by C. A. James
“That’s pretty tedious stuff, Bashir.”
“Yes, sir, it takes patience.”
“Lots of long hours in the car, Bashir? Seems like it will never end?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Must get to you.”
“No, sir. It’s part of the job.”
Smith laughed out loud, then clapped Bashir on the shoulder. “Good boy! Tedious is just part of the job. That’s good. You keep it up.” He brushed past Bashir, clapping him one more time on the back for good measure. Bashir looked around. Several co-workers in the hallway and side offices looked away, pretending they hadn’t seen.
Good boy? Boy? Bashir hadn’t been so humiliated since his freshman year in college when his girlfriend had broken up with him in front of a dozen friends, making absurd claims about his lack of sexual prowess and the diminutive size of his genitals. It was obvious to everyone she was lying, but they laughed nonetheless.
As Smith walked down the hall and disappeared around a corner, Bashir had an epiphany. He knew. Smith hated McCaig. He hated McCaig with a passion. And Bashir was caught in the crossfire.
He sighed and brought his attention back to the present. Still no deliveries today. Fifteen more minutes and his replacement would arrive. He had to pee. It would have to wait.
Bashir reminded himself that he was good at patience. Anyone who had grown up in Palestine had to learn patience. Patience for long lines, patience for bad food, patience for peace that never came, patience for answering the questions of soldiers who had no business being in his country, and patience for the militants who didn’t want peace.
He had patience. Smith was just a bump in the road, something to get past. It might be a week, it might be a couple years, but Smith would be gone some day, and Bashir’s career would get back on track.
A loud ringtone from his phone made him jump. That was odd—nobody was supposed to call him here. He glanced around to double check that the suspect wasn’t in sight, then pulled out his ringing cell phone. The display showed a phone number he didn’t recognize. Probably a wrong number. He started to put it back in his pocket, but then hesitated. Maybe it was important. He answered it.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” said McCaig.
“Boss! I mean Agent, uh, Mr. McCaig!”
“Call me TJ, OK? How are you, Omar?”
“Oh, gosh, boss. I shouldn’t be talking to you. I mean, yes I should. You need to turn yourself in, TJ. You’re wanted for questioning by the FBI.”
“Is that right?”
“I’m sorry, uh, yes, sir. Please tell me your location and I’ll send someone to pick you up.”
“You done, Omar?”
“Sir?”
“Let me know when you’re done with the bullshit. You’ve done your duty, OK?”
“TJ, you’re wanted for questioning! What the hell is going on? I’m an FBI agent. I can’t just yak with you on the phone. I’m already in the ice box with Smith because of you. You know I have to do my job!”
“OK, that’s good. And what do you do with the suspect who is on the phone? Just hang up?”
“Uh, no. Right, I try to keep him talking as long as I can. The longer he talks, the more chance he’ll make mistakes and reveal something regarding his whereabouts or activities.”
“Excellent, Omar. So keep me talking. I need a favor.”
“What? No way, TJ.”
“You just shut up and let me talk, like you said, OK?”
“OK, but I can’t do you any favors. You know that.”
“This is the point where in the movies the old guy says, 'hey, we were partners; you know me; everything you’ve heard is false; I saved your life and you gotta trust me.'”
“You never saved my life.”
“I would have. Anyway, save me the time, just pretend I made that speech, OK? I really need something, and you’ll be doing the right thing, and I really can’t explain.”
“Boss, I—”
“See, you still call me boss. We did have a good thing going, Omar. I’ve had a lot of partners, and you’re one of the best. That’s not flattery, just fact. The world’s changing, and you’re the new face of the FBI. That’s why I need you.”
“So, assuming for argument’s sake I said yes, which I’m not going to say, what is this favor you need?”
“That’s the spirit! Keep me talking. Whatever I ask you, you’ll have more to go on about what I’m up to.”
“Well?”
“Zarrabian has a family. A wife and daughter, about six or seven. Find out if they’re alive.”
“Has a family? Not had a family? I thought he was dead.”
“Well, sure, that’s what your government says.”
“Is he alive?”
“Nice try, Omar. No, I’m not going to reveal anything. Assume that if somebody had information to the contrary, and thought there was a chance that it was important, he might or might not want to know. About the family.”
“What does that mean?”
“Exactly.”
“OK. But look, you don’t have to say anything for me to figure out one thing for sure.”
“What’s that?”
“That this is important. Right?”
“No, I’m just curious.”
“Bullshit. I mean, sorry, bad language. It’s just that you’ve disappeared, everyone seems to be after you, and you’ve taken the trouble to find a burner phone, am I right?”
“No comment.”
“You went out and bought a cheap by-the-minute burner phone in case they’re tracking your phone.”
“So what if this is important? Would that change anything?”
“Boss, you know I’ve gotta report this conversation. Geez, I’d be in big trouble if I didn’t. I could, probably would, lose my job!”
“I know, Omar. I’m expecting you to. Because whoever turned me from a good guy to a bad guy is going to wonder why the hell I want to know about Zarrabian’s family, and will think I know something they don’t know, and so they’ll dig around and find the answer. The only question is, will you let me know?”
