The Rendition (4 page)

Expected to see you guys lift off, can't scrap the mission because of one dumb guy who can't get out of his own way.

I always worried that things would end badly if I stayed with the agency too long.

Buck, you and I go back a long way together. I couldn't say no when you needed a favor.

It's still so clear how they recruited me that day—Fayetteville, North Carolina, next to Fort Bragg, Cumberland County Sheriff's office. It's all flooding back. Me in my Class As, and Sergeant Aubrey, big, black, and hard as nails in his starched fatigues. Desk sergeant to our left behind the Plexiglas barrier, walk down the corridor, McDaniel leading the way, says why not hold the meeting in the sheriff's office, so we go down there. Sergeant Aubrey, Sheriff Wilson, Detective Solomon, and McDaniel. I don't know what's going on, and the way they're talking—leaving me out of it—makes it hard to understand.

Get a grip! You're in a hole underneath the hut. Stop dreaming! Hard to stay focused, have this awful stomach pain, probably from that water
.

If I'd told McDaniel “no” that day, I wouldn't be here in this hole, would I? Do you know who McDaniel was, Irmie? He recruited me to become an intelligence officer. I was only nineteen.

Irmie's not here! Stay awake. Buck's not here either.

Sheriff knew what it was all about, but I didn't. They wanted Sergeant Aubrey in on it, so he stayed. I remember Detective Solomon saying “I'm from the Sixty-Seventh Precinct, gentlemen. That's Brooklyn, New York, Corporal Klear's hometown.” Solomon points at me, and everyone nods. I can feel McDaniel's eyes on me. I didn't know he was from an intelligence agency. His eyes—like they're boring into me, making little holes.

Remember how I used to complain, Buck?

You're alone! Buck's not here.

Now I laugh at that stuff. Remember that one-star had us kicked
off the installation when we wanted to interview his son about drug trafficking, and how mad I was? You said the guy had problems enough, give him a break.

I'm real surprised Detective Solomon knows about the muggings even though Mom never told anyone. They must've gotten it from the junkie, from Kraus. Kraus knew I was in the army. Mom all alone. He thought I was still overseas, which is where I was before I got temporary duty orders for the 82nd Airborne, which meant I was on my way back to Fort Bragg.

According to the detective, Kraus picked on older women. They were afraid, so they'd give him what he asked for—fifty, a hundred bucks. He mugged some too, not just Mom. Had to feed his habit. He knew who had money, who got Social Security checks. Mom told him no, speaking her broken English. I can imagine that scene. Made him feel like the worm he was. Good for her. So he waited a week, then mugged her in the vestibule. She didn't tell me about that, or about the second time. She only told me after the third time. On the telephone. Crying.

Weekend pass. It's Saturday night, I go to his apartment, my heart pumping, mad as all hell, ring the bell, wait. When he opens the door, I hit him, push my way in. He's big, but I'm still able to mop up the place with him. “Never do it again,” I say. He's on his couch, a handkerchief up to his face, blood on it, staring at me with his little pig eyes.

He left Mom alone for two weeks, then he took her pocketbook while he held a knife to her throat. Knocked her down, left her lying in the gutter, and told her not to say anything to me or he'd have his friends take care of us both.

The pistol's a .38, got it in a hockshop, in Wilmington, North Carolina. Never told Mom I was home that weekend. Saturday night, waiting on the landing just above Kraus's floor. He doesn't show. But he comes in Sunday night, and I fire twice, miss once, get him with the second slug. His left knee.

He never saw who shot him. I figured he'd find it hard to mug
people from a wheelchair, figured it'd be okay to go back overseas once I got my silver wings. Said goodbye to you, Mom. You baked challah bread, remember? Proud as all hell when I finally got those wings.

“Kraus is a piece of shit,” Solomon says. “But he's filed a complaint that Corporal Klear was the one who shot him. He got a witness to say he saw Corporal Klear in the hallway.”

When McDaniel finally speaks, that's when I figure I'm heading off to the military stockade for a good long stretch. “I'd like to point out that Detective Solomon's remark about this Kraus is irrelevant,” he says. “Citizens can't take the law into their own hands like this here trooper did.”

