by Mike Maden
“Why not?”
“She is . . . ostinato. Like a mule.” Cella grinned. “Like you.”
“Me? More like you.”
The Toyota bounced along. Pearce checked the fuel gauge. Nearly empty. The Aviocar filled the windshield.
“What’s her name?”
“Dorotea, after my mother.”
“How old is she?”
Pearce thought she looked six years old, maybe seven. He wasn’t sure.
He tapped the brakes and brought the Hilux to an easy stop next to the open cargo door. The motors were loud even though the props were barely spinning. Early jumped off the back and opened Cella’s door as Pearce climbed up into the Aviocar.
Early took the girl in his big arms and easily lifted her up, even with the sling on. She was still mostly passed out, but her eyebrows knitted into a frown. He carried her to Pearce and raised her up. “Careful with this sack of potatoes.”
Pearce took her up, careful not to bang her head on the door. Cella climbed in after her. Early followed.
“Put her next to me so I can keep an eye on her,” Judy said.
Pearce carried the girl to the cockpit and set her in the copilot’s seat, then kneeled down and strapped her in. She yawned. Her eyes fluttered open for a moment. Something about them. Beautiful.
The little girl was clearly confused by her surroundings. Maybe even thought she was in a dream. She looked around. Saw Pearce’s face. She gazed at him, smiled a little, then passed back out.
“Here is how you can reach my father,” Cella said, handing Judy an envelope.
“Is he expecting her?” Judy asked.
“All her life,” Cella said. “Now he gets his wish.”
Pearce stood. “Call ahead to Bert Holliday and give him a heads-up on the new situation. She’s going to need papers at the very least. He’ll help you with the girl’s grandfather, too, I’m sure.”
“Will do, boss. Soon as I’m in the air.”
“No. Maintain radio silence until you land, then radio us a thumbs-up so we know you’re okay,” Pearce said. “Don’t forget, you’re a target with that IFF disabled.”
“What are you talking about? Aren’t you coming with me?” Judy asked, but she heard the resolve in his voice.
“Brother, we’re a lost cause out here,” Early said.
“Is there any other kind?” Pearce clapped Early on his good shoulder. “Besides, weren’t you the one who always used to ask me, ‘Who wants to live forever?’?”
“I was young and stupid back then.”
“Well, you’re not young anymore.”
“Troy, this is serious. There’s no reason for you to risk your life for Mossa,” Cella said. She laid her fine-boned hand on his forearm.
“I’m not risking anything for Mossa,” Pearce said. “I don’t even know who the hell he is. But I’m not leaving my friends high and dry.”
Early’s shoulder mic crackled. “We have company coming, Mr. Early.” It was Mossa, calling from the village.
Early responded. “Heading back your way now.”
“Good luck, you guys,” Judy said. She started to turn for the cockpit door, but stopped and threw her arms around Pearce’s neck. “You and Mike keep your heads down, okay?”
“You know it.”
Judy nodded and headed for the cockpit.
Mike jumped out of the cargo door and Cella scrambled out right behind him, but Pearce headed to the back of the cargo area. He fished a key out of his pocket and unlocked a hidden door in the floor plate, then snatched up two large black Pelican storage cases by the handles. It was the South African load he couldn’t drop off earlier. Nothing like real-world testing, he thought to himself. Might have to charge them extra for the service.
Pearce tossed the cases out the door and dropped to the ground. He shut the cargo door behind him as sand kicked up in their faces from the revving engines, louder by the second. Early was already back in the pickup bed and wrapping the olive-drab veil back around his face for the ride back.
“Don’t worry. Judy’s the best pilot I know,” Pearce said to Cella, shouting above the rising noise as he tossed the cases into the back of the truck.
Cella wiped her eyes with the flat of her hand and fell into the passenger seat.
Pearce yanked open the driver’s door, and then it hit him. He glanced back at the plane, gaining speed.
The girl’s eyes were blue, like clear topaz. Just like Cella’s.
Blue. Just like his.
CELLA & TROY
2009
28
Altis Belém Hotel
Lisbon, Portugal
21 August
The sun warmed Pearce’s face as he savored the last sip of vintage Porto on the terrace after dinner. He normally didn’t take sweet liquor, but the waiter swore it was from the finest Port house in the country from the best grapes and choice aguardente. It was a nice way to watch the sunset as fingers of light glinted through the sails of the yachts anchored across the promenade. It was his first trip to Portugal, so he indulged in the local menu as was his custom. Dinner consisted of caldo verde soup and a plate of char-grilled sardines, fresh from the Atlantic.
The meeting with the Irishman had gone well. It would be a lucrative contract with a UN-certified NGO, a first for his company. Pearce wanted to build up the non-security side of his business, and this was the next logical step in that direction. Aerial survey work over Indonesia would be relatively easy and virtually riskless. Both the Indonesian government and UN climate-change scientists were interested in cataloguing biomass burnings and drought conditions on the island of Sumatra. It would be a five-year renewable contract, with additional drone flight training and supervisory services fees tacked on for a bonus.
“Troy?”
