The Guardian (29 page)

It was there.

He saw it almost immediately, lying casually over the back of the chair behind the desk, exactly where he’d left it a day before. To anyone else it would look like nothing – a spare
rag, useful, but insignificant. That was what Charlie Phelan must have thought of it when he used it to conceal the dagger he’d stolen. How was he to know that the length of coarse homespun
was far more valuable than any of the bejeweled items in the crate he’d opened on the day before he’d left Afghanistan? To him it had been merely a convenient piece of cloth that could
cover the dagger – the true object of his theft.

Saunders moved toward the desk, but Akhtar stepped in front of him. Saunders did nothing to hold him back. He watched as the young man approached the piece of cloth like it was a living thing,
moving forward bowed down, his head bent forward, the wooden box held open in front of him, like an offering.

Akhtar reached the desk chair and knelt before the piece of cloth. He bowed his head, averting his eyes as he lifted the Cloak off the back of the chair and slowly, with deft hands and great
care, folded it neatly. The box was open on the floor, and Akhtar lifted the Cloak and laid it inside. He closed the box gently, as though afraid of disturbing the Cloak in its newfound comfort,
and latched it closed. Then he stood, holding the box in front of him. He looked up at Saunders, and Saunders could see the tears flowing from hard-set eyes, bearing witness to Akhtar’s anger
and grief at the manner in which the relic had been treated.

Saunders nodded at Akhtar. ‘We have to leave.’

Akhtar took a deep breath, and Saunders could see him release some of the hatred. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We must leave.’

It was only then that Saunders felt a third presence within the room. Behind them, nearer to the staircase, he felt the waft of another person moving, and the sickly-sweet mixture of stale
aftershave and chewing gum.

‘Oh, I don’t think you boys are going anywhere just yet,’ the voice said.

Cianna Phelan was livid. What right did Jack Saunders have to dictate to her where she could go and where she couldn’t? He couldn’t even manage to get his people to
provide support at the boathouse where Charlie had been killed. Come to think of it, she’d never had any definitive proof that he worked for the CIA at all; for all she knew, he was lying to
her all along.

And yet, she knew that he wasn’t lying. She’d spent enough time around men who knew what they were doing in combat, and those who didn’t, to be able to recognize a fake.
Saunders wasn’t that. He was the real deal.

She’d known an older man like him when she was serving in Afghanistan. They’d been together for nearly a month. Like Saunders, he wasn’t much to look at; no one would ever pick
him out of a crowd as being attractive. And yet there was something about him that Cianna had been drawn to. Some of it was the way that others had treated him. He was left alone, like a ghost
others were afraid to acknowledge because it would come too close to an admission of their own fears. It was as though he was there and not there at the same time. Someone described him as a man
for whom the term ‘fearless’ was inadequate. He operated on principle, outside of the formal system of team warfare, and he relied primarily on his own abilities to stay alive. As he
told her in the quiet of one blissful night, he understood that if everything went wrong on one of his missions, no one would acknowledge his existence, and no one would come to try to rescue
him.

She still remembered the look in his eyes, the last time she saw him. He was boarding a helicopter that had been stripped of all identifiable markings. She had no idea where he was going. As he
stepped up into the copter, he’d turned, and caught her eye. She could see the look he had; a look that said he would sacrifice everything he had and everything he was for those things he
truly cared about.

Saunders had that look about him. She’d seen it the first time she really looked in his eyes. She hadn’t been able to place what it was about him that seemed so familiar until just
now, and it explained, in part, why it was she’d obeyed his order.

Cianna also recognized that Saunders was right. Retrieving the Cloak was a task that required stealth above all else. The mission was made more dangerous with more people. If she had been in
combat and been in charge of such a mission, she would have given the same orders Saunders had given. She couldn’t deny that.

And yet the notion of accepting anyone’s orders, no matter how rational or correct, clawed at her, almost more so because she now recognized the attraction she felt toward him.

She looked at her watch. She’d give them two more minutes. After that, she was going in, whether it made rational sense or not.

Saunders turned slowly. He’d seen the police detective before, standing outside Cianna’s apartment. He’d watched him through the peephole as Cianna talked to
him through the cracked door, shooing him away like a gnat. Saunders thought at the time that it was a dangerous tactic. Men with badges didn’t react well to disrespect.

