Starched Fatigues gave what Justin thought was the closest he could come to a quick smile. “Captain Hutchinson Cooke was a traitor.”
“Can I get any elaboration?”
“We’ve interviewed many people who knew him at Andrews Air Force Base, including his commanding officer. Cooke apparently had become wildly political. Been studying the Koran. He’d spent many years flying to the Middle East. He made a lot of friends there and obviously was easily influenced. He’d become convinced that the government here was his enemy.”
Justin had enough energy to squint dubiously and say, “He wasn’t Arab.”
“Neither was the young man in northern California who went to Afghanistan and joined the Taliban. Just tragically misguided.”
“Cooke was working for a company called Midas.”
“That’s right. A Saudi-formed company, based in Iraq. They had an American branch, trying to do business here.”
“What kind of business?”
“Oil.”
“And were they doing business here?”
“Not really. They’d made contacts. It’s easy to make contacts in that business when you’re from the Middle East. But it seemed to basically be a shell. A terrorist front.”
“And. .?”
“And it’s been closed down. The people responsible for it have been arrested. They’re being dealt with.”
“How did Cooke pull off the doubleheader? How’d he work for Midas the same time he was supposed to be flying for the Air Force?”
“He was AWOL. It’s what led us to him in the first place. We’d been looking for him ever since his commanding officer made it official.”
Justin thought his head might burst. They had answers for everything. It was all getting tied up in a neat and seamless package. “Who killed Cooke?” he asked.
“We believe the crash could have been an accident. Although it’s possible it was suicide. Cooke flew Bashar Shabaan, the man who blew himself up at Harper’s, into the area. It’s possible he felt remorse when he realized the consequences of his support. Or fear because he realized he’d be caught.”
“And his wife?”
“Also involved with the cell. Our people believe she became unhinged after the Harper’s incident. When Cooke died, she blamed America and our government. She was clearly deranged or she couldn’t have done what she did.”
Justin spoke very slowly and carefully. “You’re saying she was involved in the McDonald’s bombing?”
“Yes.”
“She blew up her own children?”
“These are very sick, evil people we’re dealing with.”
“Yeah,” Justin said. “They sure are.”
“We’re not going to be revealing to the public what I just told you. It wouldn’t do us any good to announce that a U.S. military man had switched sides, and ultimately it’s not really relevant to the story.”
“But you’re telling me.”
“As I said, your investigation of Captain Cooke is what led you here. We believe you deserve to know the truth.”
“What about Martin Heffernan?”
“Heffernan did us a favor. He happened to be on the spot, saw Cooke’s ID, and called Cooke’s commanding officer. Zanesworth had been alerted that Cooke was under investigation and he immediately contacted us.”
“‘Us’ meaning. .”
“Meaning those of us directly involved in the war on terrorism.”
“So you guys told Heffernan to wipe the plane clean, take any ID. . ”
“We made the connection immediately. As I said, we’d been suspicious of Cooke and his wife for some time. We made an immediate decision to keep their involvement quiet. You can question that decision, it was not made easily, but it’s the one that was made and it’s one we’re not deviating from.”
“Why didn’t you question Theresa? After her husband died, she could have been a valuable source.”
“Who says we didn’t question her?”
“Well. .” Justin hesitated. “She did.”
“Was she nervous when you spoke to her? Jumpy? Frightened?”
“Yes.”
“That’s because we were putting the screws on her. She gave up valuable information right away but we didn’t let up. It’s largely through the information we gathered from her interrogation that we found the cell in Delaware. She was guilty as hell, that woman.”
Justin stayed silent, trying to poke holes in the story he was hearing. But he wasn’t sharp enough. He was too overcome with fatigue.
“Is that it for your questions?” Starched Fatigues asked.
“What about Heffernan’s death?”
“A tragic coincidence. Conspiracy theorists would have a field day with that one, but it’s absolutely true. The guy was a regular at a restaurant and somebody else decided to blow that restaurant up.”
Starched Fatigues reached into a desk drawer, pulled out a bottle and two small paper cups, the same cups Justin had been served water in during his incarceration. The cups were white and flimsy, the kind one got in a dentist’s office.
“You know,” the man behind the desk said, “in my job you have to get used to one thing: how much people hate you. You can see it in their eyes. Their whole face, really.”
“Must be tough.”
“Not really. I never minded very much. It’s understandable, their hatred. I talk to people who have secrets. Their job, and sometimes their passion, is to keep those secrets. My job is to find out what they are. Cross-purposes. It’s like the Arabs and the Jews. Or cowboys and Indians. It’s hard not to hate the person who’s trying to take what you’ve got. I mention all this because I thought you should know, I can see in your face how much you hate me. But there’s nothing else you’ve got that I want to take, so it’s wasted effort on your part. And ultimately, it can’t do you any good.”
The soldier filled both cups halfway, the equivalent of two shot glasses.
“We are not apologizing to you, Mr. Westwood, but that doesn’t mean we don’t sometimes regret the actions that have to be taken when serving our country.” He handed one cup to Justin, who, as he leaned forward, saw the label on the liquor bottle for the first time.
“Havana Club,” Justin said.
“Fourteen-year-old Havana Club. The best rum in the world. It’s like fine cognac.”
“Cuban.”
“We are in Cuba, after all. It’s the worst thing about the damn embargo-you can’t buy this stuff at home. It’s liquid gold.”
“Can’t get this in America? Anywhere?”
Starched Fatigues shook his head. “There’s got to be some reward for being stuck in such a godforsaken place.”
Justin took a sip of light brown liquid. It scorched his throat as it went down and filled his belly with heat. But the flame that spread inside his stomach didn’t compare to the flame that was raging inside his head. He remembered sitting in Theresa Cooke’s kitchen and Theresa showing him the exact same bottle, saying her husband had brought it back from a Midas-related trip to Florida.
This is Cuban, Terry. Not from Florida, he’d said.
I know, she’d told him. Hutch said they sold it in Florida ’cause there are so many Cubans there. Refugees.
Another one of Hutch Cooke’s clues? Another part of the game he thought he was playing to win?
“Ever tasted it before?” Starched Fatigues asked.
“I saw a bottle once, but I never tasted it.”
“And?”
“It’s extraordinary,” Justin said.
The soldier stood from behind his desk, downed the rum in one quick swallow, dropped the cup on his desk. Justin watched it teeter before toppling on its side.
“Time to go,” the soldier said.
Justin, too, downed his rum, stood up, and his legs immediately gave way. He stumbled to the desk, grabbed on to it for support. Starched Fatigues grabbed his arm to keep him steady.
“There’ll be food on the flight,” the soldier said. “Sandwiches. It’ll give you some strength.”
“Thank you,” Justin said. “Sorry, the rum must’ve gotten to me.” He gently pulled himself away from the other man’s grasp. “I think I’m okay now.”