by Quinn, Jack
where he was raised, his tribal homestead.”
“But you missed him.”
“He probably hadn’t gone down in his hidey-hole yet,” Brooks said.
Andrea looked at Callaghan. “So where were you?”
“Hawija Arban most of the time. Major Geoff flew me to Tikrit to inspect various patrols.”
“Did you visit Mitchell’s platoon?”
“One of his squads, I recall. I did not run into Lieutenant Mitchell himself, however.”
Brooks placed the binder on the cushion beside him as he slid to the edge of the sofa. “I’m afraid that’s all we have, Miz Madigan.”
“I’d appreciate a copy of your intelligence investigation,” she said to Callaghan.
“That is definitely classified information,” Brooks answered.
“What about the Freedom of Information Act?”
Brooks was getting annoyed. “Do your homework, Miz Madigan. That public document proviso does not apply to classified military records.”
“I’m sure you don’t expect me to go on the air with a report to the American people,” Andrea said, “that the army conducted a full investigation that turned up nothing without some sort of verification.”
Callaghan looked at Brooks. “How about the Executive Summary submitted to JCS, Paul?”
The captain nodded thoughtfully as though reviewing the contents of the document in his mind. “That should be OK, sir.” He rose to his feet and left the room.
“Assuming you will not give this up,” Callaghan said, “until you are convinced that your questionable sources are perpetuating some fictitious hearsay, how will you proceed next?”
“General Callaghan, I’m appalled at the question!” Andrea exclaimed with mock
indignity. “Even the wide open portals of the American press has secrets of its own.”
Callaghan smiled. “I retract the question. It’s just that your business has always fascinated me.”
“Probably because mine is exposing secrets, while yours is keeping them.”
“It wouldn’t do to tell the enemy all our plans.”
“The American people are not your enemy, General.”
“The dilemma,” he said.
Captain Brooks reentered the room with a spiral-bound plastic folder containing a dozen typed sheets of paper which he proffered to Andrea. “This is an official summary of the MI investigation into the alleged theft of antique treasure by army personnel during the Iraq War,” he told her. “There is no more information on the subject we can give you.”
“Will give me,” she corrected.
“None of the second-hand accusations by the Iraqis claimed the purported theft was in the northwest sector as your nomads have done,” Callaghan told her. “So we had the entirety of Company ‘B’ to interrogate--almost 300 troopers. Every one we could locate five months after the alleged incident when the Iraq protest filtered down through their lame-duck diplomatic channels.”
“Which produced no leads, clues or information whatsoever,” Brooks said.
“You mean this,” Andrea waved the MI report in the air, “is not only a farce, but incomplete?”
“Your entire assertions are a farce,” Brooks blurted.
Callaghan raised his chin in Andrea’s direction. “Is there anything else, Miz Madigan?”
When Captain Brooks returned to Callaghan’s office, the general was seated at his desk talking on
the phone. Brooks stood at ease before him until he had completed his conversation regarding their
previous meeting.
“Thanks for your help with this, Captain. I needed a PR officer with Top Secret clearance.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
“The cause is righteous, Paul.”
“I accept that without question, general.
“I think you had better make yourself unavailable.”
“I could put in for a third tour.”
Callaghan shook his head. “Not necessary. Pick an interesting duty station and I’ll sign off on it. Tomorrow, if that’s convenient.”
“Yessir.”
General Callaghan leaned back, his hands gripping the arms of his chair, eyes fixed on his junior officer. “What was your take on the Madigan woman?”
“Competent, determined. She’s not going to walk away from this, sir.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
“Quite attractive in her own way.”
Callaghan smiled at him. “You don’t miss a trick, do you?”
Brooks grinned back. “Try not to, sir.”
After Brooks left the room, Callaghan steepled his hands under his chin. She was a very attractive woman; not just physically, but what he could determine of her character, the way she stood up for her beliefs, untainted by all that feminist nonsense. Intelligent, perceptive, a sense of humor lingering beneath the businesslike façade. And here they were, adversaries by nature and specifically at odds on the artifact project. Why was it that every time his genes responded positively to a woman, she was unattainable? For all he knew, she was married or with someone.
Why wouldn’t she be?
CHAPTER THREE
Washington, DC
September 2004
Andrea caught the one-stop red-eye from Raleigh-Durham to Washington, arriving in her Watergate office before six a.m. She had slept on the plane in a first-class seat after two relaxing martinis and felt energized, but not refreshed, sensing the traveler’s body slime beneath her stale undergarments and wrinkled suit. She hobbled through the sparsely populated cubicles on the eighth floor of NNC-TV headquarters leaving a trail of ‘thanks’ to the night crew for their compliments on her newscast special as she made her way to the women’s changing room. Andrea shed her clothes in front of her locker, scrubbed the grime away beneath a hot shower, luxuriating through a double shampoo and conditioning.
