by C. A. James
Another shot rang out, exploding more dirt and grass over both of them.
“OK, OK! Look, I really don’t have one!”
“Prove it!”
“But there . . . she’s . . .”
“Prove it!”
McCaig quickly stood, pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the ground, then held his arms up and spun around.
“Keep going, Captain!”
“What the hell, Zarrabian!”
There was an audible click of the gun being cocked.
“OK, OK.” He dropped his pants and did a pirouette, made clumsy by the pants bunched around his ankles. Christine noted he was a boxers man.
“Satisfied?” he asked.
“Thank you, Captain.”
McCaig pulled up his pants. As he was donning his shirt, Zarrabian emerged from the house, an antique hunting rifle aimed in their direction.
“You can get up, Ms. Garrett.”
Christine stood. McCaig glared at Zarrabian. Zarrabian looked back with indifference.
“This is not about you, Captain. Or you, Ms. Garrett. I am the one who invited you here.”
“Do you always shoot your guests?” asked McCaig.
“This antique rifle is quite accurate in spite of its age. If I had wanted to kill you, you would be dead. Surely you know that.” Zarrabian glanced at the sky, and then scanned the walnut orchards around them.
“So what the hell—”
“Please, quiet,” interrupted Zarrabian. “For just a minute more.”
They waited. McCaig cocked his head, listening carefully. The late afternoon air carried sounds from far off: a distant tractor, the faint hum of bees in the orchard, a car passing by on the road, the hoot of a distant barn owl. A flock of crows flew overhead, their harsh caws punctuating the quiet of the farmland.
After a long two minutes, McCaig broke the silence. “OK, I get it. You’re safe.”
“Yes, Captain. Thank you for your understanding.”
Christine’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men. “What the hell is going on here?”
“He was springing a trap,” said McCaig. “Or rather, if this had been a trap, he would have sprung it.”
“That is correct,” said Zarrabian. “If you had brought federal agents with you, they would have waited until we were inside, perhaps until nightfall, or even until you had left, and then made their move to capture or kill me. My gunfire just now would have forced them to act immediately to rescue you helpless civilians from the terrorist.”
“Won’t the neighbors call the police?” she asked.
“It’s unlikely,” said McCaig. “Here in the farmlands, gunfire isn’t a big deal. Three shots spaced ten seconds apart? They’ll probably think it was target practice, or maybe someone shooting at coyotes.”
“And if your theatrics had sprung a trap?” asked Christine. “Then what? It’s not like you could escape.”
“Then you would have become hostages, to ensure that I was taken alive rather than shot on sight, which is what I imagine your government hopes for. Please, we should go inside. But first, Ms. Garrett, can you park your car in the shed? Farm workers come by here occasionally, and we do not want them knocking on our door.”
A few minutes later, Zarrabian showed them to his room upstairs. “It is not much, but it is comfortable,” said Zarrabian, gesturing at his makeshift quarters.
The old house was more beautiful inside than out. Christine guessed from the grounds and garden that it had only been abandoned for a year or two. The roof was still keeping the rain out, and no windows were broken.
This wasn’t a house that had been abandoned. Whoever left this house had cleaned it with love and pride, hoping in vain that perhaps one day another family would move in and be pleased by the neat, empty rooms. She could imagine the old farmer’s children who had grown up here, returning from their city jobs after their parents had taken their final breaths, facing the sad task of cleaning out the last vestiges of their family’s century-long history. They’d swept out the last mote of dust, locked the door behind them, and handed the key to a realtor in a cheap business suit who worked for the faceless agribusiness corporation that now farmed this land.
That might make a great story, she thought. She filed it away in her brain for another day.
McCaig was examining the stack of electronics Zarrabian had assembled. Christine turned her attention back to Zarrabian.
“Colonel, I’m still pissed about my marine radio you tossed in the ocean and the phone you stole. And that shooting out there didn’t improve my mood.”
“I know you are joking to lighten the mood, Ms. Garrett, and as a reporter you are trying to put me at ease. I appreciate the gesture.”
“OK,” she replied. “Then what I’m really pissed about is that you blew up one of the most beautiful and critical bridges in America.”
“Indeed. We have some very serious topics that we must discuss.”
“Yeah,” said McCaig. “Like what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Please, Captain. Things are not what they appear to be. Two weeks ago I was a soldier sent on a mission in a war. My life was simple and orderly. Since then, the foundation of my mission has crumbled beneath my feet, and the ground now feels like quicksand.”
“Colonel, I told you I was going to arrest you. It was my sworn duty. I’m retired now, but I’m still a patriot and a former United States Marine. I can’t imagine why I shouldn’t bring you to justice.”
“So what is this ‘payback’ that you offer?”
“The payback is that I will listen to you. I am no longer a sworn FBI agent, so I’m not required to arrest you on the spot. I can give you one chance. You said things are not right, that I need to find out why. So I, that is, we,” he said, nodding toward Christine, “did some pretty serious digging, and we didn’t like what we found. It made me decide I’d give you this one chance.”
