Battlemind

by Michael Waddington

  I gave her a wary smile and turned my chair at an angle, giving myself a little more space.

  "Max, maybe we can work together."

  "How?"

  Over the next hour, we ate, drank, and discussed how we could cooperate for our mutual benefit. I would give Rose newsworthy information, and she would write stories that would portray Jefferson as a heroic scapegoat.

  When it came time to go, Rose asked, "You need a ride?" Her hand brushed my leg - probably an accident.

  I pointed at the beer bottles on the table. "We'd better take a cab."

  "To my place, or yours?" I felt her hand slide across my knee, headed toward the sentry in my pants. My hand caught her wrist.

  "No," I said.

  "You sure?"

  "Yes." I hoped I sounded more certain than I felt.

  "A faithful husband." She smirked and tossed her hair over her shoulder. "You're the first I've met in a long time."

  Chapter 48

  I took a taxi to the Rodeo Inn, stuffed with dinner and beer, and fell asleep. In the middle of a dream, my phone rang. It was Rose. The alarm clock on the nightstand flashed 3:14 a.m.

  "Max, I need you to verify something," she said.

  "Yeah, what?" I said, rubbing my eyes.

  "Can you confirm that Hamza Nassar is the same guy who bombed the Embassy in Kenya?"

  "I'm pretty sure."

  "I can't mess this up, Max." Rose had dropped the sultry act. She was all business. "This has to be right."

  "Yeah. He's the same guy. He was Osama bin Laden's top lieutenant in the Horn of Africa. He blew up churches, schools for girls, an embassy, all sorts of stuff." I could almost hear Rose salivating. "Why are you asking?"

  "I'm writing a piece that connects the dots between the Kenya bombing, Nassar, Sangar Prison, and the CIA."

  "Don't quote me."

  "Max, you never said this was off the record. I cannot write a story without a source."

  "Okay. Please don't mention my name."

  "That's not how this works," Rose said.

  "When's the story coming out?"

  "In an hour or so."

  "Can I at least read the article before you publish it, to check the facts?"

  "No. That violates journalistic ethics."

  "Huh?"

  "I have to go," she said and hung up.

  The moment the call ended, I regretted talking to her, but it was too late. I didn't know what Rose would write or what the fallout would be. It's a blog, I thought. Who the hell reads that crap anyway? I was about to find out.

  After tossing and turning in bed for a while, I opened my computer and did a Google search for "Sangar Prison." Rose's article appeared as the first result.

  Top Al-Qaeda Operative Murdered in Captivity, Lawyer Blames CIA

  By Rose Sanchez

  FORT CUSTER, Texas - A man once considered a top al-Qaeda operative was killed while in U.S. captivity at Sangar Confinement Facility, Afghanistan. A U.S. Army Reservist is on trial for his murder.

  Sgt. Tyler Jefferson stands accused of abusing and murdering Hamza Nassar, Osama bin Laden's top lieutenant in the Horn of Africa. Nassar has been linked to the 1998 bombing of the U.S. Embassy in Kenya. The attack employed a series of truck bombs and killed over 200 people.

  Nassar also claimed responsibility for a series of bombings that targeted Christmas Eve church services across Ethiopia in 1999. He was a significant threat in the region until Eritrean forces captured him in the summer of 2001 during a border crossing. How Nassar ended up in Sangar is unknown.

  Captain Max O'Donnell, Sgt. Tyler Jefferson's Army lawyer, contends the CIA, not his client, tortured and murdered Nassar. O'Donnell, repeatedly stymied by the presiding judge, was unable to call any of the witnesses he intended to use in Jefferson's defense. This reporter has learned that O'Donnell believes the Sangar Facility housed a secret torture program, established and operated by the Central Intelligence Agency, in which atrocities were committed. Before today's hearing, the grisly fate of Nassar was unknown to the public.

  Sergeant Gary Trott, a member of Jefferson's unit, testified in court that Jefferson attacked a prisoner as he hung from a wall of razor wire in a shocking display of barbarism.

