Invisible

by Andrew Grant

  I sighed, placed my backpack on the floor, and allowed him to search me. He took his time, starting with my left arm and running his hands all the way from my shoulder to my wrist. He did the same with my right arm, then moved on to my chest, waist, legs, and ankles. He stuck his fingers down into my socks. Checked my pockets. Felt around my belt. Examined my collar. Then leaned down and reached for my pack.

  “Oh, no.” I snatched up the pack and stepped back. “No you don’t. Not so fast. You want this?” I held up the pack. “Then I want those.” I pointed toward the Halliburtons.

  “That was your arrangement with the late Mr. Asgari?” The colonel raised his chin an inch.

  “Correct.” I nodded. “My merchandise is very valuable. You want it, you pay for it, the same as he would have done.”

  “You’re sticking to this fairy tale that you came here to sell him something?” The colonel shook his head like a disappointed parent.

  “Of course.” I looked him right in the eye. “And it’s not a fairy tale. You can see for yourself. I brought the goods. He brought the money. What else could this be? Unless—he did bring the money? Have you checked inside the cases? Is it all there?”

  “It’s a plausible story, I grant you.” The colonel tipped his head to one side. “You have the physical evidence to cover yourselves. Implicating yourself in one crime to deflect attention from another. That’s clever. But we know what was really going on. How much of the money were you going to give him? Half, presumably, as you apparently asked for it to be divided between two equal packages.”

  “Are you insane?” I glanced at the Halliburtons again. “I asked for two cases because you can’t get one case large enough to fit all the money inside. Plus one case would be too heavy for me to move on my own. Because it’s all for me. I’ve earned it. Why on earth would I give any of it to him? He was getting what he wanted.” I patted the backpack. “And if you know what’s inside here, you want it, too. It stands to reason. So why don’t we…”

  “We know that Major Asgari had grown disloyal to our country.” A look of profound sorrow clouded the colonel’s face for a moment. “We know that he was selling military secrets to our enemies. To the Israelis, originally. And more recently to you Americans. His scheme was ingenious. It took us a while to figure it out. But now we know how it worked. He was assigned to procure certain pieces of technology necessary for the peaceful defense of our nation, unjustly denied to us by the illegitimate cabal of western infidels, the United Nations.” He almost spat out the words. “Asgari would claim to have brokered a deal. Our government would provide the necessary funds, however exorbitant the amount. But when Asgari met his contact, who was usually a businessman”—the colonel glowered at me—“he would pass on highly classified information. In return, he would keep some of the money. Half? Whatever. Anyway, when he returned to Tehran, it would turn out that the device he had bought was a convincing counterfeit, too sophisticated for him to have known. Or that it had conveniently broken on the journey home. Or that he’d discovered it was sabotaged, and had been forced to destroy it for the safety of nearby civilians. Anything to cover the fact that he was tricking our government into effectively paying him huge sums to betray us all. It’s disgusting.” The colonel paused and took a long look at Asgari’s body, still propped up behind and to the side of me. “If you ask me, he deserved a far more…protracted end.”

  “Now, wait just a second, here!” I stepped away, one hand out in front like a cop stopping traffic. “Forget him. What about me? That would make me the American agent in your scenario. Do you really think I’m in the CIA or something? I’ve seen those guys, at the embassy in Sofia. They stand out from a mile away. I could never be mistaken for one of them, believe me. No. I’m just a businessman. I’m innocent. Well, not innocent, exactly, but you know what I mean. I’m not here to buy secrets. I’m here to sell the thing that Asgari came to me and said he wanted. The thing I’m sure your government still wants. The real thing.”

  “I don’t believe you.” There was suddenly a layer of steel in the colonel’s voice. “I think you’re a spy. I should shoot you. Right here. Right now. Or”—he produced a matte black commando knife from behind his back—“perhaps you deserve the same fate as your comrade?”

  “Let’s not do anything I might regret.” I held out my backpack. “You’re wrong, and I can prove it. If I was working with Asgari the way you said, then the device in my bag must be a fake. Right? I mean, an American agent isn’t going to hand over the actual technology. No way. I’m sure you’re right about that part. So, take a look. My merchandise is absolutely genuine. It’s the real deal. Exactly as advertised. Meaning I’m only here for the money. All of the money. It’s cash that I want. I have no interest in any secrets.”

  The colonel took the pack and held it up for a moment, as if trying to gauge the quality of its contents by its weight. “So this equipment. Where did you get it?”

  “The company I work for makes it. In Bulgaria. We supply it to several other NATO governments.”

  “Then maybe you should forget these other governments. Forget NATO. Forget Bulgaria. Come to Iran. As our guest. You could make more of this equipment. You’d be very comfortable, I promise.”

  “You don’t understand. I didn’t make the device. Not personally. It takes a whole team. You need specialists. Technicians. Scientists. All kinds of people. It’ll do you no good just kidnapping me.”

  “Then how did you get your hands on the device, if you didn’t make it?”

