Part 25 (2/2)

”If you have a photo alb.u.m, I mind a lot.”

He laughed. ”Divorced. Twice. How about I tell you what complete b.i.t.c.hes they were?” Whereupon he fell into the seat and stretched out.

On his left shoulder, I observed the patch of the First Infantry Division--his current unit of a.s.signment--and on his right shoulder, that of the Third Armored Division, a unit he served with in a previous war, or on a previous tour in this war. He was a combat veteran several times over with that weary, deromanticized, been-there-donethat look of somebody who was too tired to talk about it.

He said to me, ”You're JAG.” His eyes moved to my shoulder where there was no unit patch. ”Where you a.s.signed in Iraq?”

”I'm not.”

”Then why--”

”I'm a tourist. Maybe you can recommend a good hotel. A pool and spa would be nice. A good, well-stocked bar would be more than nice.”

”You're nuts.” He laughed.

”Me? Who's coming back a second time?” I informed him, ”It's temporary duty. Just in and out.”

”Oh . . .” I thought for a moment he was going to knock me out with his beefy fists and trade uniforms.

”Meeting a client,” I told him. That, in fact, was my cover, and should anyone ask, that's also what it said on the phony orders in my breast pocket. Good covers are always based on fact, and in reality, there was a prisoner facing charges, though he hadn't yet been a.s.signed counsel. I had even briefly studied his case file to substantiate my cover; the guy didn't have a prayer.

”What's his t.i.t 'n a ringer for?” Jackson asked.

This seemed like a good chance to practice my cover, and I replied, ”Mistreatment of an Iraqi prisoner.”

”They're real sensitive about that these days.”

”Sure are.”

”Ever since that Abu Ghraib thing.”

”Yep.”

”That was a bunch of wacko idiots, you ask me. What the h.e.l.l were they thinking?”

”They weren't. They were just doing.”

After a moment he asked, ”Your guy, he do it?”

”Never touched the guy.”

”Uh-huh.”

”But I think the seven witnesses and the victim's broken jaw from the rifle b.u.t.t might prove a little tricky in court.”

He laughed. ”I can see where that could be a problem.”

That about covered everything I knew, so to change the subject I asked him, ”So how is it over there?”

He took a moment to contemplate this question. ”Sucks.”

Any soldier who is happy in a war zone needs his head checked. I asked him, ”But is it worth it?”

He understood what I was asking and replied, ”Is now.”

”Why now now?”

”You know Tennyson?” After a moment, he clarified. ”Alfred . . . the English poet.” And then he quoted, ”'Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do or die.'”

” 'Charge of the Light Brigade,'” I replied.

”Says it all.”

”Bulls.h.i.+t.”

He laughed. ”Complete bulls.h.i.+t.” He twisted sideways and faced me. ”A month ago I sent home two of my kids in body bags, and I d.a.m.n sure give a s.h.i.+t that my soldiers are dead.” He soberly contemplated his combat boots. ”Now it better be worth it.”

I looked out the window at the expansive blue sky, at the marshmallow clouds below, and off in the distance, I noted a jet contrail headed in the direction we had just come from. Possibly that sleek silver container also was filled with soldiers, their year at war over, their minds choked with memories of long, tedious days, of comrades wounded, mangled, and worse.

And it struck me that Bian was right about one thing--we could could blow the lid off this war--and among some on this plane, I would end up man of the year, and among most, loathed. blow the lid off this war--and among some on this plane, I would end up man of the year, and among most, loathed.

First Sergeant Jackson closed his eyes. Field soldiers have the stamina of babies, and within thirty seconds he was comatose and snoring loudly. Time for business. I opened my legal briefcase, withdrew a thick sheath of papers, took a moment to clear my mind, and dug in.

I recalled the old Army saying--a plan lasts until the second it's implemented. I have found this to be generally true, but I think it's important to have one, to have a baseline, and if you've really done your homework, workable options for when the p.o.o.p flies. What we had in this case was seat-of-your-pants bulls.h.i.+t.

The basic idea--what the Army calls a POW s.n.a.t.c.h; POW standing for prisoner of war, and s.n.a.t.c.h implying the goombah in question might not be a willing partic.i.p.ant. Such operations are always risky, as bad guys invariably hang around their own neighborhoods, usually in the company of other bad guys, and you have to be quick or you you end up on the short end of the stick. There are, in fact, times when the roles become reversed, but it's bad luck to dwell on that--and hard not to. end up on the short end of the stick. There are, in fact, times when the roles become reversed, but it's bad luck to dwell on that--and hard not to.

In the interest of airtight secrecy, rather than rely on career Agency types or even uniformed military who might become nosy about Sean Drummond and Mr. Ali bin Pacha, the heavy-lifting stage of this mission was going to be done by private contractors employed by Phyllis.

These were people who had done work for the Agency before, and they pa.s.sed the entrance exam; they were still alive to do another job. They are not mercenaries, mind you, and they are sure to point that out to you; they are patriotic Americans, mostly former Army and Navy Special Forces types who are still serving their country, and it just happens to be for more money.

And why not? They get one to two hundred grand a year, less Mickey Mouse, bosses they can talk back to, and when they're tired of it, they cash out and walk. This might be a workable option for Drummond's second career.

On the brighter side, they are professionals, usually handpicked, highly experienced, and they don't get jobs unless they produce bang for the buck.

Oh, yes--that unsettling matter of my trust issues with my boss. I wasn't completely paranoid, yet I was aware of another big advantage of private contractors. They aren't accountable to anybody except the name on the paycheck, no questions asked. Not that I expected a bullet in the back of my head. It was a factor to bear in mind, though.

Of course, Phyllis would never do that to me. We were friends. Right?

Anyway, before I departed I was given the name of my contact, Eric Finder--a hopeful surname for this job--the location for our meeting, and even pa.s.swords we would exchange to confirm our bona fides. How cool is that?

Inside my legal case were street maps and satellite photos of Falluja--where Ali bin Pacha was in residence--a few thick binders filled with information about that city, and various threat a.s.sessments produced by in-country CIA types regarding a man named Ahmad Fadil Nazzal al-Khalayleh, who was a Jordanian by birth, nom de guerre al-Zarqawi, and some of his known a.s.sociates--Mr. Ali bin Pacha's name, incidentally, was nowhere on that list.

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