“That is fair. I appreciate—”
“Gentlemen,” interrupted Christine. “May I remind you that I’m a reporter? Unless you say otherwise, everything you say is on the record. Do you know what this means in American journalism, Colonel?”
“Of course,” said Zarrabian.
“It may be moot,” said McCaig. “I’ve got a bad feeling that by the time you publish this story, that will be the least of our worries.”
“OK, just so everyone knows,” said Christine.
“Besides,” said McCaig, “Ms. Garrett here seems to have a really big checkbook. It’s only fair that if she buys dinner, she gets to write about it.”
A hint of a smile showed on Zarrabian’s face.
“So talk,” said McCaig.
“I do not know where to begin.”
“Why not start with how you became a terrorist.”
“A terrorist? Captain, you insult me. After the unprovoked attack your country launched against mine, how can you say this?”
“Attack? What attack? Have economic sanctions become acts of war?”
“No, but launching cruise missiles at civilian targets is.”
“Colonel Zarrabian,” interrupted Christine, “why don’t you start from those events and just tell us your story?”
“Sure, and leave out the bullshit and propaganda, OK?” added McCaig.
“TJ, just be quiet. We’re here to listen. We can judge later.”
“Thank you, Ms. Garrett,” said Zarrabian. “You must forgive me if I retell things you already know. I have had little opportunity to use the Internet since I arrived, but what little I have learned tells me that American news is heavily biased, maybe even censored. Let me begin.
“About nine months ago, I was badly injured in the cruise-missile attack that your country launched against civilian targets in Iran.”
He stopped and looked back and forth between McCaig and Garrett. “I see by the looks you are exchanging that we have already hit a roadblock in understanding. Surely you know about these attac
ks?”
McCaig looked as though he were going to answer, but Christine beat him to it. “Of course, Colonel. As you say, the story may have been reported quite differently in each place. Please continue. You were injured by the cruise missile that fell—where?”
“Ms. Garrett, surely you . . . yes, right. I was in the Grand Bazaar in Tehran, shopping with my family. I suppose I was luckier than the other thousand or so whose lives were ended by those five missiles.”
McCaig narrowed his eyes, but was silenced by a glare from Christine. “A thousand, you say?” she asked.
“The exact count is not known. Tehran was hit the worst, but the other four cities sustained terrible blows. The lost lives were an immediate tragedy, but the damage to our beautiful national treasures—bazaars, mosques, and even a library—will remind us of these attacks for centuries.”
He paused again. “You are being patient, but I see from your faces that your understanding of these events is quite different from mine.”
“That’s the understatement of the year,” said McCaig.
“Again, gentlemen, our first goal is to hear the story,” said Christine. “Yes, Colonel, our understanding is quite different. But we’re listening to your story. Please.”
“I was trapped under the rubble and suffered a severe blow to my head. I remember very little, just the explosion, dust, and confusion, and then nothing. They tell me I was, what do you call it, unconscious for two weeks?”
“In a coma?” said Christine.
“Thank you. In a coma. When I awoke, I was confused for several more weeks. I could not seem to clear my head. It was six weeks before I was released from the hospital, and for several more months I suffered from headaches and dizziness. I had recurring nightmares of the explosion, of seeing my . . .
“Even after my release I felt disoriented for a long time, as though I could not quite put my thoughts together.”
“You're better now?” asked Christine.
“What does it mean to be better? Yes, my mind is working again and my headaches are gone. But I have lost everything. My family, my future. I was sent on what is essentially a suicide mission, which I unexpectedly survived. Now I am a fugitive, apparently hunted by both your country and by my own. And you ask if I am OK?”
“Of course, Colonel. I meant to ask whether your injuries have healed,” she said.
“They have.”
“Please, continue.”
“Sometime during my recovery, I was given this mission. It was presented as a volunteer operation, but good soldiers don’t turn down ‘volunteer’ missions. Even so, no coercion was needed. I was a willing soldier.”
“I’m sorry,” interrupted McCaig, “but I have to ask. What on Earth did you think you could accomplish? Soldiers wage war, not acts of terrorism.”
“The idea of any country defeating the United States of American in an armed engagement is absurd. But even though America is the most powerful nation in history, America needs to be shown that actions have consequences.
“You know as well as I do, Captain, that the traditional rules of war no longer apply. National boundaries move, the enemy is often not even a nation, and there are never true victories any more. Wars do not end when treaties are signed. They just drag out over years and decades, shifting, surging and waning.
“This conflict started a century ago when the colonial era of America and the European powers was coming to a close. America wanted oil, and my country had it. This is just a continuation of that century-old conflict.
“You ask why I became a terrorist. Is the American technician steering a cruise missile to its target in my country not a terrorist, too? No, you say, because that man is sitting in an air-conditioned office in Nevada. You call me a terrorist only because I had to travel to your country to carry out my mission. The man in Nevada carried out his orders; I carried out mine. There is no difference.”
“Sure there is,” said McCaig. “Your cruise missile story is a big load of bull. The USA never did that! There was no attack.”
“TJ, shut up!” said Christine. “Colonel, can you excuse us for a few minutes? TJ and I would like to discuss a few things.”