Now this same man was standing at the top of the staircase with the same badge in one hand and a gun in the other. He glanced at Saunders, but most of his focus was on Akhtar, and his face was
twisted with rage. Even in the dark, Saunders could see the sweat running down the man’s jowly face, soaking his collar. He was breathing heavily, and Saunders wondered how it was possible
that he’d allowed a specimen like this to sneak up on him. ‘Up against the wall,’ he said to them. ‘Both of you.’ Saunders could see that Akhtar was loath to set the
box with the Cloak down. ‘Now!’ the cop said.

Akhtar carefully set the box down on the ground, then took up a position next to Saunders, both of them with their hands against the wall, legs spread. Still holding his own gun pointed at the
two men, he used his other hand to frisk them. He pulled Saunders’s gun and knife out of his pocket and put them in his own. He removed Akhtar’s gun from him, as well, and stepped back
from the two of them. ‘Okay, turn around,’ he said.

The cop spoke to Akhtar. ‘Mohmad, right?’ he said. ‘Mohmad Hadid? That’s what it said on the license you gave me.’

Saunders turned and gave Akhtar a quick glance. He reminded himself that he had no real idea who the young Afghan was. All he knew was what he’d been told. Saunders trusted no one. Even
those who saved your life in the field might have reasons for doing so that had nothing to do with a unity of ultimate purpose. In Saunders’s world, an ally could turn quickly, and a savior
on one day could turn into a killer the next. Akhtar saw the look that Saunders was giving him and shook his head.

‘No,’ the cop said. ‘Not your real name. I figured. I had an idea that you were involved in all of this when I got back to the station house after my brother was pulled apart
piece by piece in the back of his bar with a power drill, and you’d been mysteriously released.’

‘Nick O’Callaghan,’ Saunders said quietly, looking at the cop with new eyes. ‘He was your brother?’

The cop turned his anger toward Saunders. ‘You knew him?’

‘I met him,’ Saunders said.

‘Did he still have his eyes when you met him?’

Saunders nodded slowly. ‘He did. We had nothing to do with his death.’

‘No?’ The cop’s tone was acerbic. ‘Nothing? I find that very hard to believe.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I arrested “Mohmad” yesterday morning outside the house of a girl who used to be friends with Nick. Then I got the call about Nick’s murder. When I got back to
the station house he had been released. Just like that. No one knew how. No one knew why. All anyone knew is that someone made a call to someone at the top. The word came down without any
explanation, and he was gone. Then a day later a body shows up in Cambridge missing a hand. Turns out it’s the girl’s kid brother.’ He shook his head at Saunders. ‘You
believe the shit they do in this kid’s part of the world. Cutting off fuckin’ hands? Killing people with power tools? I mean, we’ve got some sick fucks here, but at least
they’re not running the country, am I right?’

‘Not all of it, at least,’ Saunders replied slowly.

The cop looked more closely at Saunders. ‘Do I know you?’

Saunders shook his head. ‘No.’

‘No?’ The cop put the badge away and pointed the gun at Saunders’s chest. ‘That’s okay, I guess, ’cause we’re gonna get to know each other real well
now. I wanna know everything about you two, and everything about what the fuck’s going on in all this. You understand?’ He was seething, and Saunders looked at Akhtar. Neither of them
spoke. The cop pushed the gun hard into Saunders’s ribs. ‘You say that you two had nothing to do with Nick’s death? You better explain that to me, because I got a charitable
nature for the most part,’ he said. ‘But not so charitable that I’m gonna believe that this is all a big coincidence. So somebody better start talking.’

‘Are you going to arrest us?’ Saunders asked.

The cop pulled the gun out of his ribs and pushed it up under his chin. ‘He was my fucking brother!’ he screamed in Saunders’s ear. ‘I’m way past arresting you, you
get it?’

‘Yeah, I get it,’ Saunders said. The cop relented a little and pulled the gun out of his chin. ‘It’s complicated, though,’ Saunders offered.

‘Yeah? Well, good thing I got time.’

Akhtar looked expectantly at Saunders. Saunders decided to start with a version of the truth. ‘I can’t tell you everything,’ he said.

‘No?’ the cop said. ‘Why not?’

‘It has to do with an issue of national security.’

