‘Ammo?’ I asked. ‘You gave those bastards ammo?’
‘I most certainly did,’ Peter said. ‘Four cases of standard NATO-issue 7.62-millimeter rounds. I even tossed in some medical supplies for good measure.’
‘You did, did you?’ I said. ‘Christ, that ammo is going to come back and—’
‘I don’t quite think so,’ he said. ‘You see, concealed in the frame of those crates was a tracking device. When I was sure that you weren’t in the camp and when I was safely out of the militia’s area of control I activated the tracking device. Some time later that camp was obliterated. Not a particularly good way of building repeat business with the local militias, but since it was their choice to break the armistice I didn’t lose any sleep over it.’
I remembered seeing the bombing strike when I’d been on the way to find a place to sleep at Stewart Carr’s farm. ‘But there were women there, and children…’
‘True, and many others who have terrorized their refugee neighbors, and who kept you captive, and who were happily going to kill you if you hadn’t escaped or if I hadn’t got there in time to buy you out. I’m sure you’ve figured all this out, but let me remind you. We’re in a dirty little war here, a dirty little war that’s going to determine what kind of planet we’ll be living on for the rest of this wonderful new century. A place where innocents can be slaughtered and nothing can be done about it, or a place where somebody with some authority and force of arms can halt this kind of killing. Killing that can take place even in the homeland of the world’s sole remaining superpower. And that’s my job. To help bring peace and stability here.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘And are there any other jobs that you’re involved with that you’d like to tell me about?’
‘Just the overarching one, of course.’
‘Site A,’ I said.
‘So right, Samuel,’ Peter said. ‘Site A, the site of a massacre where up to two hundred refugee men, women and children were killed and their bodies destroyed or hidden. And our deadline expires in less than two days. If Site A hasn’t been found by the time that deadline expires, then a number of bloody men with bloody hands will be released from The Hague.’
I thought about what he had told me, what I had seen, and I said, ‘Sorry. Don’t buy it.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I said, sorry, don’t buy it. You’re on detached duty from one of the most elite military units in the world, working for one of the most elite intelligence outfits as well. You can summon the general in charge of the British UN contingent to come down and speak to you — and not the other way around. And all this to keep a bunch of militia leaders behind bars at The Hague? Sorry—like I said, I don’t buy it. There’s more. And what’s that, Peter?’
Peter’s expression suddenly went blank, as though his good-humored earlier appearance had been carefully removed and put away.
I said, ‘Come along, Peter. What is it? What’s really important about Site A?’
Peter spoke slowly, as if he was choosing his words with care. ‘Samuel… I think you know quite enough for now. I don’t think any useful purpose will be served by discussing this matter further.’
I thought about what he had just said, about the job he was doing, gathering intelligence in the field, finding out the truth, learning about the militia units and their organization and trying to get this battered country back on its feet and—
The truth.
Looking for the truth.
Looking for Site A. Looking for answers.
But answers to what?
And like a flash—oh my, what a choice of words—it came to me.
I said, ‘Site A… it’s more than just a place where bodies are hidden. Evidence is there as well—evidence about the attacks last spring.’
No word, no expression, nothing. Peter just sat there.
‘That’s been one of the biggest questions out there, hasn’t it, Peter? Who was behind the suitcase-nuke strike on Manhattan and the EMP balloon strikes that crippled this country? Nobody knows. There’s been claims here and there, but nothing concrete. But you have an idea. You and your bosses… There’s evidence, and it’s at Site A. Right?’
More silence.
‘Peter… either you’re going to tell me and trust me or we’re going to leave here and then I’m off to the Star to break this story. So, one way or the other, a choice has to be made. Up to you.’
‘You fucker,’ he said sharply.
‘Probably, but I’ve had a rough few days. True, isn’t it? Site A and the balloon strikes and the bombing of Manhattan. They’re connected.’
There seemed to be a struggle going on behind that neutral expression on Peter’s face, and he said, ‘If ever a word of what I’m about to say leaves this room, I’ll hurt you.’
I smiled. ‘The usual and customary threat is to kill me. Why the difference? Taking mercy on me?’
‘Hardly,’ Peter said. The grim smile that was back on his face had a touch of nastiness about it. ‘Killing is easy. Hurting you, now… I could smash your knees in such a way that no corrective surgery would ever ease the pain, so that you’d have forty or fifty years of hobbling around in agony to look forward to. All because you let word get out about my business. Understand?’
I swallowed. ‘Yeah. I understand.’
‘Good.’ He exhaled loudly before continuing, ‘Prior to the attacks last spring, we had assets—as they’re known -working here in the States, evaluating and gathering intelligence about a cell that was of concern to us because of bits of information we’d been able to secure about a possible domestic attack here in the USA. We had someone who’d managed to reach the upper levels of this cell… but her information didn’t get to us on time and hence it didn’t reach our American cousins. The strikes happened—and then, chaos. Communications were cut off: our asset had been in Manhattan and she got caught up in one of the refugee streams, heading north.’
‘The refugee stream that got ambushed—and ended up in Site A.’
‘Exactly. She had managed to leave word through a dead-letter drop that she had the evidence that we had so desperately been looking for…and we managed to trace her movements up until the time the column she was with had been ambushed. Then…nothing. And so the hunt continues.’
‘The whole thing about keeping those militia leaders behind bars in The Hague… just a cover story?’
‘Yes, but a good one. Gives us an excuse to snoop around the countryside with some sense of urgency.’
I thought through what Peter had just told me and said, ‘All right—who were they?’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t play me for an idiot, Peter. Who were they? The cell you infiltrated. The ones who bombed the United States last April.’
Peter smiled again and said, ‘To get to that little gold nugget of information, you have to ask yourself an important Latin question. Cui bono? which translates as “Good for whom?” or—another way of saying it—“Who benefits?” Immediate answer, of course, are those usual collections of malcontents and ragheads from the Middle East who have such miserable lives that they’re compelled to blame somebody else—which, of course, means the Great Satan. But really… those nukes were taken from an old Soviet Union storage facility, transported here to the United States and, save for the one used in Manhattan, were suspended from high-altitude balloons and then detonated within seconds of each other. Hijacking a plane and driving it into an office building is one thing. Something this complex means a much greater collection of skilled personnel.’