The Artifact (3 page)

The young Arab paused a moment, then consulted his elders behind him again, resulting in more arm waving and loud conversation during which some of them drew lines in the sand. When Habu Roka turned back to Andrea he smoothed out the sand in front of his rug and made a design with his finger. Steve Sarno moved behind the Arab with his repossessed camcorder to zoom in on the drawing of what looked like an arrowhead in a circle. Or the back-to-back stylized double ‘A’ of the 82nd Airborne Division.

The video faded to black for a split second before showing Andrea live in North Carolina again, as she brought a gloved hand up to raise the collar of her brown trench coat around her ears against the brisk night wind, ignoring the dark tresses blowing across her face. She spoke without notes and the intensity of total command of her subject.

“According to our guide, it is not surprising that a roving tribe of Bedouin Arabs did not

report the incident to their government, because they claim no national allegiance, respect no authority or national boundaries. Since the concept of ‘justice’ to these nomadic people is torture and death--it seems the only logical reason our captivity ended in our unharmed release and not

rape, murder and oblivion, was to repeat this incredible story in their hope for the return of the

stolen treasure and revenge on the soldiers.”

The video cut from Andrea back to the Washington studio where Frank Morrissey posed a question: “Did you learn where in that endless desert this alleged incident took place, Andrea?”

High up in his glass booth the producer pressed one of the array of square, multi-colored buttons lit on the console before him that brought Andrea's face up full screen on TV sets across the country.

“Not precisely, Frank. After three days meandering among identical stretches of trackless sand and dunes, the Bedouins did take us to an area they claimed was the site of their encounter with United States army personnel. Of course there was no physical evidence in the windswept sand, and since they had confiscated our GPS, we had only Amman’s estimate of where we were.”

The camera zoomed out as Andrea shifted her mike from her right to left hand, angling a shoulder toward the lens in a more aggressive posture to deliver her next statement.

“For the past eighteen months my inquiries of U.S. military sources, including the Pentagon and State Department, have resulted in avoidance and denial of the Bedouin accusations. These stone walls I have encountered have brought NNC News to the unprecedented decision to bring to your attention now, the few hard facts that we have uncovered to date in the hope that public pressure and even competitive news organizations will convince the army and our leaders in Washington to be forthcoming to the American people.”

Steve refocused his camera further out and behind Andrea’s shoulder, revealing the MPs snapping to attention to salute a long black staff car pulling through the chain-link gates, a gold star centered on each of the twin blue flags fluttering from its front fenders reflecting the floodlights above. Andrea’s eyes flicked in that direction at an apparent signal from one of her production

crew, proceeding smoothly with her presentation.

“Our admittedly unsubstantiated conclusions regarding our own harrowing encounter with the Bedouins are these: several weeks prior to the successful twenty-one day assault on Baghdad by U.S. Marines, a full company of assault echelon troopers of the 82nd Airborne Division dropped into the northwest corner of the Syrian Desert to find, capture or kill deposed Iraq President Saddam Hussein.”

Steve continued his wide-angle focus as Andrea glanced to her left where a general officer alighted with an aide from the staff car that had stopped by the side of the access road behind her.

“In the process of carving their foxholes and revetments out of the sand, some of these soldiers apparently unearthed a cache of antique treasure, telling no one about their find. Upon their evacuation at the end of their tour of duty they boarded a military aircraft along with the rest of their battalion and smuggled their treasure back to the United States.”

Andrea half-turned from the camera on apparent instructions from the mini-receiver in her ear as the two officers walked from their car to stand several feet away, within the live frame of the video camera projecting her image.

“Good evening, General Callaghan,” Andrea said. “I see you’ve been promoted since our last meeting. Congratulations.”

General Clyde G. Callaghan advanced to her side, his aide a step behind him. Andrea inclined her microphone toward the lanky officer who seemed amiable and cooperative.

“Thank you, Miz Madigan.”

The general appeared to be in his early forties, eyes bright with intellect, sandy-gray hair

cropped close beneath the cap with gold-braid visor, his tailored uniform of olive green displaying

six inches of multi-colored campaign ribbons on his left chest crowned by a silver-winged jumper’s parachute, his rugged features marred by the round indentation of a scar on his right cheek.

“In addition to your promotion,” Andrea said, “I understand you are also the new commanding officer of the Third Brigade Parachute Infantry Regiment.”

The smile on Callaghan’s lips was faint and expectant, his mind wondering at the ease with which the reporter was reacting to his surprise appearance. “Correct, Miz Madigan.”

“Thank you for joining me tonight.” Andrea shifted her stance to angle halfway between the general and Steve’s camera, once again addressing her television audience. “I have been trying to get an appointment with General Callaghan for over a year to no avail.” She turned to face the tall soldier. “To what can we attribute this sudden visit tonight, General?”

during the initial stages of the Iraq War by soldiers of Bravo Company then under your direct command?”