  Sources confirm that before his capture, Nassar had plans to carry out attacks in Eastern Africa, including a plot to bomb U.S. Naval vessels in the Red Sea on the anniversary of 9/11. During the preliminary hearing, Jefferson's lawyer demanded to know who had access to Nassar inside the prison; his requests were denied by the presiding judge, Colonel Michael Hackworth. More on this story as it develops.

  It was 6 a.m. on the East Coast, and the blog already had over 18,000 hits. The counter was spinning like a Tilt-a-Whirl. I kept hitting refresh on my browser and watched the story take on a life of its own, as other news agencies wrote follow-on articles.

  I had kicked over a hornet's nest. The story was everywhere. Some articles called Jefferson a war criminal, others a hero. Most focused on the CIA angle. I flicked on the television and turned to CNN. The U.S. Secretary of State was holding a press conference where he disavowed any government involvement in the abuses at Sangar. "This story is a red herring, a desperate attempt by a defense lawyer trying to shift the blame away from his client," the Secretary of State said.

  I clicked off the television and hopped into the shower. I had to be at the airport in an hour, and I was behind schedule. As I washed my hair, I heard the shower curtain slide open. Before I could react, I was slammed face-first into the wall, and my wrists were zip-tied behind my back. My head was stuffed into a pillowcase. I was pulled out of the shower and forced to my knees.

  "You got a small dick for someone with such a big mouth," a man's voice said.

  "His poor wife," a second man said. "I'll show her a real cock."

  "Put this on him," the first man said. "I can't look at that pitiful excuse."

  They wrapped me in a sheet and marched me outside. A van door opened, and they shoved me inside. Tires screeched, and we sped away. I bounced around on a cold metal floor as the van took fast curves, spiked the brakes, and hit an excessive number of potholes.

  Eventually, the van stopped, and the pillowcase was yanked from my head. Two men wearing ski masks and sunglasses hovered over me. One of the men kneeled on my ribcage. I struggled to breathe. The other brute put his face inches from mine. "We got ourselves a tough guy?" he said. His breath reeked of stale coffee and chewing tobacco.

  "We'll see about that," the man on my chest said in a raspy voice. He sounded like he'd spent the night singing in a smoke-filled karaoke bar.

  Coffee breath leaned in and whispered in my ear. "We know you passed sensitive information to that little whore reporter. Does Annabelle know you've been fucking that hot piece of ass?"

  "I want a lawyer," I said.

  The men burst into laughter. "When you aid and abet terrorists, you don't get a lawyer, motherfucker. Read the Patriot Act. God bless the USA," raspy said.

  "Fuck you," I said.

  Coffee breath leaned hard on my sternum. Oxygen was suddenly a precious commodity.

  "Listen, abogado," raspy said, "you crossed the line. We know you passed sensitive information to Sanchez. We can't have sensitive materials ending up in enemy hands." He paused to let the information sink in. "Espionage. You know what that carries?"

  Silence.

  "Death," coffee breath said.

  Raspy leaned close. "Stop running your fucking mouth, or we'll ruin you."

  "Don't even think about calling the police," coffee breath said, "or next time, you'll end up in the morgue."

  I nodded.

  The man removed his knee from my chest. I sucked in gulps of air, as the van door slid open. "Get the fuck out," raspy said, and he shoved me out of the van, naked.

  They tossed the sheet on the ground. I picked it up and wrapped it around my waist. The vans' tires spun, kicking pebbles across the asphalt. I squinted hard in the bright sun. I realized that I
was in the motel parking lot when I saw the sign for the Rodeo Inn. We had probably been driving around in circles the entire time. I scanned the lot. Reggie's SUV was gone.

  I ran to my room. The door was ajar. I hurriedly shoved my clothes into a suitcase and called a cab. By the time I got to the airport, it was past noon. I had no chance of getting a seat on standby. All the remaining flights were overbooked, so I decided to spend the night in the terminal. It was my best option. I wouldn't make it home in time for Thanksgiving dinner if I wasn't on the first flight out in the morning.

  Chapter 49

  Every emotionally charged family drama about Thanksgiving that I had ever watched contained the obligatory, bad dinner scene. Dad gets drunk. Mom gets shrill. Grandpa waxes eloquently on how things used to be. Kids shriek. Grandma makes snarky comments while acting like no one can hear her. I had always hated those. I thought they were totally fictitious and overdone, until I arrived home for Thanksgiving dinner.

