by Mike Maden
Well, he was as inside as he could get. Thousands would die soon and all of that blood would be on his hands, too. “Sins of omission.” Where had he heard that before? All because he couldn’t stop the drone attacks.
Guilt like snow fell on him, heavy and cold.
He’d failed his country. He’d failed Margaret.
He was useless. More than useless.
Pearce shut his computer down. He needed to get out of this place. Head home.
And get seriously fucking hammered.
52
Pearce called Myers’s cell phone from his car, but it was Mann who picked up again. She was sedated and resting under doctor’s orders. He promised to have her call Pearce when she awoke. Mann also assured Pearce that the German government was helping with her security—discreetly. The German press hadn’t been alerted to the incident or even to the former president’s presence on German soil. The last thing Berlin needed was more publicity about immigrants and violence after the incidents of mass rape and beatings that had been taking place since the tidal wave of migration began in 2015.
He thanked Mann again for all his help and rang off. He wished he could have talked to Margaret, though. He wanted to tell her that he was spiraling out of control. But then again, he probably wouldn’t have said anything. He couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing her.
One more bender was all he needed to clear his system. Then he’d walk the straight and narrow for good.
—
A SOFT KNOCK on the door of her Georgetown loft sent Grafton scurrying to open it. Tarkovsky stood in the doorway. His two hulking bodyguards remained in the hall, their backs discreetly turned away.
She pulled him inside her loft and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. He returned the favor.
“I’ve missed you,” Grafton whispered breathily.
The handsome Russian pulled off his sport coat. “Something smells marvelous.”
“I’ve ordered in.” She led him by the hand to the dining room. Candles, wine. A feast.
“Before I forget.” Tarkovsky reached into his pocket.
She bit her lower lip with anticipation. “Something for me? Something terribly expensive?”
“Not expensive, but something I think you will find extremely valuable.” He pulled out a thumb drive. Handed it to her. She examined it.
“It’s not Tiffany but it’s interesting. What’s in it?”
“Your friend Pearce. My contact in the SVR came through. Turns out there was a secret, unauthorized file on him. Not many details. But I think you’re going to be quite surprised at what you’ll find in there.” He loosened his tie.
“Surprised in a good way?”
Tarkovsky poured two glasses of wine. “Only if you want to get rid of him.”
Grafton pocketed the thumb drive. “You said a secret file? Sounds like someone had a special interest in him.”
“Pearce killed two SVR operatives in Mozambique just a few years ago. They want their revenge. Of course, the SVR would never attempt an operation on American soil without my government’s permission. But if Pearce can be removed from service some other way? There’s an old Russian saying, ‘Never let the perfect be the enemy of the good.’” He laid his hands on her shoulders.
She gazed into his hungering eyes. “I didn’t realize Voltaire was Russian.”
Tarkovsky began unbuttoning her blouse. “That’s what made him such an effective Russian spy.”
Grafton’s flesh tingled. “What about dinner?” She reached for his belt buckle. He answered with a lingering kiss.
They ate later.
Much later.
—
PEARCE DECIDED TO SPEND the night at his corporate hotel suite. He couldn’t bring himself to get drunk at Myers’s place for the same reason he would never bring another woman into her home and violate the sanctity of their shared bed. What he was about to do felt like an even worse betrayal than that.
He put up a good fight, at least for a while. When he arrived at the lobby he checked in with the concierge for mail and messages, then picked up the house phone and ordered a steak dinner from the room service menu.
On the long ride up the elevator with the wide glass wall and spectacular view of the city, Pearce suddenly realized the anniversary of his dad’s death had passed him by again. The weeds around the old man’s lonely grave on the side of the hill in Wyoming would be three feet tall by now. He should’ve been there to trim them back down and clean the stone.
By the time he unlocked the front door and kicked off his shoes in the foyer he gave in to his lesser, fallen angel. He called the rooftop bar and ordered a bottle of his dad’s favorite, Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7. It arrived on the room service cart with a sizzling porterhouse and fries. He cracked open the bottle first and poured himself a tall one. He drank it standing up. It went down fast with a familiar burn. It knocked him sideways, just like he hoped it would. He filled his glass again and shoved a few salty fries in his mouth before draining it and then poured another and headed for the sofa.
He never got around to that steak.
—
THREE-QUARTERS OF THE WAY through the bottle, his iWatch alarmed. It was a text. Bleary-eyed and flushed, he picked up his phone and read it. “Package in the lobby. Marked urgent. Thx. Management.”
What could it be? Pearce ran through the possibilities in his fogged mind but couldn’t settle on anything definite. Why bother trying? Just go down and get the damn thing, he told himself.
He pulled on a pair of Vans and grabbed his pass key and headed uneasily for the door. He tried to be quiet. It was late and the guests in the neighboring suites were probably asleep, and the management was fussy about noise.
It was hard for him to hold a straight line down the long hallway and he brushed against the walls a few times. He finally arrived at the elevator and pushed the button. He stood there, wobbly, waiting for the stainless steel doors to open. It took forever. He leaned against the wall. His eyes were heavy. He closed them. The world spun on a nauseating axis but he was too tired to get off.
