by Jack Ford
To which Lyndon answered, ‘No, I’m sure you can’t. But I’ll see you there.’
A hush. A breeze of tension settled in the air before Woods asked, ‘Have we got anything on the other bombers yet, Chuck?
‘We got nothing, Mr President, but the odds are they didn’t come from the US. No doubt smuggled in just for this purpose. It’ll take longer to find out who they are – or rather who they were – because they’re only kids. Terrorist kids, but kids nevertheless.’
‘They were somebody’s children, Chuck. They didn’t wake up one day and decide to get involved with this on their own. Take their life. Someone, somewhere got them to do this. But the point is they’re dead when they should be in high school or college. They were somebody’s babies. I’d say they were as much a victim as everyone else.’
Chuck Harrison clenched his teeth. Hard. It was bullshit. And hell, he was going tell Woods just that. ‘Bullshit.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Bullshit, Mr President. Those kids. Those victims as you call them, well, let me tell you, a lot of them are more radicalized than any adult. Not a day goes by when somewhere in the world, there isn’t a kid strapping on his or her suicide vest to cause the most damage and the most casualties. Why? Because they believe they’re going to get the pleasures and blessings of paradise. They’ll leave behind their crippling poverty and a life less lived with one push of a button. That’s all it takes. One push for them to reap their rewards in paradise.’
Woods said nothing.
‘And the problem you have, Mr President, is that you can’t give a definitive answer and say their beliefs aren’t true. And because you can’t, you will always have the threat of suicide bombers happy to go to paradise, no matter what the age.’
‘But you must see they start off as victims, even if it’s a victim to their environment.’
Chuck gave a small smile. ‘No, what I see is terrorists.’
‘Chuck…’ Woods paused.
Tried again.
‘Chuck…’
Winced.
Then said, ‘Excuse me, everyone, I just need to use the bathroom.’
VIRGINIA, USA
15
Nb5 ab4
Chuck Harrison took the call in his car on the way back to Langley, where the HQ for the CIA was based. He listened. Turned up the radio and simply said, ‘Meet me at my house.’
*
Forty-five minutes later, Chuck stood by his large, newly installed glass and steel water fountain. He hated the damn thing. God knows what the designer thought he was doing. But then, he supposed his instructions had been more than just a little ambiguous.
Tall.
Wide.
Don’t care if it’s round.
Don’t care if it’s square.
His only specification: it needs to produce jets of water. Lots of jets. As noisy and as vigorous as possible.
So after a dozen men and two weeks of work, and several complaints from neighbors in the private gated community, and a visit from a balding noise control officer to come and measure the output of sound, and a big-ass bill, he’d got what he’d wanted… Needed.
He’d never taken chances. Didn’t trust anyone. Went hand in hand with the job. Nobody trusted anybody. They said they did, but he knew damn well that wasn’t the truth. Truth didn’t play a part. That was the title of the game.
It often played out that it was the most principled of colleagues who would turn and end up working for the other side. Then, sometimes, it was just the mundane, insider politics of the CIA who ordered the eyes and ears. But that’s what made them good. That’s what kept the field agent alive. Because you never knew. Never knew who wanted to bring you down.
The secret was to believe everything and to believe nothing. So if it meant getting a Goddamn water feature the size of which even the White House would be proud of, to stop ears listing to conversations by distorting the pick-up on their listening devices with the sound of the water, then that was something he just had to live with.
And it was here, in front of this monstrosity of a garden feature, where he had every conversation which was longer than a hello.
Chuck sipped his glass of iced tea as he watched his housekeeper bring Arnold Willis, an ambitious thirty-something CTC case worker with thick blond hair and eyes as green as the trees of Wisconsin.
Waiting an appropriate time for his non-English speaking Peruvian housekeeper to go back inside the house, Chuck snarled, ‘Take your clothes off.’
Arnold Willis stepped backwards. Hit the side of his leg against the fountain wall. Almost fell right in. ‘Sorry, sir?’