  I came late. Twenty-four minutes late, to be exact. I wheeled the Malibu into the drive for the divinely ordained hour of "the feast." Given how my week had gone, I fully expected to find smoke billowing from the oven while the turkey burned. But the only smoke came from my mother-in-law Martha's ears. Fuming hardly covered her mood.

  Annabelle wasn't angry.

  Glaciers don't get angry.

  My attempt at kissing her cheek met only air as she deftly dodged my lips while guiding a sweet potato casserole into the dining room. Ethan sat in a chair in the corner. Eva sniffled mightily and clung to Annabelle's skirt. When she saw me, Eva raced toward me. I picked her up and kissed her cheeks.

  "What happened to your face, Max?" Martha asked, referring to my black eye.

  Damn, I thought I had done a better job of applying the concealer.

  "Someone hit you?" Sterling chimed in.

  "How did you guess, Sterling?" I said, my sarcasm blatant.

  "Probably got into a drunken bar fight," Annabelle said in a vicious mumble.

  Martha squinted at me through cobra-like slits. I put Eva down and went into the den to fix a rum and Coke.

  "Dinner's on its way out, Max," Sterling said. "The bar's closed, old boy."

  My own damn den. What the fuck?

  "How's that job hunt coming along, Max?" Martha asked.

  I ignored her.

  Sterling filled the silence. "I heard the Public Defender's office is looking for Spanish speakers. Maybe you could apply there."

  "Good to know, Sterling," I said.

  "I wish you would take these things more seriously, Max," Martha pursed her lips like she'd been chewing a lemon rind. "We're truly concerned about your family."

  "Mind your own business, Martha," I said.

  "My daughter and grandbabies are my business," she replied.

  After that, the only sounds at the table were the ping of silverware - Martha's family flatware she'd brought with her like it was the myrrh from Bethlehem - and the occasional request to "pass the rolls, please."

  Halfway through the driest dinner atmosphere I'd ever experienced, while quietly choking down the driest turkey in the history of poultry, Annabelle suddenly burst into tears. "I can't take this," she cried and ran to our bedroom.

  When I stood to follow, Martha spoke directly into her green bean casserole. "Maybe that would have been helpful three days ago, Max." She slid a delicate forkful into her tight mouth and chewed.

  Sterling reached to one side, hoisted a bottle of Evan Williams Single Barrel, and filled his tumbler.

  I thought the bar was closed.

  Chapter 50

  After the long Thanksgiving weekend, I was back at work for the first time since I'd returned from Texas. I passed Jules in the hallway and said, "Hello." She nodded and ducked into her office without saying a word. Odd. I walked into my office. As I unpacked my briefcase, someone knocked on my office door. "Come in," I said without looking up.

  The door swung open. It was Major Dill. Two men in suits stood behind him. "Captain O'Donnell," Dill said, stepping inside. "These men would like to have a word with you."

  A middle-aged man with a comb-over moved forward. "I'm Special Agent Martin, and this is Special Agent Garza," he said, gesturing to the man next to him. "We're with Army CID."

  Martin's bulbous nose, swollen from years of hard drinking, resembled a shriveled potato. His rumpled grey suit, purple polyester shirt, and red tie told me he was either colorblind or didn't give a damn about his appearance. One of the laces of his scuffed brown shoes was about to snap.

  Garza was younger, with slicked-back black hair and orange skin, no doubt the result of a cheap fake tan. He smelled like he had bathed in Drakkar Noir cologne. Garza was better dressed than Martin but just as shady looking. He sported a tight-fitting, pin-striped black suit, a gray shirt, and a skinny black tie. He wore shiny black loafers with no socks.

  Classy.

  Garza pulled a small laminated card from his wallet, turned to me, and said, "You have the right to remain silent-"

  I interrupted him, "You haven't memorized the rights advisement?"

  Garza blushed and slid the card back into his wallet. "Okay, smartass, you want a lawyer or not?"

  "No," I said without hesitation. "What's this about?"