Back in her office, she flicked on her computer before changing from her robe to a pair of jeans and maroon cotton pullover. The cramped room looked like the occupant was in the process of moving in or out: the hard rubber surface of her gray metal desk contained only an oversized ashtray, green banker’s lamp and TV remote; a computer workstation occupied a credenza to the left of her desk; an open cardboard box stuffed with Pendaflex file folders sat on a wooden chair at the right. Matching brass floor lamps stood at either end of a floral-print sofa along the outer wall, on which one of twin green throw cushions stated that ‘Life sucks...’ in black embroidery, the other completing the phrase ‘...and then you die’.
A low drop-leaf cocktail table in front of the sofa held another ashtray and a vase of artificial flowers. Black and white photos on the inside wall showed her standing with Margaret Thatcher, another with Germaine Greer, the third with Hillary Clinton. A TV monitor hung from brackets on the wall opposite her desk beneath clocks depicting the time in various parts of the world. There were no windows in the tiny room, and the fluorescent ceiling fixtures had been disconnected in her preference for the subdued lighting from her desk and side lamps.
She pressed a memory button on her phone console that dialed an internal number.
“Commissary,” the accented voice came over the speaker.
“Cookie,” she said, leaning over to get her note pad out of the carryall beside her desk, “how about a big glass of o. j., two poached eggs, ham, toasted bagel, cream cheese and a pot of black?”
“In my country, after last night you get beating and crust bread in Lubyanka this morning.”
“Well, we ain’t in your country, Cookie, and I’m starving. So let’s skip the beating and get the grub up here pronto.”
“Pronto?”
“Fast, quick, now, get your ass in gear!”tout de suite,
“Pronto!” Cookie repeated. “Ass in gear!”
Andrea broke the connection and dialed another inside number that was picked up on the first ring. “Good morning, Princess.”
“You been here all night, Sammy?”
<
br /> “If I’d gone to sleep after your midnight call, you’d have sent the knee-breakers over.”
“You better believe it, pal. Did you locate any troopers in Mitchell’s platoon?”
“Your big bad general must have pulled his Bravo Company from every army database right after your interview,” Sammy said. “Eighty-Second Division website, Iraq War Historical, couple of others.”
“Damn! I should have thought of that.”
“Hindsight.”
“Did any Second Platoon soldiers log onto their unofficial veterans website exchange?”
“I haven’t checked. Been surfing a peripheral site, military-dot-com with twenty million records.”
“What?” Andrea’s response was not quite a shout. “That soldier- administered site looked like our best bet!”
“It can wait. I downloaded Bravo troopers from the Association website to an FTP as soon as I found it last summer.”
“Oh.”
“Certainly, Andy,” Sammy crooned over the phone, “I accept your gracious apology.”
“Yeah, yeah. I should know by now not to question our brilliant MIS Manager.”
“What’s next?” Sammy asked.
“Print a couple of pages of the Association site and trot those tight buns up here so we can figure out how to use it.”
Andrea broke the connection before he could reply.
By the time Sammy walked into her office, a used linen napkin had been tossed over the dirty dishes on the breakfast tray on the floor. Andrea was sprawled on the sofa smoking, reviewing the notes she had scribbled the previous night. He stopped in mid-stride with hands on hips, wrinkling his nose.
“An-dree-ah...,” he admonished.
“OK, OK!” She sat up straight, reaching out to stub out her half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray containing several other bent butts.
“Shut the door.”
Sammy Simkowski was a six-foot-three, broad-shouldered bodybuilder with biceps bulging out of the short sleeves of his Aloha shirt tucked inside stonewashed khaki trousers and wide leather belt cinched around his narrow waist. His blond hair was styled in a wet look, combed straight back from his forehead, and gathered in a short ponytail at the back of his neck. Round glasses the size of quarters lent an aura of academia to his rugged persona, modified by the wide bridge of nose resulting from an apparent break, a subtle raffish accent to his handsome features.
She moved the cane that had been leaning against the cushion beside her and Sammy sat down, placing a printout on the low table before them.
“Any word on the leg?” he asked.
“They want to run more tests.”
“When?”
“A couple of weeks ago.” Andrea picked up the printout, a look of annoyance on her face.
Sammy reached out and tugged the pages from her hand. “Don’t get angry with me because you’re an idiot about your health.”
“I’ve been busy?” Andrea said. “Every quack I go to sends me to some other duck who conjures up more tests that tell me zip.”
“Specialists?”
“Round and round the mulberry bush. Neurologists, neurosurgeons, second, triple, quadruple opinions. They even had me checked out by Desert Storm Syndrome experts because I was there in ‘92. Nothing.”
“But this started less than a year ago, right?”
“About then, yeah,” she lied.
“So, now what?”
Andrea turned to look in Sammy’s eyes, placing the tips of her fingers on his hairy arm. “I really do appreciate your concern, Sam, but I don’t have time right now.”
“What’s the latest prognosis, diagnosis, whatever?”
Andrea sighed in defeat. “So far there is none.”
“What a simpleton!”
“Thank you. Now back to business, OK?”
“Not until you pick up that telephone and make an appointment.”
“Simkowski, I will not let you or anyone else run my life!”
“Fine,” Sammy said, standing up. “I’ll just tell T.P. I refuse to consort with moronic females. I’m sure he can find some other project for me to work on.”
Andrea stared up at the man for several moments as her eyes filled. “Sam....”
