The Shadow Patrol (7 page)

“She’s fine, too.” Wells wondered whether Duto remembered her name or had been briefed. “Though my son seems to have decided I’m a war criminal. Never wants to see me again.”

“That’s too bad.” Duto didn’t exactly sound torn
up.

“I’m sure he thinks even worse of
you.”

“They have no idea what we do for them. What it takes to keep them safe.”

“We’re five miles from the Pentagon,” Shafer said. “Around here, most of them
are
us
.”

“You know what I mean. Civilians.”

“They know exactly what we do,” Wells said. “That’s the problem.”

“We killed Osama. And no civilian casualties in the op. Not one. Ten years since nine/eleven and no real attacks on American soil. Not even jerks with AKs lighting up a mall. We’ve kept our people safe. Tell me that doesn’t count for something, John.”

They turned onto the Chain Bridge. Wells watched the Potomac rush by. Knowing he’d have to answer. Knowing Duto was right. “Okay. You win. You sound like you’re planning to run for something—”

A smile curled Duto’s mouth and then was gone, brief and shocking as lightning in a cloudless sky. Suddenly, the good suits and voice lessons and personality transplant made sense.
Impossible,
Wells almost said.
You’re only fooling yourself.

Duto was more powerful than any senator or congressman. Only one elected office would be worth his effort. But the presidency was off-limits to anyone too deeply involved with the agency. The first George Bush was the only director ever to have won the presidency, and he’d served at Langley barely a year. Duto had spent most of his adult life at the CIA. His fingerprints were on the agency’s most controversial programs. His record couldn’t possibly bear public scrutiny.

But if his smile was any indication, Duto thought it might.

“Anyway,” Wells said. “Unless you want more awkward small talk—”

“You read the cables. What do you think? Operationally speaking.”

“You already know the answer. It’s a mess. Been one since Marburg. Wultse was a drunk, Gordie King was burned out. The new guys, Arango and Lautner, they look good, they’re saying the right things and maybe doing them, too, but they’ve been there awhile and so far they haven’t made progress. If Kabul ran half as well as Islamabad, we’d have won the war by
now.”

“Can they? Make progress?”

“I’m not going to pass judgment from seven thousand miles away on guys I’ve never
met.”

“So you’ll go see them then?”

“Vinny. What is it you’re not telling
me?”

“Right now, Kabul’s our most important station. More than Moscow, Beijing, whatever. If I have to change it up again, I will. But that would be the fourth new chief since Marburg. And it’s not like I have great options. I don’t want to move anyone from Islamabad now that they’re getting traction. I don’t want to bring someone else in from outside the region unless I have to. I want an outside opinion and I know you’ll tell me what you think.”

Wells looked at Shafer. “Okay, I’ll ask you. What is it he’s not telling
me?”

“That there might be a leak inside the station.”

“To the
Taliban
?
Come
on.”

“About a month ago, a source told one of our Pak officers about a rumor that, quote unquote, ‘A CIA officer is helping the Talib.’”

“That could mean anything.”

“I know. We asked him for more. He didn’t have it. He’s a good source, though. A Frontier Corps general.” The Frontier Corps was the Pakistan Army unit that guarded Pakistan’s North-West Frontier province.

“That’s all you have?”

“I know it’s thin—”

“It’s not thin. It’s nothing.”

“It isn’t all,” Duto said quietly. Wells and Shafer both swiveled toward Duto. Duto was smiling again. Shafer wasn’t. His mouth had opened a half inch, like an ATM machine about to spit cash. Apparently Duto hadn’t told Shafer about a second source either. “About ten days ago, I got a call from Mike Yancy.”

“Should I know that name?” Wells said.

“Deputy director of the Drug Enforcement Administration.”

“Their motto: A palace for every kingpin.”

“Thank you for that wit and wisdom, Ellis. So the DEA has offices in Kandahar and Helmand. They try to convince farmers to stop planting poppies, switch to food crops like wheat. It’s tough. You can imagine. Opium’s much more profitable.”

“Sure,” Wells said.

“Anyway, the DEA guys were in a village—and before you ask, Yancy didn’t say which one, told me he couldn’t—and this farmer takes them aside and says to them, ‘Why should I work with you when the CIA is buying opium?’ The DEA guys say, ‘No, that can’t be right.’ But he insists. Tells them that he knows that the CIA is working with the Talibs. But no specifics.”

“How would it work?” Wells said. “A CO goes outside the wire, comes back with a suitcase of junk? How does he make sure he doesn’t get blown to bits or kidnapped? And what does he do with the stuff then? Put it out at the Christmas party?”