The elevator ding startled him.
The doors slid open but all Pearce saw was the massive fist slamming into his face. The force of the blow whipped him around. The pain in his jaw woke him up as he crashed down onto the carpeted floor. Before he could lift himself up to throw a punch, a heavy knee jammed into his spine and a pair of thick hands pinned his shoulders and head to the ground, pressing his face against the carpet. A needle stabbed his neck and a moment later he was gone.
53
SALAH AL-DIN, IRAQ
2005
The air buzzed with flies. Hundreds of them, thick as thumbs.
Pearce stared at the corpses, their faces covered by swarms of bluebottle flies already eating away at the soft tissues, laying eggs in the moist cavities of mouths, noses, and gaping wounds where the skulls had been broken open by the bullets.
The twenty-four Shia recruits lay in a rough line along the low, blood-spattered wall, their fresh uniforms smeared in gore and dust.
Pearce, Early, Luckett, Rowley, and Tariq had pulled up their shemaghs, covering their own mouths and noses against the stench. Their weapons were unslung.
Pearce knelt down next to the young Shia lieutenant and brushed the flies off his face with a gloved hand. The Iraqi soldier was just a few years younger than Pearce. They’d grown close over the last few months. He told Pearce he wanted to be an architect but decided to serve his country instead. “All because of you brave Americans. You gave us hope.”
Pearce pulled off one glove and laid it across the lieutenant’s half-eaten eyes, his lifeless face turned toward heaven.
“Damn flies always show up out of nowhere,” Early said.
Pearce rose, wanting to say something smart-ass, but couldn’t. He stood, frozen
and numb. He glanced over at Tariq. The hardened Kurd’s glaring eyes were wet.
“They were lined up and shot, execution style,” Rowley said.
“It’s a low wall. Made them kneel down first,” Pearce said.
Early shook his head. “Poor bastards. I liked ’em.”
Pearce said. “Good men, bad war.”
“Who did it?” Luckett said, scanning the low roofs.
“Who do you think?” Tariq’s wet eyes blazed.
Pearce thought he should pray or something but he didn’t have the words. “Let’s pull tags and cover them up, then haul ass. We’re nothing but targets out here.”
—
THE EMPTY 6X6 CARGO TRUCK pulled out of the wide warehouse door and sped away. Two of Majid’s foreign mercenaries, the Brit and the South African, stood outside, guarding the entrance.
A Humvee raced past the 6x6 in the opposite direction, heading straight for the warehouse. Luckett was driving and Pearce was riding shotgun. Luckett stomped the brakes and skidded to a stop just feet from one of the scowling mercs.
Pearce turned toward the others in the Humvee. “Wait here—and stay frosty.” He looked at the open machine-gun cockpit, then at Tariq. “Stay off that fifty unless I whistle it up. Understood?”
“Let me go with you. I translate.”
Pearce grinned, shaking his head. “You’re a hothead. I need you to stay put.”
“You need me in there. I fight with you.”
“Trust me, I know when I need you. Not now. Later. Got it?”
Tariq nodded reluctantly. “Got it.”
Pearce and Early exited the Humvee, leaving their rifles behind but not their holstered pistols. They nodded at the merc standing closest to them. The South African looked them up and down, ignoring the gesture as he lit a cigarette.
Early grinned wide and pointed a thick finger in the merc’s direction. “Fuck you too, buddy!”
The South African shrugged dismissively as he took a long drag.
Pearce marched into the cool, dark air of the massive concrete warehouse recently built by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. General Majid stood in the center of the floor, watching a forklift carry a loaded pallet toward him. The forklift driver was one of the two Russian mercs in Majid’s employ. The leader of the mercenaries, a short and wiry Aussie, stood next to Majid. When he heard boots clomping behind him, he turned around. He lowered his rifle down to his side in a non-threatening gesture but stepped toward Pearce and Early.
“State your business, gents.”
Early turned to Pearce. “You want me to toss this shrimp onto his barbie?”
“Ha, ha. Like I haven’t heard that one a million times,” the Aussie said. His unshaved face wasn’t smiling.
The Russian lowered the pallet down right in front of Majid, then killed the forklift engine and jumped off.
“Need a word with the general,” Pearce said.
The Aussie shrugged. “As you can see, he’s a little busy at the moment.”
Pearce stepped into the man’s face. “Won’t take long.”
“Mr. Pearce! Come!” General Majid smiled and waved them over.
“Sorry, Barbie,” Early said, bumping into the shorter man as he pushed by, following Pearce.
Pearce and Early approached the pallet. It was a four-foot cube of newly printed American money. Majid cut open the plastic with a knife. The smell of fresh ink and currency paper filled the air.
The Russian glared at them through his mirrored sunglasses. Pearce could hear the Aussie behind them whispering into his comms.
“What can I do for you gentlemen?” Majid asked.
Early nodded at the pallet. “Nice stack of Washingtons you got there.”
“Development funds, courtesy of the American government. Very generous.”
“Developing who, I wonder?” Early shot back.