‘I said, take your clothes off, Willis.’
‘Sir, I don’t understand.’
‘What the hell is there to understand, Oklahoma boy? The point is I like to cover all eventuality. No ears, no wires and no possibility of them. And before you ask, no I don’t trust you. But don’t take it personally; I don’t trust anyone. So take off your clothes and put them over there by the bench.’
*
Arnold Willis tried and failed horribly to stop himself feeling self-conscious as he stood in front of Chuck in the mid-afternoon on what was clearly a chilly day.
‘What I want to know, Willis, is who the hell okayed the polygraph test on the bomber?’
‘On David Thorpe?’
Rubbing the side of his head, and throwing the rest of the iced-tea away on the lawn, Chuck snapped, ‘Yes, of course, David Thorpe, who the hell do you think I meant?’
‘Sir, it was the President, sir.’
‘When? Because I was with him just this morning and he didn’t mention anything then.’
‘The call came through around mid-day. We did try to get hold of you.’
‘And when you didn’t, you thought it was just okay to send orders through to Turkmenistan for them to go ahead and do it?’
‘Sir, I wasn’t anything to do with it. It was the deputy director who took the decision. The President’s office wanted to get it done as quickly as possible. Marked urgent.’
‘You got the results?’
Willis nodded. Wanted to scratch his chin. Decided against it if it meant revealing his modesty.
‘I have sir, they’re in my jacket.’
‘Have you shown them to anyone else?’
‘No, sir. Absolutely not.’
Guardedly, Chuck enquired. ‘Anything out of the usual show up on the test?’
‘Yes, sir. The strange thing is although David Thorpe is clearly shown on the CCTV footage driving the lorry before parking it and walking away, as well as the coffee staff IDing him, along with the fact that he had traces of ammonium nitrate on his clothes and hands, the polygraph test isn’t clear cut at all. It was rendered inconclusive. All the tests were.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, after the first test was inconclusive they redid it two more times. It’s odd because when he says it wasn’t him who built the bomb or drove the truck or even went for an Eggnog latte, even though he’s clearly there on the tape footage, the test results are still reading inconclusive rather than pointing to him lying, which you would’ve thought it would. The only thing he does admit, is that it was him on the tape and the test shows a pass for that.’
‘Even he couldn’t deny that one.’
‘I realize that, sir, but off the record the guys in Turkmenistan say he does sound very convincing when he says he doesn’t know anything about the bomb. And don’t forget, sir, only 5 to 10 percent of people’s tests are found to be inconclusive.’
Chuck took a step towards Willis. Narrowed eyes. Mouth held tight. ‘What are you trying to say?’
‘Nothing… I… I just mean it sounds like he’s telling the truth.’
Fingers jabbed into Willis’ bare chest. ‘You ever say that again and you’ll be sorry. You understand me? That kind of talk, there’s no place for. The guy’s a terrorist. Simple. I don’t want you repeating that crap to anyone.’
‘Yes, sir, it was just… it was…’
‘Just what? You think polygraph tests are infallible just because the CIA use them all the time?’
‘No.’
‘Didn’t you read the National Academy of Science report on them? Casting doubt? Reasons why you may get an inconclusive test include inadequate question formulation, based on bad case facts. Questions that are compound or ambiguous. The absence of care by the examinee of getting caught in a lie. The matter of not giving a damn about the consequences. It’s the job of the examiner to determine the proper psychological set for the polygraph examination. Did you know all that?’
‘No, sir, I didn’t.’
‘Then maybe you should. And apart from anything else, if he didn’t know anything about it, tell me why the hell he was driving a truck with false plates which were registered to a vehicle that’d been crushed six months ago… Now put your clothes on… And Willis?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Like I say, I don’t want you mention the results to anyone else.’
‘What about the President? Shouldn’t I get them to his office?’