“Yancy said his agents felt this farmer was credible. He talked to them alone, didn’t want anyone to hear.”

“Let me walk through this,” Shafer said. “A farmer in Kandahar whose name we don’t know told a DEA agent whose name we don’t know about a dirty CIA officer whose name we don’t know. Now you’re telling us. That’s a lot of telephone, don’t you think?”

Duto turned to Wells. “He’s right. It’s all smoke. Only we’re having an awful lot of trouble over there.”

“It’s Afghanistan, Vinny. And they’re rebuilding the station on the fly. In the middle of a
war.”

“I’m going over in a month,” Duto said. “With Travers and McTeague. They’ve been asking me to go and I’ve been putting them off, but finally I had to say yes. So it’s set and I can’t change it, not without a really good excuse. I would like to introduce them to the fine men and women of Kabul station without wondering whether one of the people they’re meeting is working for the other side.”

“No wonder you’re taking time from your busy Saturday to beg John for help,” Shafer said.

“It would be a disaster. And not just for me. All I’m asking, you go over, see what you find.” Duto squeezed Wells’s shoulder. Another new move. His handlers must have told him that real politicians weren’t afraid to touch. Though Duto still needed to work on his technique. His grip was too strong. Like he was trying to tear Wells’s arm off. “Sniff it out. You don’t come up with anything, fine. Still be a good trip. The speeches you give to the Joes, those guys will be happy to see
you.”

Wells removed Duto’s hand from his shoulder. Wells knew that, as director, Duto had broken more than a few laws. Yet for that very reason, Wells trusted Duto’s instinct about Kabul.
Set a thief to catch a thief. . . .
If Duto thought the station had been corrupted, he was probably right. Why he’d chosen to involve Wells was a question Wells would consider later.

“A poorly defined counterintelligence mission without official authority? Based on rumors from an anonymous Afghan farmer? Where do I sign?”

“Thank you, John.”

“Don’t thank me yet.
Inshallah
”—God willing—“I won’t find anything.”

5

FORWARD OPERATING BASE JACKSON

T
he folding chairs were cheap and gray and lined up in tight rows. Before them, a framed photo of Ricky Fowler sat on a homemade plywood table. The picture had been taken at the beginning of the tour. Wearing his uniform, his floppy camouflage hat low on his head, Fowler smiled shyly. He seemed almost hopeful.

Wartime memorial ceremonies at combat bases followed a rigid formula. The dead couldn’t just be forgotten. Their buddies needed to say good-bye. But the ceremonies couldn’t be too long or mawkish. At home, the death of a healthy twenty-something was rare, an occasion for waterfalls of grief. In Afghanistan, healthy twenty-somethings died all the time. Fowler’s family and friends in Texas would have time to mourn. His platoon mates could not afford the luxuries of grief and depression. Not when they would be back outside the wire in a day or
two.

So the Army focused funeral ceremonies on the fact that the fallen had died as
soldiers
. Fowler’s empty combat boots stood beside his photo. His rifle was placed behind the boots, muzzle down and stock up. His helmet and dog tags topped the rifle. The combination of boots, rifle, and helmet symbolized his corpse, which had already been sent back to the United States. They were as important as his body. They were the reason he’d died.

The chairs were set up in a quiet corner of the base, behind the brigade aid station. But life at FOB Jackson didn’t stop for a funeral. Behind a blast wall a hundred yards away, Stryker engines roared to life as another platoon got ready to go outside the wire. A pair of Kiowa helicopters circled low, their turbines thrumming. Meanwhile the soldiers of 3rd Platoon bowed their heads and sang the national anthem. Then Lieutenant Weston stepped behind the plywood podium and unfolded two sheets of paper.

“Private First Class Richard Edward Fowler. Ricky Fowler. All of you knew him. In a unit this size, after this many months together, we all know each other. He was a good kid. A good man. If it was hot, he’d share his CamelBak. For some reason he liked the Dallas Cowboys and I could never convince him he was a darn fool for that. He loved his mom and dad and he wasn’t afraid to tell them so. Every night you could find him at the MWR talking to them. I know we gave him grief for that, but it was the right thing to do. Day after he got killed, I called my folks and told them I loved them. I hadn’t said that to them for a long time. Too long. And I was thinking about Ricky when I did
it.