  "Sit down, and I'll explain," Martin said.

  We all sat.

  "Would you care for a cup of coffee?" I asked them.

  They shook their heads no.

  I turned to Dill. "Are you here as my lawyer?"

  "No, I'm here to observe."

  "In that case, sir, you can leave." I pointed to the door.

  Major Dill's face contorted. I wasn't sure if he was embarrassed or in disbelief. He was sweating profusely in my 68-degree office.

  "Otherwise," I said, "you can all leave."

  Dill stood, slumped over, and walked out of the room like a kid who dropped his ice cream cone on the sidewalk.

  "Now that we got that cleared up," I said to Martin. "I'll take you up on that lawyer. I don't want you twisting my words." I picked up my phone and dialed it. "Please come to my office," I said and hung up.

  A few seconds later, Jules poked her head into the room and asked, "What's up?"

  "Get a note pad and pull up a chair," I said. "These agents want to ask me a few questions.

  Over the past three years, I had watched dozens of interrogations and read extensively on the subject. Agents Martin and Garza were using the infamous "Hanscom Interrogation Technique." Named for legendary FBI interrogator John Hanscom, the technique used lies, trickery, and deceit to score a confession. The problem is, it does not work if the person being interrogated knows the method better than the guys asking the questions. I saw it coming a mile away.

  "We know you gave Rose Sanchez classified information," Martin said with conviction. "What exactly did you give-?"

  "Max!" Jules interrupted. "We need to talk." She leaned in close to me and said, "Don't talk to these guys. They already made up their minds. They think you're guilty." Jules was right. It's never wise to talk to investigators. They don't investigate you unless they believe you did something wrong.

  "I got this," I assured her.

  She pinched my arm. "That's what all criminals say before they confess. Plead the Fifth and tell these pricks to fuck off." She spoke loud enough for the agents to hear.

  I ignored her and turned back to Martin. "What was your question?"

  Martin replied, "What classified documents did you give Rose Sanchez?"

  "I didn't give her any classified documents."

  "We know you did," Martin said. "Why did you do it? Was it for money? Sex? Or, is there something else we should know about?" Martin glanced at Garza, who seemed more interested in the photo of Annabelle on my bookshelf than the faltering interrogation.

  "You guys suck," I said and stood up. "Next time, before you interrogate someone, get your shit together." I pointed at the door. "Get out." The agents hurried out of the room. Thr
ough the window, I saw them speaking with Major Dill in the parking lot. "You see that, Jules?" I motioned out the window. "Our fearless leader is out there throwing me under the bus."

  "Not surprising," she said. We watched as Dill and the agents shook hands. Dill then turned and walked toward our office building. "He's coming back," Jules said. "Brace yourself."

  A few seconds later, I heard a knock at my door. "I'm in a meeting," I said.

  The door thrust open, and Major Dill walked in. "Dammit, O'Donnell," he said. "I'm gone for two weeks. Two weeks! And you lose your mind."

  Dill pointed at Jules and said, "You. Out."

  "I want her to stay." I held up my hand. "As a witness."

  Dill's face turned bright pink. "I want to have a private conversation with you," he said. "Don't forget, I'm still your commanding officer."

  Jules stepped in. "Major Dill, Captain O'Donnell is going to plead the Fifth."

  "You're in a lot of trouble, mister." Dill stuck his finger inches from my face. I noticed his fingernail was chewed down to the cuticle. "You are officially under investigation. You may be facing criminal charges, not to mention a bar complaint."

  "That's bullshit," I said.

  "I don't know what's gotten into you," Dill said. "You were sent out there to do a simple plea. Instead, you've created an international incident."

  "I did my job," I said.

  "O'Donnell! You can't keep your mouth shut, can you? You've pissed off a lot of people. People who can ruin your life." I smiled and crossed my arms. Dill mumbled "moron," before turning and walking away. He slammed the door so hard it knocked my law school diploma off of the wall.

  "That went well," Jules said with a smirk.

  Chapter 51

  Back at Fort Custer, Colonel Paine had been plotting ways to get payback on me. On his way to work, while listening to NPR, the idea hit him. Paine called Captain Nelson to his office first thing in the morning.