‘I don’t think you’re listening. I said, no-one else. I’ll sort out the President’s office, okay? So now we’re all good… But Arnold.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Just one other thing. If you want to continue working for the CIA, don’t ever let me hear you refer to this again…’
SCOTTSDALE, ARIZONA
USA
16
ab4 Nh5
Cooper sat in his ’54 Chevy watching the heatwaves rise up from the engine, mixing with the heatwaves of the day. He’d parked on the cactus-lined dusty road where he could see the small airstrip belonging to Onyx Asset Recovery. A company which specialized in tracking down high value boats and planes, mostly for banks, leasing companies and on occasion governments.
This was where he worked. Onyx. The remote office he’d been operating out of for the past six years. It was built in the middle of four hundred acres of wilderness. Hot desert land based just outside North Scottsdale, Arizona, with God-given views.
He hadn’t stepped foot in the actual office in a while. Last year he’d returned from a job in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and he’d come back messed up. More messed up than when he’d gone.
The breakdown of his marriage hadn’t helped, but in truth, when it had been up and running, it hadn’t helped him either.
His marriage reminded him of the infamous Ford Pinto. On the outside it looked okay, but the issues were there long before it’d even clocked up any mileage. A flawed design, a lack of reinforcement, and all held together by substandard bolts which quickly came loose, eventually piercing into the heart of the tank, causing it to erupt into flames.
On his return from the DRC, Maddie and Beau had insisted on him going back to see his shrink at the VA Medical Center. But he struggled. Struggled not to feel ashamed. Yes, he’d served and fought for his country, he’d been proud to do so, but his problems weren’t directly linked with combat, nor what he’d seen during his time as a Navy SEAL. His problems were linked to a woman. A woman he’d loved. His childhood sweetheart who he hadn’t been able to keep safe. But the shrink at the Veterans’ Affairs Center liked to bandy the letters PTSD around. And at that point, he always took his exit. Because how could he sit next to his military brothers, whose problems were a direct result of war, and hold his head up high when it hadn’t been a battle which had caused his torment?
Okay, the accident eight years ago had been in part caused by the approach and attack of their yacht by Somalian pirates, but that certainly wasn’t a reason to go to the VA Medical Center, cryin’ and hollerin’, no matter what the psychiatrists liked to try to tell him.
This was his doing. Period. And he had to deal with it. Consequently, instead of feeling like he was discrediting what it meant to be a veteran, a hero, he’d found a private shrink… Quite a few, actually. And so when things got really bad and he couldn’t sleep and the nightmares came and he just felt like he was on the edge and he wanted to end it all but didn’t know how, well then, they’d be there waiting. The quacks. With their prescription pads, giving him anything he needed. Anything. At a price… A heavier price than he ever realized.
Cooper sighed as he opened the bottle of pills. Shook two out. His body was still in pain from the Taser. Shook another one out. Just to be on the safe side.
In the distance he saw Maddie, who also worked at Onyx as a recovery operative. He hadn’t seen or spoken to her since she’d dropped him off at his ranch back in Colorado a couple of days ago. And if he was honest, he would be happy to leave seeing her for another couple of days. It’d been fine working together when they were still in a marriage. Well as fine as it ever could be.
He knew he needed to be man enough to work with her without a problem. After all, she was great at what she did.
He held her in the upmost respect.
He admired her.
He trusted her.
He valued her opinion…
But Goddamn, he didn’t know a man alive who wouldn’t want to run for the hills if they had to work with their estranged wife.
His job was his life and his life was job, so he couldn’t quit. Not that he didn’t think about it. A lot… Every day. And he couldn’t exactly ask Maddie to quit. Ultimately he knew it wasn’t really about her. And besides, it’d actually been Maddie who’d got him to come on board and get his investigator’s license to join the small but successful firm.
Maddie had worked at Onyx for just over seven years, since her commission in the Navy had ended, having heard of them and their reputation, and knowing it was a place her specialized skills could come into play. Though she hadn’t been the only one to hear of it. Cooper had heard of Onyx long before he’d known Maddie, and he’d known her for years – since the first day of Aviation Officer Candidate School, at the beginning of his military career, when they’d become good friends.