Looking at me, “Klear? Is that your name?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Whoever put Kraus out of commission,” Solomon says, “did everyone a favor.”

“That's not the way we do things in this country,” McDaniel says.

I knew Sergeant Aubrey liked me, and he's just staring, can't believe it, I guess. Knows I'd made it into Special Forces, knows how this would mean the end of everything.

“You have a warrant for Corporal Klear's arrest?” the sheriff asks, breaking the silence.

Detective Solomon nods. “I do.”

McDaniel stands up then, checks his watch. I still don't know who he is and I find it funny how he's giving orders to everyone. He suggests we take a break for lunch even though it's only eleven thirty. Out in the hall, he says there's a cafeteria around the corner, and he and I can go there.

Couldn't know in that cafeteria I'd make a decision that would change my life, and finally end with me buying the Big Farm here in Kosovo, the one with the falling-down barn and broken machinery. That farm. Most Americans never heard of Kosovo.
If I'd've said no to McDaniel, I never would have met you, Irmie. Or you either, Buck.

Stop talking to people. You're in a hole under the damned house.

“We can get all the bright people we want,” McDaniel tells me.
“And the bad-asses are a dime a dozen. Like the man says, it's easy to be hard, but hard to be smart. But what we're really looking for are people with smarts who aren't afraid to make tough decisions. In this kind of business you have to do that sometimes, you know?” “Yes,” I say, like I know what he's talking about. But I don't, not really. Don't have any idea of the tough decisions I'll make over the years.

By then, he'd already told me he was a recruiter for an intelligence agency, says maybe you never heard of us, but we're active, real active. We don't have so many people looking over our shoulders.

“That was a difficult problem you had, son. I'm not saying you did exactly the right thing, but the way you handled it—not too many people woulda done what you did and that tells me something about you. You got real high scores on your aptitude tests, Corporal. But also interesting is this language ability you have. How come you know two languages besides English, and you never left the country?”

“My mother's parents were refugees, sir. They lived in England, went back to Germany. My mother married a GI, moved to the States. He died young.” I shrugged. “She never really adjusted. We spoke mostly German at home. Spanish I learned in school and on the streets.”

When he asked if I was interested in becoming an intelligence officer, I asked for time to think. Didn't really know what the job was, but after ten minutes, I said yes. I guess I could've said I'd already been accepted into Special Forces, but with the criminal complaint against me, I couldn't be sure what might happen there.
Looking back, I didn't have much choice, did I? But I wouldn't be in this mess if I'd said no. And Irmie, if you'd only waited.

My head's splitting apart, I have this awful stomach pain and the world's spinning, spinning around something awful. I'm trying to breathe but can't get any air.

Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. Sounds like someone shooting, far away. Clump, clump. Noise, lots of noise. If my head didn't hurt so much, I could think better. Too much noise.

It was the chopper pilot, Buck, he told me the story. They wanted to
lift off, but you kept your gun on them until I made it across that field with the dogs and Vopos hot on my trail. They were shooting. Rat-a-tattat. You made them wait.

“Thanks, Buck.”

Clump, clump. Clump, clump, clump. People running?

“Alex?”

Rat-a-tat-tat. Louder now. Can't breathe, can't think. I shouldn't be here—never should have come. Too late now for regrets. More rata-tat. Everything spinning around. No more shooting, thank God. Silence. No more noises. But I wish my stomach didn't hurt so much.

My head is clear, but I think it's coming apart.

“Alex Klear?”

Quiet again.

“Alex?”

I'm Alex. Someone moving around. Clump, clump. I don't know where I am. What's up or what's down.

“Alex Klear, you in here?”

I'm somewhere, not exactly sure where. I think there's someone calling my name.

“Answer if you're in here, Alex.”

Too tired to talk. Can hardly move.

“He ain't in here, Buck.”

“In the back?”

All I can think about is my head hurts—bad—

“Nothin'. I looked all over.”

I'm here. Maybe I can move my foot—maybe then—

“Keep looking. You too, Scotty. Is that a closet? Shine your flash over there.”

“I looked in there, Buck. It's empty.”

“Alex! Damn it all! You gotta be in here! Answer!”