Majid picked up one of the cash bundles and riffled through it. “The people of my district, of course. Schools, roads, farming—my country has been destroyed by the war. This is how we rebuild.” He was quick to add, “We are grateful, of course.”
Pearce knew this wasn’t the first delivery of cash to the general in this quantity. He also knew that very little of it would actually make it to the people it was intended for. He didn’t really care. It was all Monopoly money anyway, given the way the U.S. government just printed it out of thin air.
“Yeah. Of course,” Early said.
Pearce pulled his shemagh out of a large cargo pocket, bundled up and tied off.
Majid tossed the cash back onto the pallet, curious.
Pearce handed the shemagh to the general.
Majid glanced at the bundle in his hand. He weighed it and shook it. Metal jostled inside, like coins. “What’s this?” Majid asked, intrigued.
“The dog tags of the twenty-four Shia soldiers in your command. They were butchered not fifteen klicks from here, at a village just north of Al-Awja.”
“I know it well,” Majid said. “I’m sorry to hear this.”
“You look like you could cry,” Early said.
The general ignored him. “Their families will be notified, of course. Are they buried?”
“No. We just covered them up.” Pearce knew the Muslim requirements for burial of the faithful. It would have been inappropriate for the five non-Muslims to do so.
The general handed the bundle to the Russian mercenary. “Take that to Major Raghif and tell him to organize a burial detail immediately.” The Russian nodded and turned on his heel, heading for the doorway.
“Those Shia recruits that we were all so proud of a few days ago are now all martyrs for the cause,” Pearce said.
“A terrible tragedy. It must have been AQ again.”
Pearce shook his head. “AQ hasn’t been active in this area for weeks, General.”
“Then Baathists. Or even Syrians.”
“Not likely,” Early said.
“Then who?”
Early’s eyes narrowed. “Good question.”
“I don’t like the tone of your voice, soldier,” Majid said. Another Humvee driven by the other Russian merc pulled up behind Tariq’s vehicle. Barnes, Majid’s American mercenary, stood in the machine-gun cockpit, hands on the weapon.
Early started to say something but a gesture from Pearce silenced him.
“Who sent them to that village? Whose command were they under? And why wasn’t their disappearance reported earlier?” Pearce asked.
“Excellent questions. I shall look into them myself.”
“Good. Because when I report this back to my people, they’ll want answers.”
“What are you implying?”
“They were good men. Your men. And now they’re dead. They deserved better.”
“There are a lot of dead Iraqis around here, Pearce,” the Aussie said. “Hundreds of thousands. A lot of them killed by your people. What’s a few dozen more?”
Majid’s eyes narrowed. “So many things you arrogant Americans don’t understand. Long after you leave, we will still be here, and there will still be war, and the Shia will butcher us if they come to power. You want answers? You don’t even know the right questions to ask.”
Pearce felt the heat rise in the back of his neck. Maybe he didn’t know all of the right questions. But a bullet in Majid’s merciless face had to be the right answer, didn’t it? Pearce’s training pushed the thought away.
“You and your men have been reassigned to Baghdad. Why are you still here?” Majid asked.
The day after Chandler left, Pearce and the others were ordered back to Baghdad, but Pearce managed to put it off for two more weeks, promising to deliver a major intel score. “Another week and we’ll be out of your hair, General.”
“I want you gone now. For your own good. Now get out
of my sight!” Majid turned and waved a dismissive hand.
The Aussie merc behind them racked a round in his rifle. “You heard the man.”
Pearce and Early turned around. The other two mercs from outside were approaching, rifles up. The smiling American in the Humvee kept his hands on the machine gun but didn’t move.
Early glanced at Pearce. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Yeah, I am. But this isn’t the time. Let’s roll. This place stinks.”
—
IT WAS LATE. Pearce sat alone in the mess tent, working on a hamburger and Coke, thinking about Majid and the dead Shia while Early and the others grabbed some shut-eye.
Barnes, the American merc, dropped down opposite him at the table with a tray piled full of food. His eyes were bloodshot and he stank of weed. His unshaved faced was specked with silver stubble.
“Mind?” Barnes asked.
“Would it matter if I did?”
Barnes chuckled. “No.” He picked up one of his two cheeseburgers and took a huge bite.
Pearce glanced around the mess tent. A lot of empty tables. “So I take it this is a social call.”
Barnes chewed with his mouth open. It took a minute before he could swallow. “Yeah. A social call.” He popped his soda can and took a swig.
“So start socializing,” Pearce said.
Barnes slammed the can down on the table. Saw the disdainful look in Pearce’s eyes. “What the fuck’s your problem?”
“You, and asshole mercs like you.”
“You judging me? You don’t know shit. I been wasting hajjis since before you were learning how to jerk off.”
“This isn’t just about killing jihadis. We’re trying to build a democracy in this godforsaken country, remember?”
Barnes laughed, a barking smoker’s rasp. “You think you’re all that ’cuz you’re in the Cock In Ass club? CIA don’t mean shit out here.” The merc stabbed a crooked finger on the table. “You’ve been here six weeks. I’ve been here six months. You don’t know the score. But I can fill you in.” Barnes took another bite of his cheeseburger.