He sat down again and put an arm around her shoulder. “I’ll go in with you. Everything’s gonna be fine. You gotta do this, Andy.”
She sniffed, produced a tissue from a box on the end table and blew her nose. “First thing tomorrow.”
Sammy rose from the couch, walked to her desk and brought back the cordless phone. “Now,” he said.
After she made an appointment with her primary neurologist, Andrea picked up several pages of the Airborne Association printout from the table where Sammy had dropped them.
“Name and rank,” Andrea read, “unit, e-mail, occasional phone and address.” She looked at Sammy. “Gee, this is pretty good.”
“It’s not consistent, though. Because it’s all voluntary, not an official personnel list or anywhere near complete. Most guys just surfed into the site looking for a buddy they served with.”
“Maybe it’ll pay off when I get the names of Mitchell’s squad leaders from Brooks.”
Sammy tapped a finger on the printout. “I doubt anyone else has this, either.”
“All right!” Andrea whooped. “How to go, genius!”
“Sounds like I just got a promotion.”
“Damn straight, you did!”
“What about the MI investigation?”
“The summary is pabulum. Any chance you can find the full report to the JCS?”
Sammy made a note on a corner of the printout on his lap. “I doubt it.”
Andrea sounded discouraged. “May be a whitewash in any event. Written by the very army whose soldiers stole millions in ancient Arab treasure.”
“Military Intelligence are like Internal Affairs in police departments, Andy. For the most part smart and dedicated. They’d need a lot of people to conduct an investigation like that. How could the army cover it up? And why?”
“Those are precisely the questions we’re going to answer.”
Andrea reached to the table for the spiral-bound pad in which she had entered notes during her interview with the general, flipping through the pages to refresh her memory.
“When I asked for the Bravo casualty report they both jumped on me with all four feet.”
“The military is very protective of their dead heroes.”
“I sensed a lot more than that, Sam. Any way you can get the second platoon casualty list?”
“I’m not sure. They might not report that by sub-unit.”
“If the Army is covering up a high casualty rate in Mitchell’s second platoon during Black Dawn, I might have a pretty strong wedge to pop some congressional eyeballs.”
Sammy nodded his agreement as he made another note on the printout.
Andrea lifted the pages of the JCS summary onto her lap and began reading from it aloud. The report began with an introduction repeating the unsubstantiated charges leveled by Iraqi interim PM Allawi, the questions asked of the 211 soldiers in Bravo Company interrogated, the inconclusive findings, the subsequent fruitless search for the nomadic tribe by a platoon of impartial British Marines, and the conclusion that the Bedouin story had been fabricated for some reason known only to the workings of the incomprehensible Arab psyche. The names of the soldiers interviewed were not listed, nor were any verbatim comments made to MI and CIA investigative officers. Major Charles X. Geoff signed the Report Summary.
They were both silent for several minutes until Sammy said, “These crooks we’re looking for, probably half a dozen tough buggers, twenty-something, went through rugged training together, ate and slept side by side for months, grown to trust each another.”
“Could the average soldier pull this off?” she wondered. “This is brainy stuff, unloading the family jewels of some ancient Mesopotamian king; not like stealing dollars from Saddam’s stash.”
&nb
sp; “Let’s not underestimate the devious mind of the common man.”
“Or woman,” she added.
“You think so? Technically, the gentle sex is not supposed to be deployed in frontline combat.”
“These were just patrols, search and apprehend.” She lifted her eyes to gaze at the opposite wall. “Female medics are allowed on patrol under some circumstances. Would they be more squeamish about the theft than guys? Shooting the Bedouins? Would their male buddies exert pressure? How much?”
“What about the female guards at Abu Ghraib?”
“Good point. We’re not going to find a bunch of pussycats behind this. According to the Bedouins, they killed to get the treasure, they’ll kill to keep it.”
Sammy stared at her until she met his gaze. “You’ll bear that in mind won’t you, Princess?”
Andrea smirked. “I’ve been under fire before, remember?”
“This would be different. After your broadcast a lot of criminal minds will be figuring how to snatch the loot from a bunch of amateurs.”
Andy dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand. “Not until they’re sure it exists and where.”
“So we’re looking for guys, gals in some squad in the Second.”
“Focus on guys. I think women have a stronger sense of morality than men.”
Sammy rolled his eyes in mock irony.
“Hey!” Andrea said. “I do what it takes to get the job done. You don’t tiptoe through the tulips trying to break past a phalanx of macho suits.”
“Tell me about it,” Sammy said.
She saw the flash of pain cross her friend’s face and pressed her lips together. Two years ago, after Sammy’s partner had died of AIDS, and a still unknown homophobic employee had started the malicious rumor that Sammy was HIV positive. This information was quickly relayed to Rand Duncan, who immediately laid Sammy off before the lie could be challenged with the fact of his negative test results.
When Andrea caught up with that charade she organized a petition signed by most NNC employees, confronting Duncan with it during a well-attended staff meeting at which she threatened to take his blatant act of discrimination to a competitive network and sue the knickers off Duncan and any other NNC troglodytes who believed AIDS could be transmitted by shaking hands.