“I’m not going to lie to you. We all know that Ricky wasn’t necessarily our top soldier. But the truth is that he improved a lot over the tour. Every day, he made himself stronger. A few weeks ago, I asked him to stand point on a motorcycle registration. You all know that’s a crummy job. Hot and dangerous and you’ve got to deal with a lot of hajjis pretending they don’t understand when they know exactly what you want. But someone has to do it. I think a few months ago, Ricky would have bitched about it. But I saw the soldier in him take over and he said, ‘Yes, sir,’ and he went right up there for four hours and got it done, registered, like, fifty motorcycles. I was proud of him then for being a man, proud of the Army for making him
one.

“In the movies, these stories have happy endings. This war is tough but we get through, and when we’re home, our families and wives and girlfriends put their arms around us. But Fowler didn’t get the happy ending. His trip ended too soon. We have three months left on this tour. We owe him the honor of keeping up the fight. Taking it to the guys who did this to
him.”

Weston folded up his papers. It was a good speech, he thought. Better than Ricky Fowler deserved. The platoon’s soldiers looked up silently. Captain Mark Field, a logistics officer who served as the battalion’s chaplain, stepped forward to read a benediction and the 23rd Psalm. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want . .
 
.”

Then Sergeant Rodriguez stood for the final act, roll call. One by one he read the names of the platoon’s soldiers. “Private Acosta—”

“Present.” Acosta stood.

“Specialist Alexander—”

“Present.”

Until Rodriguez reached Fowler’s name. “Private Fowler.” Silence. “Private Fowler.” Silence.

“Priv-ate Fow-ler!” Angry this time, almost desperate. Rodriguez let the silence hang, giving Fowler one last chance to return to his buddies. And when the truth of his absence could no longer be ignored—

“Sergeant Gentry—”

“Present.”

The man, gone. The platoon, alive.

When Rodriguez finished calling roll, Weston connected his iPod to speakers beside the podium and played the long, mournful notes of taps. The soldiers of 3rd Platoon shuffled their feet and stared at the boots and rifle and helmet and waited. Finally the song ended and the men drifted away in ones and twos, murmuring to one another.

Weston turned to Rodriguez. “Thank you for that roll call, Sergeant. Well done.”

“Your speech, too,
sir.”

“I’d like to speak to you in private.”

* * *

SOLDIERS CALLED
the northeast corner of the base Zombieland. Here, maintenance units dumped vehicles that couldn’t be salvaged and garbage too toxic to burn. A blown-out Stryker and three Humvees sat together, their wheels missing. The vehicles were less than two years old, but already they looked prehistoric, their paint flecking off, bits of rust creeping
in.

Weston peeked inside the trucks, making sure they were alone. Most soldiers considered Zombieland bad luck and avoided it, but some guys came here to smoke hash. “You know, a couple years, we’re gone, these’ll still be here,” Weston said. “Hajj kids playing jungle gym on them. We should get rid of ’em. They’re bad for morale.”

“You know what’s bad for morale, Lieutenant?”

“What’s that, First Sergeant?”

“Shooting your own fucking
men.”

“You see an alternative? Or did you want him to come back here and narc?”

“I would have handled
it.”

“How? Told him that buying smack by the kilo was the new COIN program? How did this even happen, Rodriguez? That pickup should take five minutes. Even if you’re testing the stuff. You guys get a circle jerk going?”

“All of a sudden, out of nowhere, he got some balls, decided to snoop. Improving as a soldier, Lieutenant? I had to bite my lip so I didn’t laugh when you said that. As a soldier, he
sucked
. Truth is the unit’s safer without him. Puta
.
”

“Rodriguez—”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Enough, Sergeant.”

“Don’t make like you care about him any more than I do, Lieutenant. You’re even colder than me, only you’re better at hiding
it.”

“It’s not about whether I feel sorry for him, Sergeant. It’s a
problem
.
Don’t you get it? A KIA means my after-action report gets read all the way up to brigade. Losing a man on a routine patrol looks bad. Worst case, somebody decides the whole thing sounds weird, sends a couple guys to ask the squad what really happened. Maybe even goes over to the village, starts trying to figure out how a shooter just vanished into thin air. It’s unlikely, but it’s possible. You want that?”

“I’m not the one who shot him, Lieutenant.”

“Thanks for that insight. Long as nobody talks, we should be fine. I used an AK, so even if there’s an autopsy nothing’s going to show
up.”

“Nobody’s going to talk. Not when we’re out there every
day.”

“All right then.” Truth was that neither Fowler’s family nor anyone else had any reason to suspect what had happened. Guys died over here every day. A standard two-paragraph press release marked their deaths.