My foot. If I kick the floor with my foot, maybe then they'll know. In this hole—

“Alex! Alex Klear! Answer me, goddamn it! You gotta be somewhere.”

I can't reach the floor with my foot. It's too high to reach.

“There's nowhere else to look, Buck. They musta—”

One more time—

“What was that?”

“What?”

“Shine your flash over here, Angel. I heard something. Not there, over here under the table.”

“I didn't hear—Shit, you're right, Buck. It looks like a trapdoor.”

“Push this table back. Get it open. Not like that, the other way. Do I have to tell you every goddamn thing?”

“I got it. Holy shit! Scotty, shine the flash down there. My god! Someone's down here. A guy down here. A body. Wait a second while I—It's him, guys. It's Alex. Hey, buddy, it's us. We been lookin' for you. Geez Buck, he's in bad shape.”

“Is he breathin'?”

“Lemme feel. Yeah. Yeah, he's got a pulse. We gotta get him out. Ain't no air here.”

“Easy. Lift him. Easy, I said. Okay, I got his legs. Geez, what a mess down there. A goddamned latrine is what that is. They had him in there?”

I wanted to say, “Yeah.” But I couldn't.

“Look at his face. Blood all over. Geez, what'd they do to him? Ol' Alex is in bad shape, Buck. What do we do?”

“Only one thing to do. We take him to Bondsteel. To the military hospital. Grab his legs, Scotty.”

“You think they'll take him in over there? Only KFOR people stationed at Bondsteel. This operation is strictly black—”

“If they think we're just some bounty hunters they'll never—”

“They'll take him! It's an American hospital, isn't it? What's it there for?”

“I don't know, Buck. You sure?”

“One way or the other, guys, they'll take him. I'll think of something.”

“You're awake. Finally.” I was looking up at an attractive black woman with a wide smile and her hair in a bun. She was wearing a silver leaf on the collar of her white smock, the insignia of a lieutenant colonel. The stethoscope around her neck indicated she was a doctor. Her nametag said “Raymond.”

I mumbled something. I was flat on my back, in bed, and surrounded by clean white sheets.

“How do you feel, Captain?” she asked in a quiet voice.

I struggled to form a sentence. “Not too bad. Still a little tired.” When I attempted to pull myself into a sitting position, I realized I hurt pretty much all over. I felt a shooting pain in my left shoulder.

She nodded, smiled again. “Your vital signs are good. All your passages are open. We still need to do some tests.” She looked down at a clipboard, sighed. “You really got banged up. A concussion. A few other things.”

“You must see a lot of banged-up people.”

“Unfortunately. In Iraq, I saw more than I see here. I was at Balad, the 21st Combat Support Hospital, for fourteen months. Do you feel well enough to travel?”

“I'm not sure.” My left arm felt stiff. I was hooked up to a machine, a needle on it jumping back and forth. I wondered what she meant by travel.

She said, “We're feeding you intravenously. Along with everything else, you seem to have a case of dysentery. Not good.”

“The water in Kosovo doesn't agree with me, ma'am.” I could have
added that there were a few other things in Kosovo that didn't agree with me. I was feeling tired. “I have an awful headache.”

“There's a flight out in an hour, Captain, but I'm going to recommend we keep you here another day.”

“Can I ask where I am, ma'am?”

“In the army hospital on Camp Bondsteel. We'll be moving you up to the military hospital in Germany, at Landstuhl. They'll give you some tests we can't give here.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Not so long. They brought you in early this morning. You were unconscious. We burned your clothes. I hope you don't mind.”

“Who brought me in?”

“I'm not sure. Civilians, from what I understand.” She frowned. “Colleagues? Friends? I wasn't on duty at the time. Colonel Brooks approved your admission.” She nodded to a corpsman, who had just entered the room.

She said, “From what I understand, there was quite a row at the main gate. We'd received some intelligence about a possible terrorist attack, and they increased the Force Protection Condition from Bravo to Charlie. The beefed-up security people wouldn't let you on post. At first they thought you were one of the locals. You didn't have KFOR ID, not even a passport. The people with you were insistent, really insistent. Force Protection finally called out Colonel Brooks. He was the only one who could override the response procedures. Then someone had him call a government number in Washington. They had to wake up some people over there—”