  “I work in quality control. I’m head of the department, actually. Equipment like this, as you know, it has to be one hundred percent perfect. There’s no room for error. The slightest flaw, the smallest deviation from the spec, the results can be catastrophic. My job is to sign off on the final testing. It gives me the power to reject any item I’m not satisfied with. So—”

  “So this is substandard?” The colonel hoisted the pack up high like a medieval executioner brandishing a traitor’s severed head. “You admit you’re selling defective goods? Dangerous goods?”

  The corporal raised his rifle.

  “No!” I held up both hands. “Hold on. You’re not listening. Let me finish. The device is perfect. It’s flawless. I only pretended it had failed as a way to account for its disappearance. Then I faked the paperwork to make it look like the device had been destroyed. I’d never have been able to get it out of the manufacturing plant, otherwise. Let alone out of the country.”

  The colonel gestured for the corporal to stand down. “And if an independent expert examined the device? He’d agree with you? He’d say that it’s perfect?”

  “Absolutely. Assuming he’s competent.” I crossed my arms. “I’m totally confident. I stand behind my word, one hundred percent.”

  “OK, then. Good.” The colonel snapped his fingers and after a few seconds another man shuffled out from behind a stack of carpets near the rear wall. He was maybe seventy years old, slightly stooped, and also in uniform. Only his tunic lacked any rank designation or regimental insignia. The colonel handed him my backpack. “Let’s see about that.”

  “Wait a minute!” I took a step toward the colonel. “Who is this guy? Does he know what he’s doing? The device is very delicate. If he damages it, and tries to claim—”

  The corporal raised his rifle again.

  “Relax.” The colonel flashed me an icy smile. “If you’re telling the truth, you have nothing to worry about. If not…” He raised the commando knife to eye level and pretended to use the tip of his finger to test its sharpness.

  The old guy disappeared behind the stack of carpets again, taking my backpack with him. I made a drama out of wiping my forehead, as if the heat that was building up in the dusty, enclosed space was starting to bother me, then staggered across to lean against Asgari’s pile of rugs. I didn’t want the colonel to think I was relaxed about
being so close to a dead body, but I had no idea what the old guy’s verdict was going to be when he was done with his examination. I wanted to be near the only available cover—and weapons—in case things went south. For a moment I even thought about cutting my losses. The corporal had lowered his rifle. He was within easy throwing range. If the knife came cleanly out of Asgari’s neck I could hit the corporal in the throat and rush the colonel before either could react.

  If the knife came cleanly out. I rejected the idea. It was too risky. And unjustified. I didn’t know what the old guy’s level of expertise was, but as I’d told the colonel, my merchandise was good. I had to keep the faith. The best option was to just take a breath and wait it out.

  The old guy emerged with my backpack fourteen long minutes later and muttered something to the colonel. I couldn’t make out his words, but could tell they were in Persian. For a moment the colonel’s expression remained neutral, then the tiniest ghost of a frown played across his face.

  “It seems I’ve misjudged you, Mr. McGrath.” The colonel took my pack from the old guy. “Your equipment checks out. The secrets Major Asgari was planning to sell must have been destined for another American. My mistake. Although an easy one to make, when dealing with such a degenerate nationality. Regardless, I trust you’ll accept my apologies. You’re free to go about your business.”

  I pushed away from the stack of rugs, moved toward the colonel, and held out my hand. He looked down at it and sneered, as if I were offering him a turd on a stick.

  “You seriously expect me to shake your hand?” His voice was heavy with contempt.

  “No.” I kept my hand outstretched. “I expect you to return my property. As your guy said, it checks out. That makes it extremely valuable. I went to a lot of trouble to get it. And I want it back. So unless this whole thing was a shakedown from the start—unless you murdered Asgari and ambushed me just to stage a robbery, which would be a bit rich given the obnoxious air of moral superiority that you can’t even be bothered to try to disguise—I’m not leaving till you hand it over.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “OK, then. Give me the cash instead.”

  “And if I refuse that, too?”

  I stayed silent, feeding the tension for another fifteen seconds. Maybe twenty. Then I spun around, pulled the knife—which did come out cleanly—from Asgari’s neck, and turned back to face the colonel.

  “You can’t refuse!” I tried to inject just the right amount of craziness into my voice, and to brandish the knife as wildly as a drunk I’d seen outside a Glasgow nightclub the one New Year’s Eve I’d spent in Scotland. “That’s not right. I came here in good faith. Asgari and I had a deal. I ran a huge risk to bring…” I paused for a moment. Pulled a puzzled expression. Allowed it to be chased away by a fleeting smile. Then flipped the knife around and offered it to the colonel, handle first. “You know what? You’re right. Forget what I was saying. Take my device. Take the money. Go home. And you know where I’ll be? Back in Sofia. In my fabulous apartment. On my balcony, a glass of wine in my hand, looking out over the mountains, smiling to myself. Because I’ll be picturing the scene: You’ll be in Tehran, or wherever you lurk, and your bosses will come to you and say, ‘Wow. That equipment you brought back from Istanbul? It’s the best. We want more. Get hold of that nice Mr. McGrath and make another deal, immediately!’ And you’ll have to say, ‘Sorry, Ayatollah,’ or whoever it is you report to, ‘I can’t do that. You see, I totally stitched Mr. McGrath up. I took his device and wouldn’t pay him, even though there was no reason not to, given that the money was already signed off and all, and now he won’t do business with us anymore.’ I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes when that happens. And you know it will, because your own expert confirmed my stuff is good, and you can’t get it anywhere else.”