The Department of Defense announced today the death of a soldier who was supporting Operation Enduring Freedom.

Pfc. Richard Edward Fowler, 20, of Midland, Tex., died in Zabul province, Afghanistan
,
of wounds suffered when enemy forces attacked his unit with small arms fire. He was assigned to the 1st Battalion, 17th Regiment, 7th Stryker Brigade Combat Team, 2nd Infantry Division, Ft. Lewis-McChord, Tacoma,
Wash.

Fowler’s hometown newspaper back in Texas would add a few paragraphs, throw in quotes from Fowler’s parents, maybe a buddy or two. Not a girlfriend. Fowler didn’t have one. The guy might even have died without breaking his cherry. Too bad for him. His friends would update his Facebook page for a few weeks. Then Ricky Fowler would be forgotten. One day his name would wind up on a memorial somewhere.

“You’re right,” Weston said. “Fowler shouldn’t be a problem. You sure nobody’s going to talk.”

“Coleman’s the only one who might, and I’ll keep an eye on
him.”

“Good. What about the stuff?”

“I’m no chemist, but it looks good. When’s your high-speed buddy coming?”

Weston shrugged.

“Sooner we get rid of it, the better.”

“Agreed.”

“Kinda weird, isn’t it, Lieutenant?”

“What?”

“We’re partners now. Blood brothers. White boy from Florida and a gangbanger from Chula Vista. Might as well get each other’s names tattooed on our asses, because there’s no going back.”

Rodriguez was right, Weston realized. Together they’d committed crimes that could land them in jail for life. Whether they liked each other was irrelevant. “You sorry we did this, Rodriguez? Got involved in this shit?”

Rodriguez shook his head.

“Not even after this, you know, hiccup?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

* * *

COLEMAN YOUNG SAT
on his bunk in the back left corner of 1st Squad’s hutch. He put in his earbuds and turned up his music. Didn’t help much, but at least it gave him a chance to think. The bunk above him, Fowler’s bunk, was empty now. His stuff had been inventoried and bundled into a green footlocker. Soon enough, Weston would come by with Fowler’s helmet and tags and boots. He’d wrap them up, put them in the footlocker. They’d ship it back to Texas, and Fowler would be gone for good.

Young opened the footlocker. Fowler didn’t have much in the way of personal effects:
The Stand
by Stephen King, DVDs of
The Office
, a cheap laptop, last year’s Cowboys cheerleaders calendar. And a packet of letters from his folks. Fowler had saved them neatly in a Ziploc bag. He’d been a mama’s boy, no doubt. The letters were written in a cheery red scrawl on sheets of pink paper. Fowler had told Young that his mom was a teacher. For sure she had teacher’s handwriting, that
I believe in you, you can do better if you just apply yourself
handwriting. Must have been fifty letters. Young didn’t think anybody could have that much to write about, much less Ricky Fowler’s mom from Nowhere, Texas, but the letters kept on coming. One had come yesterday. Posted weeks ago. Posted before Fowler died.

Before Fowler got murdered.

Maybe Fowler hadn’t been cut out for soldiering, but he’d been a decent enough guy. The whole thing put a knot in Young’s stomach. He didn’t believe for a second that Fowler’s death was a coincidence. He’d wondered for a while whether Rodriguez was buying drugs. But he’d figured on a few ounces of hash. What Fowler had said was kilos of heroin. Industrial-strength. Young was from Oak Cliff, a tough part of southwestern Dallas. He knew guys who dealt. But nothing like this. You had to be seriously connected even to think about that kind of weight. Otherwise the dudes on the other end took it from you and put a bullet in you so you didn’t come back on them.

Young was sure that Rodriguez wasn’t keeping the stuff at FOB Jackson for long. Too risky. Some of the minesweeping dogs around here had been drug sniffers back home before they got retrained. What was he doing with it? Had to be a bigger gang involved. Or maybe helo pilots. They could go from base to base easy enough.

Young wished he could bust Rodriguez, and whoever was working with him. But Young had nothing but smoke for evidence, and not the good kind. Sure, he could protect himself better than Fowler. But outside the wire, anything could happen. He didn’t know whether he could afford to have Rodriguez on his back.

He looked once more through the footlocker, Ricky Fowler’s sad legacy, and snapped its top closed.
Coward,
he whispered to himself. Maybe he was. But unless he could be sure that an investigation wouldn’t come back to bite him, he was keeping his mouth shut as tight as that locker.