“No. In the first place, once I tell them, they’ll be tracking your phone. So you’re going to toss it, right? And in the second place, what makes you think they’ll tell me what they find? And in the third place, that would be revealing details of an investigation in progress. I can’t do that!”
“Nonsense. If she’s alive, that’s hardly a state secret, right? Dozens, hundreds, of people in Iran already know. You’d just be adding one more. Me.”
Bashir thought for a moment. “I suppose. But—”
“Craigslist. You know, the ‘Rants and Raves’ section where people can spout off about anything they like and probably nobody reads it? Post something there. Give it a title I’ll recognize and I’ll find it. But make it obscure, OK?”
“I don’t know, boss.”
“It’s important, Omar. Really important. Craigslist-dot-org, 'Rants and Raves,' San Francisco. OK?”
“I really don’t—“
“So here’s the part in the movie where the tough old cop says something profound to his young sidekick and the young guy goes rogue and says he’ll help. Pretend that just happened.”
Bashir didn’t say anything.
“If you stay quiet, I might hang up.”
“Boss, I don’t know what to say. I’m pretty confused. You can’t be the bad guy. I just know it. But—”
“Exactly. Just remember that: I am not the bad guy. And here’s something else I’m going to tell you. This is important too. I know it will sound like mumbo-jumbo vague-speak, but there’s something wrong. I can’t tell you more than that, but if you don’t trust anything else I say, trust that. Zarrabian really did blow up our bridge. Beyond that, nothing is what it seems. OK?”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means keep your eyes open.”
McCaig cut off the call, opened the back of the cell phone, and remo
ved the battery.
“You should have been a psychologist, TJ.”
He gave a short laugh. “All agents are psychologists. The ones worth their salt, at least. Probably like you reporters. Come on, let’s head back upstairs.”
When they returned to the room, Zarrabian had switched off the old camping lantern and opened the curtains. He was silhouetted in the window by the moonlight. He turned at the sound of their footsteps, pulled the curtains closed, and clicked the lantern on.
“Enjoying the view?” asked Christine.
“I have spent much of my life outdoors, and do not enjoy the small spaces in which I have been living the past few days.” He gestured at the chairs, sat on the bed and continued. “Captain, forgive me for prying, but I could hear your voice through my window. It sounded as though you made a telephone call.”
“No worries. I purchased a prepaid phone while I was in town getting food. I took out the battery after my call was done. It can’t be traced.”
Zarrabian said nothing. McCaig waited a minute and then broke the silence. “I hoped to get information about your family.”
Zarrabian nodded. “You understand that this news you bring me is very difficult for me to accept.”
“I’d think you’d be a pretty happy guy,” said McCaig.
“Of course, Captain. I could not have hoped for more. But—”
“Come on, TJ,” interrupted Christine. “Don’t be dumb. Think for just two seconds, or is that too much effort? What this means. About why the colonel agreed to his mission.”
McCaig leaned forward and put his forehead on his palm. “I’m an idiot. You’d have never done this mission, would you?”
“Captain, please,” he replied. “You of all people know the answer to that question.”
“I know. Lucky Luckner. All that soldier stuff. You and me, we’re the old school.”
“Lucky Luckner?” asked Christine.
The men looked at each other. McCaig nodded.
“Baron von Luckner,” said Zarrabian. “Also called ‘The Sea Devil.’ Have you not wondered why Captain McCaig and I share an odd bond of trust?”
“I assumed it was some male-bonding thing; he saved your ass and you saved his so you’re blood brothers or something,” she replied.
“As a woman who makes a living investigating people’s lives, you might find the true story more interesting,” he continued. “It came via a book. Captain McCaig’s team captured me during a covert spy mission in Iran during the Iran-Iraq war. His team was in my country illegally.”
“He said it, not me,” said McCaig.
“TJ, that is, Captain McCaig,” she replied, “told me some of this story. Now I’d like to hear your version.”
Zarrabian continued. “America was not at war with Iran, so Captain McCaig refused to kill me even though I was a great inconvenience. Some of his team questioned his decision, but he was quite firm. Shortly after he captured me, the Iraqis bombed the site. We were trapped in a basement deep underground for several days. Since I was in charge of the site, I knew the buildings well. There was an escape route through a tunnel to the next building, but I was reluctant to reveal it to Captain McCaig and his team. I hoped that Iranian forces would arrive, release me, and arrest the Americans.
“After two days, our water ran out and it became clear that rescue was unlikely. The Captain and I struck a deal: he would release me unharmed, and in return I would show his team the escape route. I promised to wait six hours before reporting his presence so that his team had time to leave the area.”
“So who is this Sea Devil guy and what’s he got to do with any of this?” asked Christine.
“During my student years at Berkeley, I spent a great deal of time in the library. I would sometimes read military history to rest my mind from equations and formulas. One book became a favorite, Count Luckner, The Sea Devil, by the English author Lowell Thomas. It is a fascinating story, and very well written.”