  “Payment isn’t the only way to persuade you to cooperate, Mr. McGrath.” The colonel’s eyes had narrowed slightly. “A phone call to your boss? To the police? The American Embassy? The CIA?”

  “Saying what?” It was my turn to smile. “I’m way ahead of you. There’s no official record of me ever having set foot in Turkey. And the paper trail showing that the device was destroyed is watertight. It’s bombproof, in fact. I know because I designed the system. And yes, the detritus from the incinerator is archived, for this exact kind of situation. But you know what? If the residue from the day in question was to be analyzed, the results would show precisely the correct chemical constituents to be there in exactly the right proportions. So if you ever want to make those calls, go ahead. I’ll give you my boss’s number. The others you can find online, if you don’t know them already.”

  The colonel said nothing. Behind him the corporal fidgeted awkwardly.

  “If you ask me, it’s time for some strategic thinking.” I kept my voice matter-of-fact. “A couple of cases of cash, for a couple of decades of cooperation? Tell me that’s not a good deal.”

  * * *

  —

  This was it. The close. I could hear my father’s voice: Just stay silent.

  My father, the great deal maker. The great pacifist.

  What would he have thought, if he could have seen me at that moment?

  He’d probably have despised me all the more.

  102 Turtlepond Lane

  Bedford, New York 10506

  US Army Field Communications Center

  Fort Huachuca, Arizona 85613

  January 6th, 2017

  Dear Paul,

  A great deal of time has passed since we last spoke, let alone since we last saw each other. Far too much time, if you ask me! But please don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not writing to admonish you. I know you’re busy, and I know you’re likely far away, possibly even on another continent. I know you’re doing something you believe in, even if that’s something I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to fully reconcile myself with. And that’s part of why I’m writing to you now.

  I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I’ve come to a very important conclusion. It’s something I think you should know about. I’d have preferred to tell you in person, but since neither of us can predict when we’ll next be together, I thought it was better to at least put my thoughts in writing so you’d be fully in the loop. The background to this epiphany—and I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to call it that—isn’t important. The place where I was when it hit me (Haiti, as it happens) and so on—that kind of detail can wait until we’re finally face-to-face once again, which I hope will not be too far in the future. But the salient point is this: I have finally, once and for all, unconditionally accepted that whatever you do with the rest of your life—whether you stay in the army, go to Africa to guard elephants, hunt down Yugoslavian war criminals in South America, or pursue any of your other “crazy” (to my way of thinking) schemes—you won’t, ever, under any circumstances be joining me in the business. And that’s OK! (I bet you wouldn’t have expected me to say that, right?) Because I’ve come up with a solution. A way forward that I hope will work for everyone concerned.

  This is what I’ve decided to do: take on a partner. (If I’m able to select someone from within the company, that would be my preference.) We’ll run the business together for the next few years, until I’m ready to retire. Then I’ll sell my holding to him or her based on a valuation formula we both agree on up front. That way the company will continue when I step down, no one will lose their jobs, and I’ll still be able to pass on to you the fruits of my life’s work (albeit in the form of cash, rather than an ongoing enterprise), which is all I’ve ever wanted to do.

  I must also confess that one reason for wanting to let you know about this new plan (this new mind-set—this new me!) right away is the hope that now you know the days of me dropping hints about working together and you moving back to New York (and I know my hints tend to be about as subtle as dropping an anvil on
your head) are over—now that the pressure’s lifted, now that the elephant’s been let out of the room—you might feel a little more inclined to come home for a visit. Even a short one. The truth is, I miss you, son. And I’d give anything to see you more often.

  Love,

  Dad

  PS—Please write and let me know you’ve received this, and that you’re happy with the plan.

  PPS—Please also let me know when you expect to reach town! (Joking!!!)

  Chapter Two

  The only constant is change.

  That’s what some instructor told me, way back on my first day of basic training. I had no idea what she was talking about. I had no idea what I was doing there, beyond basking in the juvenile glow of having given a symbolic middle finger to my commerce-loving, military-hating father. I had no idea what the army had in store for me, in those naïve days. And no idea that the instructor’s words would turn out to be five of the truest ones I’d ever hear. Certainly in terms of how the army is run. And particularly when it came to commanding officers. It seemed like I had a new one every time I was called back to Group Headquarters, which was in Wiesbaden, Germany.

  Soldiers seem out of place in offices, I always think. The uniforms. The standing and saluting when senior officers enter a room. The stilted, acronym-ridden phone conversations. And the furniture. Heavy. Utilitarian. Usually a little beaten up. It’s all a world away from the civilian workplaces the army so often sends me to infiltrate. It’s a culture shock, every time I return. Like waking up in a freaky facsimile of the real world, the same in substance but light-years away in nuance. The only thing a meeting in an army office has going for it is a kind of cultural early warning system. Coffee. If you’re offered some, there’s a fair chance your encounter will end well.