‘National security, huh?’ The cop pursed his lips in a mocking way. ‘I guess that would explain how your little friend here got his get-out-of-jail-free card.’

‘That’s right,’ Saunders said. ‘That’s why I can’t tell you everything.’ He moved ever so slightly forward, testing the waters.

The cop raised his gun at him, motioning him to stay back. ‘You got any identification?’

‘I don’t carry any official identification,’ Saunders said. ‘I’m a field operative. It wouldn’t make much sense for a field operative to carry business cards,
now, would it?’

That stumped the fat officer for a moment. After a second, though, he shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t buy it,’ he said. ‘You killed my brother for national security? You
wanna tell me how he was a threat?’

‘I told you, we didn’t kill him,’ Saunders said. ‘Someone else did.’

‘Yeah? Who?’

‘A man named Fasil.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘He’s from Afghanistan.’

‘How can I find him?’

‘Look for the guy with the teardrop birthmark. Other than that, there’s nothing I can tell you.’

‘Oh, well, if that’s all you can tell me, I guess I’ll have to be satisfied with that, right?’

‘In this case, that’s right,’ Saunders said. He could sense the cop struggling with his conflicting doubts. ‘You don’t want to know anything more.’

‘Oh, but I do.’ The cop looked over at the table. ‘What’s in the box?’

Akhtar looked panicked. ‘It’s nothing,’ Saunders said.

‘Nothing?’ the cop said doubtfully. ‘Your friend was cradling it like it was the baby Jesus. You want me to believe it’s nothing?’

‘It’s nothing that concerns you,’ Saunders said.

‘If it has anything to do with my brother’s murder, then it has everything to do with me.’ The cop moved toward the desk, his hand outstretched toward the box that held the
Cloak. Saunders realized too late that Akhtar was moving to stop him. The young man crossed the short distance between him and the cop in an instant, grabbing the cop’s heavy arm before it
touched the box. ‘No!’ he screamed, yanking the arm back as he tried to tackle the huge man. ‘You mustn’t!’

It was pointless, Saunders knew. The man, though fat, was enormous, and powerfully built. With the first swing of his arm, Akhtar flopped off him onto the floor. With the second swing, the gun
cracked across Akhtar’s face and sent him sprawling into the corner of the room. The cop swung and pointed his gun at Saunders to make sure he wasn’t joining the fray. Saunders raised
his hands to show that he wasn’t moving. Lying against the wall, Akhtar raised a hand to his stunned head.

‘Either one of you moves again, and I swear to Christ, I’ll kill you both!’ the cop yelled at them. ‘You understand?’

Saunders nodded.

The cop turned his attention back to the box. ‘What’s in it?’ he asked.

‘It’s nothing, I told you. It’s a piece of old cloth.’

The cop shook his head doubtfully. He reached out and unlatched the lid of the box.

‘No!’ Akhtar yelled from the floor. ‘Don’t touch it!’ he demanded, though he didn’t move.

The cop opened the box and leaned over it to peer in. He looked at Saunders in confusion. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said.

‘That’s the point,’ Saunders said. The cop looked at him for a moment, the confusion deepening.

‘Please,’ Akhtar said, quietly this time. ‘Don’t touch it.’

The cop looked back and forth between the two men, then shook his head and closed the box, re-latching the top. ‘This whole thing is too fucked up.’

‘It is,’ Saunders agreed. ‘That’s why you have to let us go.’

The cop looked at him and gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘Just like that?’ he asked. ‘My brother’s guts are drilled out, and you want me to just let you go?’

Saunders nodded.

The cop shook his head. ‘Not gonna happen. If you are who you say you are, we’ll get it all straightened out at the station house. If not . . .’ he shrugged, ‘I guess
we’ll get that figured out, too.’

Saunders shook his head. ‘You take us to the station house, and there will be too many problems. None of this can become public.’

‘That’s too bad,’ the cop said. ‘Because that’s what’s going to have to happen here.’ He looked at Akhtar. ‘You can pick up the box,’ he
said.

Akhtar got to his feet and grasped the box in both hands. ‘Are you going to arrest us, officer?’ Akhtar asked. He was still holding the box out in front of him.

The cop shrugged. ‘Maybe not,’ he said. ‘Maybe I got me a Black & Decker downstairs.’