I could have added that al-Eqbal was an elected crook who got even more crooked when he believed he was beyond reach, largely because US Forces rode shotgun on his wagon. But the flames were doing fine by themselves; I didn’t need to throw gasoline on them.
Mertins stood and walked to a vase of wildflowers on top of a cupboard. He topped up the vase with water from an old bottle. I wondered if he knew that the flowers were plastic. Maybe being kept down that stairwell in the evidence dungeon all those years had rewired his reality.
‘I’ve read your report,’ he said, taking his seat again. ‘I spoke with the people on your team. Fortunately for you, they supported your story. Meyers said the principal was jumping out of the moving vehicle.’
‘That’s how it was, sir.’
I was going to mention those M16s, but decided to let it pass. I’d brought it up with intelligence, but the anonymous weapons didn’t seem to arouse anyone’s curiosity. Perhaps it would’ve been a different story if I’d managed to bring a couple home. There were plenty of US-made weapons AWOL in the ’Stan — apparently, too many to worry about the ones I’d turned up. Personally, I’d have been less interested in the guns if their numbers had been intact, but their removal suggested that they were significant. Otherwise, why go to all the trouble of grinding them off?
‘What happened out there was a total fuck up. You know it, I know it, but I suppose giving you a decoration diverts attention from that fact as far as the folks higher up the food chain are concerned. Command must be down on its hero quota this month.’
Mertins leaned forward, lifted the newspaper for another look, and shook his head in disappointment. ‘Well, at least a silver lining arrived this morning.’
‘Sir?’ I said, a little confused.
‘A lite colonel from OSI HQ is here to see you. Seems you’re leaving us, Cooper, thank God. He’s waiting for you in the briefing room. Dismissed.’
Lieutenant Colonel Arlen Wayne reclined along a row of chairs with a Time splayed across his face. He was snoring. I picked up the magazine. Inside was an old Playboy, camouflaged to avoid the ban on porn. Arlen’s mouth was open, and Miss July had a wet patch on one of her jugs. He stretched his arms above his head and pointed his toes.
With his eyes still closed, he said, ‘I hate damn C-17 red-eye flights. The loadmasters on those fuckers have no concept of service.’
‘Hey, Arlen,’ I said. ‘S’up?’
He opened his eyes. ‘In a word, me. I’ve spent the past week at thirty thousand feet, flying between Washington, Stuttgart, and LA. And now Bagram. I’m a wreck.’
He sat up, swung his legs off the chairs, and said, ‘How about you, Vin? Been pissing anyone off lately?’ He stood and we shook hands.
‘It’s what I do best.’
‘At least it’s the enemy for a change, according to what I’ve read. I wonder who leaked the AFC to the press? I can’t find anyone who’ll confirm it — but it sounds like you deserve it. So,’ he said, examining my eyes, his gaze shifting from one to the other, ‘you doing okay?’
I knew Arlen. He was referring to how I was doing without Anna. ‘I’m fine,’ I said.
‘As in fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and emotional?’
‘As in I’m fine until some bozo reminds me about it all over again.’
‘Sorry,’ he said, giving my shoulder a squeeze. ‘I’ll take off my clown nose.’ He turned away and stood at a desk with his old leather briefcase. ‘So why am I here?’ he said with a flourish.
‘Good question. You’re an oh-five. You could have dispatched underlings.’
Arlen was several years older than me and a couple of inches shorter. He was a good agent in a stickler-for-protocol kind of way. So they made him a lieutenant colonel, and these days he was virtually running OSI HQ while our fearless leader was either sucking or blowing some overlord, depending on what was required. And yet, standing here, I noticed for the first time that the desk job seemed to be taking its pound of flesh. Those brown eyes of his weren’t as bright as they used to be, his dark hair lightening to gray at the temples, a small Japanese car tire-sized roll around his waist. The price of command.
He took a laptop from his briefcase, opened it, and tapped on a few keys. A copy of the New York Times materialized, which at least hinted at a context for his visit. ‘So anyway, along with me, the rest of the world has been reading about your exploits,’ he said. ‘Your buddy Sergeant Fallon has made you famous. Do you know about his blog?’
‘Nope,’ I said, as a picture of Fallon in his army combat uniform slam-dunking a basket appeared on screen. The blog was titled Fallon’s Folly — What the hell am I doing here?
‘Apparently he’s been blogging since he arrived in Afghanistan.’ Arlen’s fingertips rattled across the keyboard as he spoke. ‘It’s become a hit with some folks at the Pentagon who see it as a way of gauging the morale of our boots on the ground. Turns out some newshound named Rentworthy at the New York Times got wind of the blog’s popularity with the brass, checked it out, and became a daily viewer.’
Up came Sergeant Fallon’s iPhone shot of me looking like something that had crawled out of the ground in a Hollywood horror movie.
‘The press saw your photo on the blog, read Fallon’s account, and made a few calls confirming the event. This photo has since been around the world several times. You’re right in the middle of your fifteen minutes, buddy. And that’s kinda why I’m here.’
‘You want my autograph?’
‘Funny.’ He opened another window on the browser, dropped his ‘favorites’ folder down and stabbed a key. ‘No, strange as it may seem, this is not all about you. Park your trailer for a moment while I bring up Part B — the website for a rap artist by the name of Twenny Fo. You know this guy?’
‘Not personally,’ I said. Twenny Fo was up there with Snoop Dogg and Fiddy. I didn’t like the guy’s music, but it was impossible to escape his publicity machine.
‘Well, you’re gonna,’ said Arlen. ‘He read the article in the paper and wants you on his PSO team.’
‘What PSO team?’
‘The one escorting him to Africa.’
‘Africa?’
‘Yeah, You know, lions, zebras, hyenas.’
‘And he asked for me?’
‘The guy thinks you have mojo.’
I gave a snort. Twenny Fo lived his life in the gossip columns and, from what I recalled, it was a train wreck — a former gang member who promoted his tough guy roots by being pro-automatic weapons, pro-drugs, pro-misogyny and anti-everything that wasn’t antisocial. ‘Wasn’t he the guy who got arrested at an after-party for donging his girlfriend with a Grammy?’
‘You remember that, huh?’ said Arlen.
‘I never forget a great moment in assholery. Why’s he going to Africa? And why are we offering to chew his bullets?’
‘We’ve got a training base in Rwanda, at a place called Cyangugu — Camp Come Together.’
‘Camp Come Together. A worthy goal,’ I said. ‘I usually get there too early.’
‘Vin, the Pentagon wants to put on a show for our people there. Twenny Fo released a single called “Fighter”, a tribute to US Forces. It went to number one and a recruitment surge followed.’
‘So getting a bunch of tone-deaf morons to shoulder M16s wipes the slate clean.’
‘The job is to entertain our training forces — who, as it happens, are all African-American.’
‘Are you telling me that we’ve got a training outfit based on something other than aptitude? And that Twenny Fo got the gig because he passed the color test?’
Arlen shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I said, “As it happens” — pure coincidence. And Twenny Fo’s girlfriend is coming along, too.’