“How’d you find me?”
“We asked around. Got a lead on an address.”
Sounded like she was protecting somebody, which was probably a good thing. Maybe she’d do the same for him. Although the way things were now, only a fool would believe in that brand of protection. Giving your word meant nothing when there were a hundred other ways to find out where you were, what you were doing, who you’d been talking to. Nothing was protected anymore. Nothing was unseen, even out here.
“Didn’t know this place had an address. So I guess you know about what happened at Sandar Khosh.”
She nodded. “Thirteen people, wasn’t it? Mostly women and children?”
The totals still made him wince. He saw the girl as clearly as if she were seated at the other end of the couch, still dressed in the colors of the flag, one arm missing. Today, at least, she was alone. Often she was accompanied by his own kids, Danny and Karen, plus the two boys who had probably been her brothers. A playgroup of the lost and the damned, frolicking in his head.
“That’s what the Red Cross said, anyway,” she continued. He snapped back to the present.
“I’m sorry. What was that?”
“The Red Cross. They said it was thirteen.”
“It was Fort1’s call. The mission, the target, all of it. Other than that I can’t tell you a hell of a lot.”
“You never met him?”
“Doesn’t work that way. We almost never see the J-TACs.”
“Jay whats?”
“Joint terminal attack controller. They run the show on Predator missions. Usually from a forward position, in theater. But not always. Standard procedure.” Listen to him, talking like a pilot again. The buzzwords returned so fast, like lyrics to a familiar old song.
“No one ever mentioned his name?”
“That kind of stuff was above my pay grade. But …” He paused, wondering whether to continue.
“But what?”
She slipped out her notebook. It reminded him of their earlier interview, years ago, and the memory almost overwhelmed him. He’d been gung-ho then, full of himself, ready for anything. Good husband, newly married to Carol, no kids yet to take their minds off each other. What was he now? Certainly none of those things. He looked away from the reporter and again glanced at the patch of sky in the kitchen window, seemingly benign. If people only knew.
“I saw something.”
“Just now?”
“Back then, in my CO’s office. A file.”
“About Fort1?”
He nodded.
“Was this during the break-in?”
He turned abruptly.
“You know about the fucking break-in?”
“It was mentioned in some documents. What did you see?”
He eyed her carefully, suspicious now.
“You sure you’re not with them?”
“Them?”
“The Air Force. The powers that be. Everybody who fucked me over. This could be a security check, an excuse to haul me in.”
“I’m a reporter, that’s all.”
“For the Boston paper, right?”
“The Globe, yes, but not anymore. They closed my bureau, so I took a buyout. I’m freelance now. We all are, so we’ve pooled our resources. We’ve got maybe three months before we start running out of money. We’re hoping this story will be our ticket.”
“Fort1? Is he really that big of a deal?”
“Maybe. We think he’s part of something larger. You said you saw a file?”
“That’s right.”
A pause, then nothing.
Cole was again lost in thought. Something had just occurred to him — a possible means of escape from the trailer, from these surroundings that suddenly felt so desolate. There was a huge, empty landscape waiting beyond the closed door, endlessly patient, one that was swallowing him whole, cell by cell. Unless he took action to stop it, he would soon disappear. A set of dry bones in the sand, left to be scattered by birds and coyotes, then covered forever. At that moment a notion flitted across his brain that startled him as much as the hawk had a few moments ago: If this woman hadn’t come here today, or at all, would he ever have seen another living soul? He wasn’t sure of the answer, which told him all he needed to know about what to do next.
“Well?” she prompted again.
“I can help you. But I need to know more about what you’re doing, what you’re after.”
Now it was her turn to pause. Cole couldn’t blame her. He probably didn’t look very reliable.
“Hey,” he said, spreading his hands wide. “Who the hell would I tell, way out here? I don’t own a car, or even a cell phone. It’s a three-mile hike to the nearest pavement.”
“Well, for starters, Fort1 is CIA.”
“That much I figured.”
“We think he’s gone off the reservation. Some kind of rogue operation.”
“Over there, you mean?”
“We’re not sure where he is anymore. The working theory is that he built a private network of his own clients on the government’s dime. For his own benefit, of course.”
“Clients? Like who?”
“Warlords and tribal chiefs, private security firms wanting a piece of the action. Anybody who’d pay him, including black hats of all kinds. Meaning that every operation he was involved with — Sandar Khosh, for one — is now suspect.”
“Then why haven’t they shut him down? Brought him in?”
“Maybe they have. At this point all we know for sure is that everybody who’s ever been officially involved with him, public or private, at home or abroad, has gone into cleanup mode, trying to erase all his little messes from the record. Which is why we have to move fast. Pick up as many pieces as we can before everything gets swept away.”
“Like I said, I can help.”
“Great.” She flipped a page in her notebook, pencil poised. “No rush. Take all the time you need. If you want, we can take you into town for supplies afterward.”
“No. That’s not how it’s going to work.”
“Okay. You tell me, then.”
“Where are you based? You said there were three of you?”
“Baltimore for now. Barb’s house. She’s the third one. She and Steve both worked for The Sun.”
“Then I’m coming with you. I want to be a part of this.”
“Whoa now.” Keira held up the notebook like a stop sign. “I can understand why you’d want to get out of here. Maybe we can help you. But you can’t be part of this the way we are. The three of us have the same goals, the same way of doing things.”
“Fine. Then I’m out. Nice talking to you.” He slid off the stool and stepped toward the door.
“Wait.” He kept going, turning the doorknob while she talked. “Maybe there’s some kind of middle ground. But you can’t expect us to just take you on as a partner.”
He stopped and pivoted smartly, a parade ground move that, thanks to the bourbon, started to come apart toward the end. He steadied himself and wet his lips to speak.
“Why not? I know these ops firsthand. The procedures, the pecking order, the in-house politics. I’ve got names and contacts, and, like I said, stuff from the file.”
“Just tell me, then. New sources are what we need most right now. Believe me, we’ll know what to do with them. You won’t.”
He shook his head.