Ms Pacelli – however astounding this may be – involve more than humanitarian concern?’

  ‘Guess away,’ Adam responded easily. ‘And when you figure it out, please let me know. I grasp so little about myself.’

  Turning into the airport, Teddy stopped in front of the shingled one-storey building, speaking with palpable reluctance. ‘There’s one last thing I need to tell you. Richard Mendelson met with George Hanley yesterday. As Richard suspected, George didn’t ask anything about me, at least not directly. What he did ask put Richard on edge: whether he’d received any investigative files concerning our father’s death.’

  At some cost, Adam gave his brother a look of perplexed curiosity. ‘What did Richard say?’

  ‘He refused to answer. Unfortunately, George also interviewed Richard’s secretary. She told him what she felt compelled to, I guess. That Richard had received what looked to be police files – anonymously, in the mail, and much to his apparent surprise. So George demanded the files themselves.’

  Adam mustered a shrug of indifference. ‘Awkward. But not a problem for Richard; if he didn’t solicit them, he didn’t break any laws. Neither did you.’

  ‘True enough,’ Teddy retorted pointedly. ‘But whoever sent them broke all sorts of laws. Aside from Jack – or me – that’s the guy George is after.’

  Adam shrugged. ‘Good luck to him, then. But do me another favour. If anything happens with this or the medical examiner’s inquest, email me in Afghanistan. I always hate being the last to know.’

  Swiftly, Adam embraced his brother, and was off.

  PART THREE

  The Gauntlet

  Afghanistan – Martha’s Vineyard

  September–November, 2011

  ONE

  Leaving his concrete redoubt, Adam wondered how his life in Afghanistan would appear to Carla Pacelli.

  His quarters were protected by a high wall and ringed with Afghan security guards the occupants hoped would never betray them. The others were American workers to whom he lied about his true mission – targeting Taliban leaders, any one of whom might have tribal or filial relationships with their guards. It was an existence as lonely as it was surreal.

  Now he drove through the countryside with his translator, Hamid. Around them, jagged mountains capped with snow were the backdrop for villages that were tan and dirty. Swerving to avoid rocks with shards so sharp they could slice open their tyres, their Jeep kicked up dust as fine as talcum powder. Hamid was his closest associate, and the nearest he had to a friend. To preserve his cover as a contract employee for the Central Poppy Eradication Force, Adam communicated with his case officer in Kabul as little as possible. As for the decision makers who directed his fate, he had never met them.

  All this Adam accepted. The hardest part, he would tell Carla if he could, was running Afghan agents when the Taliban sought to capture and kill them both. He still did not know what had tipped off Messud, the Afghan he had killed barely a month before. He could never be certain about who the Afghans he dealt with truly were, or where their deepest allegiances lay. But what haunted Adam most was his duty to protect the agents who – whether motivated by greed or dislike for the enemy – remained loyal to him. One slip-up and a man he knew, and perhaps even liked, could end up tortured and killed, followed by his family, no matter if he betrayed Adam in an effort to save them. It had always been the most draining part of his job, and Afghanistan was more treacherous than anywhere he had worked. That Adam still cared was, he supposed, the clearest sign that concealed within him was a decent human being.

  This mission made him edgier than normal. Adam had to assume that the Taliban was tracking his every movement, especially after Messud had disappeared. Quite likely there were Taliban stationed behind rocks in the hilly terrain along the route; the men he was meeting at its end could well be double agents. His usual practice was to pick agents up on the fly, meeting in a car instead of at a specific location that could be watched. But today, his agent had specified a medical centre which would soon be occupied by Americans. Its only virtue was that Adam had never been seen there – it was not safe to meet an agent in the same place twice.

  Nor did he trust the man he was to meet. The Pakistani’s history was shot through with duplicity – today he could be working for the Taliban, or have become a target of their suspicion. Adam preferred agents whose motives for helping him were as obscure to others as the coin with which he paid them. Briefly, he imagined telling Carla of the village elder to whom he had given a lifetime supply of Viagra in exchange for identifying a key Taliban leader, whom the C.I.A. had then obliterated with a drone. But the elder had lived happily on, his ego and potency replenished.

  Driving beside him, Hamid scanned the countryside, his worries running parallel to Adam’s. The Afghan was in his late twenties, six feet, yet so broad and muscular that he appeared stocky, his hair cropped under his knit cap, his blunt face sporting a mustache. He had served as a guard at a military base near Kabul while being vetted by the agency, then joined the Afghan security services, which had placed him at the airport to spot suspicious people in transit. So keen was his eye that the C.I.A. had recruited him. Now he was indispensable to Adam – talking to locals; making up whatever cover story was needed; helping assess the character of agents who, if his judgment was faulty, might end their lives. He was that rare person in Adam’s life – someone he trusted.

  Hamid did not like the man they were meeting, his reservations expressed by a deeper than usual silence. The colonel commanded the North-West Frontier Scouts, the element of the Pakistani army charged with patrolling the border and monitoring those who crossed it. His more lucrative sideline was selling weapons in both Pakistan and Afghanistan to whomever paid him most, while slipping the information he gained to Adam. He could as easily, Hamid and Adam knew, sell them to the Taliban.

  Adam had encountered the colonel while moving through the tribal areas near the border, meeting with local leaders on both sides. Along the way, he spotted a Pakistani guard post on the border. Stopping, he got out of his Jeep and began chatting with three Pakistani soldiers. After a while, he saw the dust of an army truck coming down from a fort that commanded a sweeping view of the border. Then the truck arrived, unloading a Pakistani colonel bent on finding out who Adam was.

  In his aviator sunglasses and neatly pressed uniform, the fortyish man projected a certain arrogance, accented by strong features and a hooked nose that gave him an air of command. Though his manner was polite enough, his seemingly casual questions probed at Adam’s identity. He registered no reaction when Adam described his supposed work with the poppy eradication programme. ‘You’re an idealist,’ the colonel had remarked in a tone that mingled amusement and a hint of disbelief. ‘The least I can do for such a noble fellow is invite you to tea.’

  Adam and the colonel had driven to the fort and sat in the shade of a makeshift canvas awning. As they exchanged further pleasantries, Adam sensed the Pakistani trying to place him in a personal ecology not bounded by his ostensible job. Either the colonel was trying to trip him up,
Adam concluded, or had some relationship in mind that he could shape to his personal advantage. Adam resolved to do the same.

  At the end of an hour, they parted, each pledging fervently to nurture their new friendship with future visits. Returning to his quarters, Adam called his case officer on a secure phone and asked him to run a check on the colonel.

  The response had suggested a man whose deceit was even greater than Adam had surmised. Within the C.I.A., Colonel Ayub Rehman was suspected of doubling as an arms dealer, selling weapons to the Taliban that were stolen from the Pakistani army by corrupt soldiers under his command. Adam could not help but appreciate the irony – his new friend was getting rich on the Taliban’s chief source of financing, opium money, derived from a crop Adam was pretending to eradicate. After some reflection, he came up with a scheme that, with apparent reluctance, his case officer took to their superiors. To Adam’s surprise, his man in Kabul came back with permission to proceed.

  More visits to the colonel had followed, each man politely but pointedly probing the other. At length, Adam allowed that his real job was somewhat more complicated than persuading farmers not to grow opium – he was working undercover for the D.E.A., trying to disrupt the flow of opium money to the Taliban. For this, he went on, he needed to identify Taliban leaders. ‘We’re on the same side,’ he had solemnly told the Pakistani. ‘After all, your mission on the border is to keep the Taliban from expanding its influence in your country. For such an act of friendship, I would pay you in return.’