Instead of answering her question Callaghan said, “We are all aware that several unfortunate incidents of theft occurred by military personnel in and around the capitol of Baghdad where Saddam had hidden large amounts of cash and works of art. The perpetrators were arrested by military police and will be court-martialed.”

“You are unaware of any clash between your troopers and Arab nomads?”

“Interim Iraqi Prime Minister Ayad Allawi and several Shiite religious leaders leveled these charges in June based on the same unfounded rumors you have heard. We conducted a thorough investigation of every squad and trooper who could have been involved. There is absolutely no hard evidence that any firefight with nomadic Arab civilians occurred nor artifacts found, much less removed from the Syrian desert.”

“No hard evidence,” Andrea said. “Yet charges that you apparently cannot answer persist concerning this cache of ancient gold and precious gems. Why has this allegation been so much more difficult to resolve than the other thefts you alluded to a few minutes ago?”

involved. The rumors precipitated by you are based solely on the assertion of a Bedouin tribe that

has since disappeared into the featureless sands of the desert. Neither we nor the Iraqis nor you know precisely where the alleged firefight occurred or have the vaguest idea where to start looking

for the nomads, since they obviously do not wish to be found, or how to identify them if they were.”

“Which of your platoons were assigned to search the landscape I described on the phone to....”

Charles Geoff?”

“Several squads from Bravo platoons moved from their drop zone along the western border of Iraq to establish a pincer action with mercenary and coalition forces traveling west from the outskirts of Baghdad.”

“Platoons and their leaders, yes. We do not keep permanent records of where every squad and trooper was every minute of their patrols.”

Andrea looked as though she had been hit on the head. The names of the men in command of those patrols were exactly the kind of information she had been desperately seeking. Now this recruitment poster general was casting it off like a worn fatigue cap.

“When can I expect to get that information?”

Steve had zoomed slowly in on the heads and shoulders of the two speakers, the main gate and guards out of focus in the brilliant spotlights above them. Andrea seemed to listen to instructions from her earpiece on which a voice in their Washington studio was advising her not to extract information on-air that other media could use to pursue the story. Some girl assistant producer, she thought, who’d been feeding at her mother’s breast when Andrea had been covering

the Iranian hostage situation two decades ago.

Callaghan avoided her question. “I will consider any reasonable query posed, to which the

answers are not classified military information or does not infringe on the privacy of army personnel.”

“General, I appreciate that.” Andrea cocked her head to the side, feigning mild curiosity. “Why didn’t you give me access to this information previously?”

The General’s smile was not ingenuous this time. “You did not specifically ask for it. You asked to meet with me on a broad subject of which I have no firsthand knowledge. To which I saw no point.”

Andrea had the good sense to turn full face to the camera that zoomed in tight on her, excluding the officer from its picture.

“Thank you General Callaghan for your promise to grant what I hope will be an enlightening, although belated interview.”

Then she addressed the anchor in their Washington studio. “Frank, it seems that the decision of NNC News to bring this exclusive story-in-the-making to the attention of the American people was both wise and productive.”

“Andrea Madigan,” Frank intoned, “America is in your debt for an absolutely world-class

investigative report. Thank you.”

Andrea lowered her eyes then looked up, her expression a conflicting amalgam of pride and humility.

A voice from the glass production booth in NNC’s Washington studio came through the

director’s earphones. “Cut to Frank, wind it up.”

Rand Duncan rose from his lounge chair in the VIP booth. “That goddamn woman! I never

know if I want to fuck her or fire her.”

Corporate Vice President Rand Duncan leveled a long look at his news chief. “I’ll be watching my set.” Then he moved toward the door, looking back with his hand on the knob. “By the way, tell Frank to lay off that Katy Couric crap.”

The producer’s voice broke into the VIP booth through the intercom. “Hey, guys, watch the monitor.” Their eyes swung to the large client screen on which Andrea stood watching the two Army officers walk to their car. As soon as the red transmission light on Steve’s camera went out, Andrea handed her mike to an assistant and pulled the audio plug from her ear. Although off the air, Steve continued taping Andrea’s progress toward the staff car, transmitting the image via satellite to NNC in Washington.

“General Callaghan!” Andrea yelled, starting to limp across the access road toward the staff car. Halfway there, she tripped and fell, sprawling full length along the macadam. Her tech crew reached her before the men in the car could open their doors. She was back on her feet quickly, accepted her cane from a lighting tech, shrugged off further assistance and hobbled the remaining distance to the army staff car.

Rand Duncan stood trembling in the Washington VIP booth gripping the back of a chair

with both hands, his knuckles white, face flushed. “If I ever see anything like that on my network

again, T.P., dead or live, your ass is grass, man.”

“I’m the one that dug this up in the first place.” Andrea stepped back from the side of the car and squared her shoulders. “I’m the one that’s worked her tail off for the past year and a half butting her skull against military barricades, sent on wild-goose chases, up blind alleys, back and forth from buck passer to buck passer. I deserve an exclusive interview, not get tossed into a pool