“We would?” asked McCaig.
“We would.”
Zarrabian looked back and forth between the two of them for a moment. “You will not try to leave or contact anyone? I have your word on this?”
“We won’t,” said Christine. “My word. Yours too, right?” she asked, nodding toward McCaig.
“Yes, my word,” said McCaig. “We’ll be right back.”
Zarrabian nodded.
“Christ, TJ, can’t you just shut up and listen?” she said a minute later. They’d come out the side door of the old house and were standing between the two huge old orange trees, shielded from view in case a farm worker happened by. Above them, the sky was turning a deep orange in the setting sun.
“Wow, Valencia oranges. These are hard to find in the grocery store. Everyone likes navel oranges, but I’ve always preferred Valencias. I’ll bet these trees are a hundred years old if they’re a day. Planted when flavor was king, not whether the fruit could be picked green and shipped halfway around the world.”
“TJ, focus.”
“I’m blowing off steam.” He reached out and plucked an orange from the tree and sniffed it. “This story is complete cock-and-bull. The US attacked Iran with a barrage of cruise missiles? Does he think we’re fools?”
“You’re missing the point.”
“I don’t think so.”
“TJ, when the FBI fired you, did they make you leave your brain behind? I was watching you as much as I watched Zarrabian in there. The moment Zarrabian started talking about a bomb hitting the Grand Bazaar, you started rolling your eyes and staring at the ceiling. Why don’t you just whistle Dixie out loud so we’ll all know how bored you are?”
“I gave the man a chance to explain himself. I owed him that. I guess I hoped against all odds that the man who saved my life and the lives of my men would have a plausible excuse for turning terrorist. Something I could at least understand even if I didn’t agree with it. This story is so ridiculous it embarrasses me.”
“TJ, you’re way too wrapped up in this personally. You owed Zarrabian, and I think you actually liked the guy.”
“I did. He was . . . we spent a couple days together and talked. A lot. We were enemies, but also comrades, the way only soldiers can know.”
“And your personal feelings are interfering. You’re treating this like a family feud, when you should be treating it like an interrogation. You’re missing all the signs. You missed the main point.”
“OK, I’ll bite. What’s this main point I missed?”
“The point is, he believes it.”
“Then he’s a fool. How could he fall for this bull?”
“Exactly. How could he fall for this bull? TJ, what do you know about me?”
“Know about you? What’s that got to do with it?”
“Just answer.”
“You’re a really good reporter, hard-headed as hell, and a sailor with a no-holds-barred attitude who hates to lose.”
“Yeah, that ‘really good reporter’ part—do you know what that means? It means I’m very experienced at reading people and spotting liars. I even studied interrogation techniques: body language, head motions, eye direction, micro expressions, stress in the vocal cords, all that stuff.”
“Yeah, yeah. Spare me the lecture. This isn’t news to an FBI agent. I don’t need a litany of your credentials. It doesn’t make his story any more plausible. Those bombings just didn’t happen.”
“Don’t you see why that’s so important? Of course it never happened! But I think you’re pissed at the FBI, pissed at Zarrabian, and pissed at yourself. When you offered Zarrabian the payback, that was for you, wasn’t it?
“You need redemption. Your life’s gone to shit—first Cordo and now this. You hoped Zarrabian would give you some magical explanation that wou
ld make everything OK—would make you OK and would make the FBI wrong for firing you. It would make it OK that Zarrabian escaped and then held you at gunpoint and escaped again. And when his story turned out to be bull, your disappointment made you roll your eyes and turn off your brain and forget who you are. You’re an FBI agent, trained in investigation and interrogation. Be that guy, not the guy who was up in that room just now.”
He looked down at the orange in his hand, wondering when he’d peeled it. He split it and handed half to Christine. “Here, try this.”
“What the hell, TJ? We’re—”
“Just try it, OK?”
She pulled a piece off and tasted it. “Damn. That’s good.”
“OK, maybe I’m guilty as charged. You don’t give a guy much wiggle room, do you?”
“Not if I respect him. Or even if I don’t,” she said.
“I’m not buying his story, OK? It’s still bull.”
“Pure bull. No question. That bombing never happened.”
“OK, we’ll go back up there. And you’re right, my brain has been turned off.”
“And ask yourself this: Before this all happened, who was the man who saved your life? Would that man tell a long and intricate lie to a friend? Or even to an enemy?”
“No.”
“Exactly. And I hear in your voice when you say ‘no’ that there’s no room for doubt, that you know this man.”
“I thought I did.”
“You may still. So let’s go back up there. And remember what the real question is. It’s not about his story, it’s about why he believes it.”
“Christ. Why didn’t I see that? That’s part of this whole puzzle, isn’t it?”
“Exactly.”
“Sorry for the delay,” said Christine as they sat down again.
“It is no problem,” said Zarrabian. “A man who has had no company for days welcomes any excuse to delay the departure of visitors.”
“I think we’re going to be here for a while, Colonel,” said McCaig.
Zarrabian looked at McCaig with interest. “Ms. Garrett has said something to change your attitude, Captain. I hear it in your voice.”