Pearce turned around. He couldn’t believe it. He stood.
“Cella.”
Her face broke into a brilliant smile. She threw her arms around him and hugged him hard. Pearce hesitated. The last time he’d seen her was six years ago in Milan, bolting angrily out the door. His joy at seeing her now overwhelmed the bitter memory. He hugged her back.
“You’re alive,” she whispered in his ear. She finally let go, and held him at arm’s length. “It’s so good to see you.” She touched the side of his face. “No beard. Good. You have such a nice face.” She squinted. “A few more scars, I see. But small.”
“Please, sit,” Pearce said, gesturing at his table.
A waiter appeared. “Vodka martini, stirred, straight up with a lime twist,” Cella ordered with a smile.
“Right away.” The waiter glanced at Pearce’s empty glass. “You, sir?”
“Make it two. And make it doubles.”
“Very good, sir.”
Cella grasped his hand. “I can’t believe you’re here. What are you doing in Lisbon?” Her large blue eyes sparkled intently. Pearce’s heart raced. She still had the same effect on him, six years later. She hadn’t aged a day. In fact, she looked more beautiful than ever. She wore a simple silk blouse, gray slacks, and flats. Stunning.
“Business. You?”
She looked him up and down. Slacks, shirt, sport coat. “Very stylish. You actually look like a businessman.” Her tone suggested conspiracy.
He laughed. “I really am a businessman.”
She frowned, incredulous. She’d only known him as a CIA operative. Thought he’d never leave the agency. “What kind of business do you do these days?”
Pearce shrugged. “Nothing interesting, I promise. But what about you? What brings you to Lisbon?”
She hesitated. The drinks arrived. They lifted glasses. The last rays of sunlight danced in the vodka.
“To . . . ?” Cella asked. It was a loaded question.
“To now.”
They touched glasse
s. Took sips. Cella set her glass down.
“I’m here at a UN conference for medical relief workers. I run a small women’s clinic in Libya. I was asked to speak about the role of women in the medical professions in the Middle East. And networking, of course.” She took another sip. So did Pearce.
“That’s great to hear. How long are you in Lisbon?”
“I leave tomorrow. You?”
“Same.”
They sat in silence for a while, sipping their martinis, watching the sailboats in their docks, bobbing in the gentle current of the Tagus River, flowing into the great Atlantic. They were both lost in memories of each other, though neither would admit it. Their glasses drained. The waiter appeared, as if on cue.
“Another round?” he asked.
Pearce looked at Cella. There was nothing holding her here, was there?
“Sure.”
“Very good, sir.” He left.
Cella’s eyes teared up. “I thought you were dead.”
“Why?”
“Because I never heard from you. No letters. No calls. I used to dream that you would come and visit me, at least.”
Pearce was confused. “I thought you made it pretty clear that you never wanted to see me again.”
Cella jerked, as if shocked by an electrical current. “Why would you say that?”
“Oh, I dunno. Telling me to go to hell seemed like a pretty good clue.” He softened his sarcasm with a smile.
She laughed. “You don’t know women, do you? Or maybe it’s just Italian women you don’t know. I was scared, that was all. Scared for you. Scared for me. What we had . . .”
She laid her hand on the table. Pearce laid his hand on hers.
“I guess I’m an idiot.”
“There’s no guessing about it.”
Pearce felt the heat on his face.
So did she.
The waiter returned five minutes later with the drinks. There was a hundred-euro note tucked under one of the empty glasses. The American and his woman were gone.
—
Pearce’s suite overlooked the Targus. The modernist design featured black woods, white marble, and gleaming fixtures. From the king-sized bed he watched a sailboat tack into the early-morning wind. Cella did, too, as Troy ran his fingers through her thick, lustrous hair. They were both naked beneath the white linens. Happy, exhausted.
They had picked up where they left off six years earlier. Incredibly, it was more intense. Years of nurtured memories had created an insatiable longing. Now they found each other again. And then there was the ticking clock. Only one night to be together. They hardly slept, stealing brief moments of rest until one of them revived, and starting all over again.
And again.
And again.
“What time is your flight?” he asked. The digital clock flashed 5:22 a.m.
“Not until ten. You?”
“Eleven thirty. We have time for coffee. I’ll order room service.”
Cella shook her head. “Not yet,” she said as she crawled on top and pulled him inside of her again.
—
They lounged in reclining chairs on the south-facing balcony in sumptuous bathrobes, finishing off a pot of strong black Brazilian coffee and a tray of chocolate biscotti and fresh fruit. They both stared at the river, mesmerized by the morning sunlight dappling the water.
“Don’t leave,” Troy said.
She laughed. “You can’t be serious. Even you must be exhausted by now.”
“No. I mean, stay with me.”
“I can’t. I have work to do. A life to go back to. So do you.”
Pearce crossed over to her chair and sat in it. He took her by the hands. “What do you want me to say? I screwed up. Maybe I should’ve stayed with you before, but I didn’t. I thought about finding you later—like, a million times I thought about it. But the way you ended it—”
“The way I ended it? No, my love. I offered you everything. You turned me down. You ended it.”
