by Quinn, Jack
It had not been a good day for the young ‘B’ School graduate. In fact, it had been one of the worst days he had experienced since beginning his corporate life just seven short years ago. As a universally proclaimed nerd in high school he had borne harassment and derision from jocks and giggling cliques of post-pubescent girls with grudging acceptance. Until his sophomore year at Northwestern where he had assumed what he secretly believed was his natural role of leader by launching a scathingly negative campaign for class president against a gay young man who was not yet ready to emerge from his closet. Having found what worked in life, Duncan began to seek out and exploit whatever weaknesses he could discover in perceived competitors as he began climbing the corporate ladder on the body-rungs of peer candidates for positions he sought.
That morning, Duncan had summoned his news director to a one-on-one meeting behind the closed door of his office. “Madigan has stolen proprietary information on the artifact story from our network. I want it back.”
T.P. stood in shirtsleeves before the wide desk behind which Duncan also stood. “How do you know she did?”
“Because it’s not here! Not everything.”
“You can’t be sure of that.”
“Do not tell me what I can and cannot do, T.P.”
“So, sue her.”
“Legal action would take too long,” Duncan responded, “and potentially expose the
information to competitors.”
“Rock and a hard place.”
“Not quite. I want you to place a tap on her phone and put her under surveillance.”
“Not in my job description, Rand. Get some other sleaze to do your dirty work.”
Duncan’s eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, arms propped on the edge of his desk. “Your job is to do what I tell you to do. You know her and her habits better than anyone else in the station, certainly have the contacts and wherewithal to accomplish the tasks, from your wide ranging investigative snooping in the District. Do it, or your so-called job description will include packing your personal items and joining Madigan and her gay compatriot on the cold cement sidewalks of Washington, DC.”
T.P. turned abruptly and left the office.
That afternoon, Duncan had experienced one of the few instances where neither threat, pressure, nor promised destruction had worked in his favor. Viola had been waiting unbidden in his office when Duncan had returned from lunch. The smiling news director rose as Duncan brushed by him with a grunt of acknowledgement to sit behind his desk, expecting either capitulation to his order to retract the artifact reward or an initial report on his acquisition of private investigators to shadow Andrea Madigan.
T.P. stood there grinning for several moments apparently prepared to enjoy whatever statement he was about to make, until Rand prodded his remarks. “Well, get it out, man, I haven’t got all day.”
T.P reached out to press the ‘play’ button on the mini recorder he had placed on Duncan’s
desk, and the tape he had borrowed from his son’s bedroom began to spin, emitting the ’80’s hit song, “You Can Take This Job and Shove It.” He had watched Duncan’s face turn crimson, hold his breath as though he would explode, grope for the ‘stop’ button to turn the music off, as T.P. strode out of the office, laughing.
The diminutive CEO finally silenced the tape recorder and flopped back in his chair. Now what? Corporate had been on the phone twice a day lately, first demanding to know why he had allowed their best investigative reporter to walk out of the station after the incredible interview she had achieved with the Preacher Lady, and the potential scoop she had begun on the Iraq treasure theft. They were pressuring him to develop both stories further, so NNC could keep them alive among viewers, get their audience share back to where it had surged after Andy’s initial artifact report and continue their lead over competitive news organizations.
The call late that afternoon from corporate Robert Brightman had announced that the corporate Vice President himself would arrive the following week from their Dallas headquarters to learn precisely what Duncan was doing to achieve these objectives. He would probably relieve Duncan of his duties when he heard that Viola had quit, and found out that Duncan didn’t have a clue what to do next. All because of that goddamned woman!
Now, with T.P. gone, he didn’t know of anyone in the station with the caliber news savvy to pull this fiasco out of the fire. On the other hand, neither did any of their competitors, which was not what Brightman was coming up to hear. Could he get Madigan and Viola back? Unlikely, considering their acrimonious parting. Or they would insist on reinstatement terms so humiliating and punitive that he’d seem like a complete jackass to corporate and the industry at large.
If she suddenly came up with the thieves and the treasure he..NNC would look like a bunch of idiots, and his head will be the first one rolling down Capitol hill. The old bitch was out there on her own with a bum leg and all the info she had collected while she was on his payroll. Maybe something had to happen to Andrea so she couldn’t break this story...at least slow her down until he caught up.
Andrea had come out of the ICU the previous evening and was now propped up by the elevated hospital bed and pillows, leaning forward cautiously in the surgical collar to sip ginger ale through an angled straw held by a nurse assistant.
“I feel like a turtle,” she said, as the candy striper replaced the glass on the rollaway table positioned over her waist.
Sammy Simkowski stuck his head around the privacy curtain at the foot of her bed. “Bitch, bitch, bitch.”
She shifted her entire body in order to look at him. “That’s all I need,” Andrea said, as Sammy moved to the plastic chair beside her bed. He appeared invigorated, as though his weight trainer’s body contained secret elements attempting to escape.
“How you keeping, Princess?”
“Better than last night when you were tactless enough to observe me at my absolute worst.”
“When will they let you out of here?”
“Three more days, dammit!”
“Take advantage, you need the rest.”