“Coincidentally,” said McCaig, “one of my favorites too. My dad had an autographed copy that my grandfather got when Count Luckner was touring the United States after World War One.”
“OK, so you read the same book. Some sort of sea story?”
“No,” said McCaig. “Well, yes, a sea story. Count Luckner was a German captain in World War One who commanded the last wooden sailing ship ever commissioned for a navy. He managed to capture fourteen other merchant ships without a single loss of life. All in a wooden sailing ship. It really pissed off the British. He was known for treating his prisoners well, following the rules, and being incredibly clever and persistent.”
Zarrabian continued, “It was his sense of duty and honor, his insistence on following the rules of war, that led to his capture. He lost his ship on a reef but sailed thousands of kilometers across the South Pacific using one of his ship’s small ten-meter launches. He drew suspicion in one of the harbors where he stopped, and the police came to investigate. Luckner had enough guns and ammunition to easily overpower the ship and police who captured him, but these were civilian police, not soldiers, and they did not know who Luckner was.”
“So?” she asked.
“The rules of war at the time were quite clear. Luckner and his men were disguised in civilian clothes. It was considered dishonorable and cowardly for a professional soldier to engage a civilian police force while in disguise. If there had been time to change into their uniforms before the police arrived, they would have defended themselves. But the police were on top of them without warning, so Luckner surrendered and turned over his weapons without a shot being fired.”
“So this Luckner guy . . .” she asked.
“Count Felix von Luckner,” said McCaig.
“Count Felix von Luckner, this Sea Devil guy, put honor over his own safety and Germany’s victory?”
“Exactly,” said McCaig. “It was a different era. Today terrorists target civilians.”
“As do countries,” added Zarrabian. “The United States, for example.”
“We don’t target civilians on purpose,” said McCaig.
“One hundred thousand Iraqi civilians were killed by American bombs. Do you think they care whether it was on purpose or—what is that horrible term you use? Collateral damage?” asked Zarrabian.
“A hundred thousand?” said McCaig. “That’s propaganda.”
“Then your own government is the propagandist. That is the official civilian death toll published by the United States.”
“Maybe for the whole war,” said McCaig.
“No,” said Zarrabian. “Those are civilians, mostly women and children, who were killed directly by American bombs. According to your own government.”
“Wow. I didn’t know that,” said McCaig.
“Very few Americans do. Why is that? Most independent analysts put the number much higher. Some say as high as three hundred thousand,” added Zarrabian.
“Can we please get back on track?” said Christine. “So you both thought this Sea Devil guy was a pretty good guy, and what, you bonded over him?”
“Not exactly,” said McCaig. “The guy was sort of a braggart and probably exaggerated his exploits a bit. But it was a starting point for some very interesting conversations about war, politics, honor, and the morality of soldiering. It was very unexpected to find that my captive was such a deep thinker and so widely read.”
“And, conversely, my captor,” said Zarrabian.
“And that’s why,” continued McCaig, “by the time we parted, I trusted the colonel to keep his promise. And when he held me at gunpoint in the woods in Marin, he trusted me to keep my promise, and later to trust my payback message.”
Christine shook her head. “Men are peculiar creatures. But since you mention the cabin at Marin, I’ve been trying to figure that one out. What the hell happened out there, Colonel? Who was the dead guy?”
“An assassin. That is all I know.”
“Sent by whom?”
“I do not know. Ther
e are true coincidences in life, yet most things that appear coincidental are not.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“I used your phone, Ms. Garrett, to send a coded message to my consulate in San Francisco. The message included the location of the cabin where I would be hiding and a request for instructions. Immediately afterwards, I discarded the phone by throwing it into the Russian River, and I made my way to the cabin. A few hours later, the assassin arrived. He knew exactly where to find me.”
“Wow. Were you expecting something like that? How did you escape?”
“Mostly luck,” he replied.
“Don’t let him fool you,” said McCaig. “I’ll bet luck had little to do with it.”
“So the burnt body found by the police was your assassin?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re saying Iran, your own country, sent him?”
“Given these facts, I can find no other logical conclusion.”
“Why? Why would Iran send you here and then try to kill you?”
Zarrabian looked down. They had to strain to hear his words. “I do not know.” After a silence, he looked up again. “We must think of it as another piece in this puzzle. When we finally solve the puzzle, it will make sense.”
“Famous last words,” said McCaig.
“I believe this expression indicates doubt,” said Zarrabian.
“It does,” answered Christine. “I hope you’re right, but life is sometimes a tangle. Like somebody took two puzzles and threw all the pieces together, then stirred.”
“Indeed,” said Zarrabian. “Now you must forgive me, but I am getting very tired. Even though I have had no activity today, it has been . . .” He paused.
“Emotional?” said Christine.
“I have dedicated my life to serving my country. Yesterday I was a hero, a determined leader on a dangerous mission who struck a blow deep in the heart of the enemy’s own country. Today today I learned that I was merely a pawn in a game being played by that enemy. No, it is not even that good. I was a pawn used by criminal conspirators trying to trick my own country. I have betrayed my country in the worst way possible. I have betrayed everything I believed in.”