“But you know why I had to leave.”
“Yes, I remember well. You said you had a duty. Well, now, so do I.” She sat up and kissed him on the cheek. “This time together was a wonderful gift, but it ends here. You made your choice years ago, and then I made mine.” She stood.
“Do you love someone else?”
She looked at him, puzzled, as if he’d asked her a question in Urdu. “I loved you from the moment I set eyes on you. I know I sound like a silly schoolgirl, but it’s true.”
“Then why not stay with me?”
“Life is more than love, Troy. You taught me that. You made your commitments then, now I’ve made mine. I’m sorry.”
She bent over and kissed him again. They held each other’s face in their hands, kissing gently, without lust.
Gently, good-bye.
2015
29
The village of Anou
Kidal Region, Northwest Mali
7 May
Pearce’s truck skidded to a halt by the well. Mossa knelt in the dirt, his men circled around him, the other Toyotas parked nearby. Early climbed down from the truck bed as Pearce and Cella opened their doors.
Mossa stood. “Mr. Pearce? Why aren’t you on the plane?”
“Heard you were shorthanded. Mind if I hang around?”
“It’s your life. Spend it as you will.”
“What’s the plan?” Pearce stepped closer to the group.
Mossa kneeled back down. He’d drawn a crude sketch of the village. Pearce had caught a glimpse of it from the air before they landed earlier. Anou was roughly a square, a ragged three hundred yards on each side, bordered by a low sand-brick wall. A one-lane hard-packed road led into the town from the southwest, linking it to Gao. The land on either side of the road was mostly loose sand and scrub juniper. Vehicles would have to stay on that road if they needed sure footing. On the western and northern sides of the wall there were clumps of jagged rock thrusting up through the harder-packed sand and loose rock, and even a few trees, twisted and barren. There were also remnants of older houses that had long since been broken down by years of wind and neglect. Soldiers on foot could easily traverse the area, but wheeled vehicles would have a harder time of it.
“There is an old Soviet BTR-60 armored personnel carrier at the head of a convoy of five trucks,” Mossa said. He drew a road in the dust with a long finger. “As you can see, there is only one road coming into the village. They will advance as far as the wall but no further, then dismount, the BTR leading the way. The commander will be in the BTR. We have an RPG that can take out the BTR, then—”
“Permission to speak?” Pearce asked.
Mossa glanced at Early, asking an unspoken question.
“I heard you once say that a piece of salt doesn’t call itself salty. Troy here is the best warfighter I know.”
“Speak, then, Mr. Pearce.”
“You need fuel if you want to get out of here. That BTR carries at least seventy, eighty gallons of diesel. You need to capture it, not blow it up.”
“What do you propose?”
“Depends. What else do you have in your inventory?”
Mossa gave him the rundown. It wasn’t much, but it had possibilities.
Pearce had a few toys, too. They made a plan.
“You think like an Imohar,” Mossa said. “You may not live long, but at least you will die well.” Cella translated. The other Tuaregs chuckled in agreement.
—
The eight-wheeled BTR slowed to a crawl one hundred meters out from the entrance to the village. The front and side hatches were shut against gunfire, but the top ones were left open because the heat was unbearable even at this early hour in the morning. It rolled along for another thirty meters, but still there was no firing from the village. The commander signaled a
halt to the convoy and the BTR braked. The five trucks a hundred meters behind him did the same.
The side hatches popped open and eight Red Beret soldiers in camouflage spilled out and ran in a low crouch toward the wall. They hit the wall and hunkered down on either side of the road, out of breath and sweating, and surprised that they hadn’t been fired upon. The squad leader glanced back, taking comfort in the big 14.5mm KPV heavy machine gun on top of the BTR keeping watch over them. It would pour out liquid lead at the first sign of trouble.
The squad leader, a sergeant, gave the hand signal to his men and then rushed through the gate, guns up, building to building, up the narrow road toward the town square—old-school “cover and maneuver.” The old buildings were mostly one and two stories tall. No sounds, no movement in the windows, so they pushed on toward the well in the center of the village.
And that’s when he saw the girl. She was Tuareg and beautiful. She stood at the well with a clay water pot. She sensed something and glanced up. Saw the squad leader, dropped her pot, and ran for a darkened doorway.
The squad leader signaled his team and advanced for the house. His men followed. Four men circled around back, but the squad leader and three others stayed out front, backs pressed against the wall.
“Tuareg! Come out!” he shouted in French.
“Non!” the girl shrieked.
His corporal pulled a grenade.
“No. Wait,” the squad leader said in Songhai, and pushed the grenade back down.
“Come out! We won’t hurt you. We’re only looking for bandits, not little girls.”
A moment passed, and the girl appeared in the doorway, trembling. Her pale brown eyes were wet with fear, but it didn’t diminish the beauty of her long, angular face.
“Who else is in there?”
She shook her head. “No one. Only my sisters.”
“How many?” he asked.
“Two. Both younger.”
“No one else?”
She shook her head. “All dead, or gone. We’re the last. We had nowhere else to go.”