“What are you so fidgety about?” Andrea asked him.
“I flew up to Boston to see my bud at the Museum of Fine Arts who put out feelers to a bunch of art guys across the country. None of them had direct inquiries regarding an ancient treasure with suspect provenance.”
“You flew to Boston for that?” Andrea said.
“Keep your johnnie on, Princess, I been out workin’ while you been lying abed.”
Andrea closed her eyes, expelling a deep sigh.
“But a couple of these guys have picked up second-hand rumors going around among less legitimate factions in the rarefied echelons of pricey objets d’art.”
“Offers to sell?” Andy asked.
“To acquire.”
Andrea opened her eyes, frowning. “Offers from whom?”
“Specifically?” Sammy asked. “No idea. Best guess is marginally respectable art dealers, private collectors, shady opportunists out for a quick hit.”
“If those offers to buy are current,” Andrea said, “they probably mean the treasure is still in the hands of the original thieves.”
“Timmy says there something else going on. During the past year or so, some of the consultants he uses to validate olden items have been unavailable for new projects.”
“What kind of consultants?”
“Ancient history professors at major universities, paleontologists, archeologists.”
“Experts that could verify the authenticity of an ancient treasure, put a price on it.”
“Yeah, but why several of these guys?” Sammy wondered. “The objects are evidently all of a package, validate a couple and the entire treasure is authenticated. One or two experts ought to be able to do that.”
Andy shifted her gaze to the window, contemplating the possibilities this information might present, or if it had anything to do with their artifact search at all. “Unless the so-called trea
sure trove was an ossuary containing some old relic, the bones of some ancient traveler, along with his precious worldly possessions, a lot of different stuff. Or has nothing to do with our stolen artifact at all.”
“I asked Timmy to let me know if anything more definitive came up.”
“We can’t afford another goose chase right now. If he does learn something more specific, see if he can get the names of a few of the professors involved.”
“In the meantime….” Sammy pulled a sheet of paper from the pocket of his red windbreaker with ‘Silver’s Gym’ across the back. “Ex-trooper Sergeant Calvin Stubbs, Bravo Company HQ chief clerk, according to your friend William Carr. I was able to fake a few exchanges with a couple of 3rd Battalion troopers on the Internet; black man, supposed to be bright as hell, harbored scuttlebutt to use against offensive whites, his personal advancement.”
Andrea said, “Did you find out where he is now?”
“Durham, North Carolina.”
“Damn!” Andrea’s fist pounded the mattress. “Lawton wants me to rest at home for a week before resuming normal activities, whatever they are. I lost my balance after the operation and have to use a walker to go to the bathroom, and Lawton wants me to use a wheelchair until I regain full stability.”
When Sammy had called the neurosurgeon to learn Andy’s post-operative condition, the physician seemed concerned about her loss of balance and the progressive weakening of her right leg. He advised Sam to be prepared with a basic wheelchair and even consider a motorized version if they couldn’t arrest her decline soon.
She brought him back to the present with an assertion tinged with regret. “I’ll probably have to wait until next month to see Stubbs.”
Sammy stood and turned, hands on hips to gaze out the window that overlooked the flat rooftops of lesser structures in the Georgetown Medical Complex and tightly packed three, four-level residential buildings beyond. “Can we wait that long?”
“Right,” Andrea agreed. “I don’t need a whole week stewing in my condo while everyone else is hunting my story.”
Sammy turned to point a threatening finger at her. “Oh, yes you do, Princess. If I have to rope you up to the bedposts.”
“Nice sentiment, Sam, but try and stop me.”
Sam maintained his stance at the window, behind him the setting sun reflecting a fiery orange glow in the panes of glass in buildings facing west. “I can interview Stubbs.”
Andrea winced as she gave a tiny negative shake of her head within the restrictive collar. “I don’t know, Sam. I’ve been at this a while, sometimes get more from body language, their facial expressions than the spoken word.” Her expression took on a determined look. “No, I’m the investigative reporter, that’s my job. I need to get on this toute de suite, Sam.”
“You’re not in a very good position to stop me.”
“Over my dead carcass!”
“If necessary,” Sammy said, “only if absolutely necessary.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Durham, NC
October 2004
At 4:45 on a sultry fall day, Sammy rang the doorbell beside the screen door of the neat gray-shingled bungalow set back from a freshly-cut green lawn enclosed by a wooden fence of white pickets washed in muted sunshine. Colorful flowerbeds ran along each side of a flagstone path leading to recently clipped shrubs nestled against the redbrick foundation.
He stood on the front porch listening to chimes ringing inside the house, observing several white wicker chairs that formed a conversational grouping to his left, and a padded lover’s swing hanging from a stout ceiling beam to the right. The inner door opened abruptly, emitting a cool draft of air conditioning around a short black man with ramrod posture.
“What is it?” Stubbs asked.
Sammy introduced himself, presented his NNC credentials and explained the purpose of his visit.
“Do you people ever call for an appointment?” Stubbs speech was phrased in an almost
studied, precise English with no accent, southern or otherwise.
“I’m on a pretty jammed schedule...,” Sammy began.
