The sound of the pipes seemed to carry out in the tropical air, the keening and whining cutting right through him, and he played the tune twice, conscious only at the end that he was weeping, which upset him, for he had never cried, not once, while playing the pipes at all those funerals that had haunted that fateful September.
Then he was done. The pipes fell silent. He stood there, sweating, looking at the camp buildings and the cell blocks where the enemies of America awaited their fate.
‘Sir?’ came a voice.
Brian turned. A young Marine stood there, ramrod-straight, and he said, ‘Sir… if you don’t mind, what was that tune you were playing? I’ve never heard it before.’
Brian tucked the silent bagpipes under his arm and said, ‘In the original Gaelic, it’s called “Cogadh no Sith.” It was made famous by a piper named Kenneth MacKay, who served with the 79th Cameron Highlanders during the Battle of Waterloo in 1815.’
‘No shit. Really?’
‘Really. The Highlanders were set up in a square, waiting for the French forces to counterattack. It was a desperate time. Nerves were on edge. Men were gripping their muskets, waiting for the charge. And Piper MacKay, he stepped out beyond the square of soldiers, beyond his comrades, and stood out there on the battlefield. Alone. And he marched around the square, playing “Cogadh no Sith”. Taunting the enemy to come out and fight. Which was what they did. And when the day was over, the French were defeated.’
The Marine nodded. ‘Some story. The tune…what’s it called again?’
“‘Cogadh no Sith.’”
‘What does that mean?’
Brian said, ‘It means “War or Peace.”’
“‘War or Peace.” Hell of a choice.’
Brian looked at the confident face of the Marine, at his comrades lined up behind him, at the base here and everywhere else, out there in the big wide world that was more than New York City, much more.
War or peace.
‘Yeah,’ he said to the young Marine. ‘Hell of a choice. Only one we got.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Days later and miles away, a man was admitted to a waiting area at an embassy in Ottawa. As he sat down he crossed his legs, relaxed. He examined the magazines on the counter before him, tossed a couple aside. There was just one thing he wanted to read.
He reached into his coat pocket, took out the tiny clipping, something taken from a USA Today last week. With all the news these past few days, he was surprised that the story had gotten any play. But he was glad to see it. Always nice to see a loose end tied up.
The door to the office opened up. A man with a closely-trimmed beard, white shirt buttoned at the collar with no necktie, and a black suitcoat came out.
‘I am ready for you,’ the man said.
‘Very well,’ he said, standing up and putting the clipping away, the story of a mysterious accident outside Memphis the night the AirBox flights had taken off, an accident involving a Ford Explorer that had blown up, the body of its driver burned beyond recognition.
Ah yes, the driver, whoever he had been, had no doubt thought he had been so lucky to find a brand-new Ford SUV with the keys in it and a full tank of gas.
Luck. It was where you found it, it was where you made it. He had gotten this far and survived for so long not by trusting in others, especially unseen others, no matter how generous their pay had been.
Inside the office he noted the flag behind the man’s desk, the flag of the Islamic Republic of Iran.
‘My name is Vladimir Zhukov,’ he announced, ‘and I have a business proposition for you.’
‘Very good,’ the man said. ‘We are eager to hear it.’