His knowledge of Onyx came from the fact it was run by Dax Granger… Ellie’s father. His almost-father-in-law. If he’d only got round to asking her. And he had been planning to. When his tour of duty in Kenya came to an end. But then… Then the accident had happened, and everything became too late.
Working with Dax was difficult. And it had never gotten any easier. If anything, as the years went by, it’d gotten worse.
At first Dax had been too busy in his own grief to bother with Cooper, but as the fog had lifted, Dax’s anger towards him arrived. The blame. The culpability. The pain. It had all been sent his way. And there was nothing Cooper could do about it… Because he was to blame. So he had to accept it. Accept that son-of-a-bitch guilt like it was ten men beating up on him in a bar. Because it hurt. Crippled him. Weighed so heavy at times he thought he couldn’t breathe.
He’d often wondered, why Onyx? Why not get a job somewhere else? Maybe having to see Dax was part of some kind of penance. A painful reminder of what he’d done. Or perhaps being around Dax Granger was what he needed, because when he saw him, he could see Ellie.
And if he did leave, where the hell would he go? He’d drifted before. And it hadn’t ended up pretty.
So he’d taken any assignments which came through in recovering assets from Africa. And that had just been perfect for him. Because it gave him the ability to travel, the reason and permission to go and search; but then he’d got lost in himself, believing Ellie was somewhere out there in Africa. Never once accepting she’d drowned that day.
Sometimes, he’d extended his stays up to a couple of months at a time. Just drifting. Just looking. It hadn’t mattered where. Who cares where? It’d just made him feel better and everyone else feel worse.
From Kenya to the Congo to Chad to the Sudan. Getting stuck in hell holes. Getting stuck in jails… Getting stuck in drugs. And each time it was Maddie, his beautiful, loving, undeserving Maddie, and his friend, Levi Walker, who’d come and gotten him out.
And s
omehow, and somewhere along the line, he’d got together with Maddie. Details hazy. Timeline hazier. But she’d been good to him. Always. That he did remember. That he would never forget. Then like an entry out of a hillbilly’s diary, she’d gotten pregnant and when he was wired enough, he’d proposed in a drug-induced rush of emotion whilst sitting waiting to see his therapist. For that he was ashamed. She deserved so much better.
He couldn’t even remember their wedding day. Only photos proved they had.
But even after they’d got married he’d carried on searching for Ellie, and Maddie had carried on begging him not to, and it was only after their daughter, Cora, was born did he come to a full stop. Resigned himself to the fact it was over. So he tried to clean himself up. And he tried real hard. Tried to be a good Daddy. Tried to be a loving husband. Tried to forget the past.
But then, last year, after seven long years, Ellie’s death certificate had come through. Officially confirming her passing. And it’d sent him spiraling. Spiraling towards Africa. Towards the nightmares. Towards the pills. And towards the edge he was about to fall off. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to find his way back.
He thought the love for his daughter would stop it. Act like a clasp. Fastening him to where he had to be. But it hadn’t. Didn’t. Because he couldn’t feel it anymore. Not himself. Not the people around him. And although he knew it was crazy the only thing he felt was Ellie, and the need. The need for her to still be alive so he could wash away his guilt, because if he could do that, if he could somehow know he hadn’t killed her, then he might be able to find his way back. To feel again. To feel life again. Knowing he had the permission to live and love again.
‘Hey, Coop, what’s happening?’
Cooper’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt, screeching to a stop like a car in a pit stop. He waved at Levi Walker, watching him pat down his neatly cornrowed afro.
Like Maddie, he’d known Levi since his military days. And like Maddie, he could trust Levi with his life.
‘What you doing hiding your sorry butt out here? Granger’s got a job for you. If you want it. But he’s on the warpath.’