“Yeah, yeah,” Stubbs interrupted. “Catch your quarry off-guard and vulnerable. I’m about to have my supper now, so you’re out of luck. Got nothing to say to you anyhow.”
As the ex-soldier stepped back to close the door, Sam asked, “Would you mind if I waited until you finish eating? I flew all the way down from Washington and promise to be brief.”
Stubbs held the door half-closed, considering. “Wait if you want. I don’t know how much good it will do.”
More than an hour later, retired Sergeant Calvin Stubbs stepped through the house and screen doors, shutting them both carefully behind him. He stood there for a moment in silence, fists on narrow hips, scowling at the reporter as Sam rose from his top front step. Stubbs was dressed in starched khaki trousers, a pronounced crease ironed down the front of each leg, a narrow belt of burnished leather and cordovan loafers polished to a high gloss. In deference to the heat and humidity, his short-sleeve stonewashed shirt was a lightweight denim, also starched, with military creases front and back. He was probably in his late fifties, with a full head of tight graying curls cropped close to his skull and a thick black mustache, the closely shaved cheeks of his cocoa facial skin badly pockmarked.
“You told me this wouldn’t take long,” Stubbs said, making no move toward the wicker chairs.
“Right,” Sam assured him. “You were chief clerk, Bravo Company, Third Battalion during the Iraqi conflict in April ‘03 that correct, Sergeant Stubbs?”
The short man’s scowl was derisive. “Sergeant Major. All company clerks, reported to me. I worked directly for Colonel, General Callaghan. Troopers still address me ‘Top’, retired ten months.”
Sammy had the good sense to stand a little straighter. “Sorry, I was misinformed, Sergeant Major.”
“You weren’t airborne.”
“No, sir. Jarhead, warrant officer.”
“Close enough, I guess.” The corner of Stubbs mouth twitched and he seemed to relax a bit.
“So as H.Q. Sergeant Major,” Sammy said, “you received reports from the companies before The Man saw them.”
Stubbs emitted an honest laugh. “I handled every weekly report each one of our companies wrote up—-personnel, disciplinary, supply, transfer, vehicular, medical, accident. Then during Iraq: wounded, KIA, logistics, you name it. The Man rarely saw anything but my summaries. I recommended action on the admin stuff, he signed off on our replies and execution. Kept him informed, free to run his part of the war.”
“What reaction did you and the Colonel have regarding high rate of the KIA’s in Bravo Company?” Sammy asked. “Lieutenant Mitchell’s second platoon?”
Stubbs squinted at his interrogator. “Why pick on him?”
“Because word I got, he was pretty gung ho, volunteered his men to cover a big chunk of the western border to cut off Saddam’s escape route right from the get-go. I heard some of his patrols were pretty thin.”
“He was a good officer.”
“You mean he liked it.”
Stubbs leveled his hard stare at Sam. “Nobody liked it. You know that.”
Sammy returned the look. “No, I don’t.”
“He sure as hell didn’t like dragging dead kids back in body bags.”
“That didn’t stop him from sending half a squad out before replacements arrived.”
“Somebody had to do it.”
Sammy continued guessing. “Why did Mitchell’s people take more hits than other platoons?”
“What are you on to, man?”
“According to the Arab nomads, there were casualties on both sides during a firefight. That encounter took place in an area about 250 miles northeast of Baghdad patrolled by Lieutenant Mitchell’s Second Platoon.”
Stubbs puffed up his cheeks and blew out a stream of air. “You haven’t even asked me if I thought any artifacts had been stolen.”
“We�
�ve talked to a lot of different sources over the past few months,” Sam replied. “There is no question that some valuable artifacts were dug up and smuggled back home by U.S. soldiers from the 82nd Airborne Division. Despite official and other self-serving denials.”
Stubbs hesitated several seconds. “Probably. Else why would the nomads make it up?”
This was the closest anyone in the military had come to an admission of culpability, regardless of whose. Sammy had all he could do to restrain from pumping a fist in the air.
“The excessive casualties, MIAs in Mitchell’s platoon makes them prime suspects. An ancient treasure gets dug up, troopers killed, some go missing.”
Stubbs nodded in a way that led Sammy to believe this was not the first time that connection had occurred to the astute NCO.
“I remember those boys were ambushed by jihad insurgents in Bir Melosa, according to Mitchell’s report,” Stubbs said, “MI checked out every single trooper assigned to Dark Dawn after we came stateside and the Iraqis lodged their complaint. How in blazes you expect to get somebody to ‘fess up now is beyond me.”
“The half million dollar reward we’re offering for information,” Sam said.
Stubbs grinned. “I’d take it if could.”
“Can you recall anything strange or unusual about 2nd Platoon Bravo?”
Stubbs seemed to give the question serious thought. “I was at the ramp of the C-130 supervising my clerks checking Bravo Company boarding. All of a sudden Callaghan and Geoff come marching up like they was on parade, dress khakis, flat tops, ribbons, braid, jump boots spit and polished, the works. They come to a halt the other side of the ramp, stand there like a couple goal posts for a few seconds, then snap off salutes like they would for the president.”
“While the Second Platoon was boarding?”
“They were loading the caskets in the cargo hold, their guys that got zapped.”