Hack (16 page)

“Maybe these guys really hate inflation caused by credit,” I suggested.

“They like being off the grid, that’s for sure. But that’s not the most interesting thing,” she said. “Go ahead, ask me.”

“Okay, what?”

“Half an hour into my search, my boss, the U.S. Attorney, calls me and wants to know what I’m doing. Someone high up in the U.S. Marshal’s Service wants to know the reason for my ongoing records search. They were monitoring my search in real time.”

“Did you contact the marshals?”

“Nope. Since 9/11 we feds are very paranoid. State federal and local law enforcement have to explain every request for information from federal databases, with a case number and investigator’s name and badge number. It’s an anti-mole, anti-press thing. It’s routine. But it’s not routine for a big guy to call a big guy. In minutes, yet.”

“Okay, so you set off a tripwire.”

“Yes. I told my boss to tell the marshals it was a mistake; that I was looking for a different Matt Molloy. Then I had to go out and find a real Matt Molloy I might be interested in. Thank God for common names. I found one in Texas who’s a car thief and told them
he
was my guy. Now I have to investigate that asshole for a while to keep the marshals happy.”

“Why?”

“So they forget I’m interested in their guy.”

“Who says he’s their guy?”

“Not them. I never asked. He has to be their guy.”

“You mean an undercover marshal?”

“Maybe. That’s the most likely solution but I can’t ask. I’m going to do more checking. Offline, outside official channels. You know, cop work.”

“Mary Catherine, you’re a lawyer. These two guys, Molloy and Leslie, I got bad vibes from them. Like Blackwater Security goons. Be careful.”

“If one of them is an undercover marshal, I wouldn’t get too worried. Besides, I’m a lawyer with a gun.”

“They have guns, too. Aren’t lawyers too afraid of lawsuits to use guns?”

“You know better,” she said.

“Yeah, I do.”

“You need to arm-up, Shepherd. This might get noisy.”

“Nope. I’m done with guns. You know that.”

“I understand your feelings but are they worth your life?”

“I don’t know. I know they’re worth a lot of other people’s lives. We’ll see.”

“Well, on that cheerful note… I’ll get back to you,” Mary Catherine said, hanging up.

The phone rang two seconds later and I picked it up. “That was quick,” I said.

“What was quick?” a different female voice asked.

It wasn’t Mary Catherine. I needed more voice to figure out who it was. I actually knew more than three women personally now.

“Sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

“I am someone else. And some
thing
else.”

“Hi, Jane. Good to hear from you. How are things on the animal planet? I thought you were done with me.”

“No, just a little freaked out by our last date. I… I was just calling to see how Skippy was doing.”

“Would you rather speak to him?”

She laughed.

“No, I’ll take your word for it. How are you doing?”

“Not good,” I answered. “There’s this woman I want to date but she just wants to talk about my dog.”

“I know what you mean,” she chuckled. “I went out on a first date with a guy and ended up at a murder scene.”

“You saw the massacre story in the
Daily Press
.”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“You’re being nice.”

“I am. Sorry.”

“No need. The story is bullshit.”

“Okay,” she replied, unconvinced.

What is it about a little ink and paper that makes people believe anything? Or, for that matter, a little video? “Maybe I can get a date out of this and we can discuss it over dinner?” I suggested.

“Maybe,” she said. “But no dead bodies this time.”

“What a control freak you are, Jane. No promises.”

Jane arrived at Bistro du Bois in casual clothes this time. Jeans, white peasant top, sneakers, pony tail. No slinky sexy cocktail dress or sparkling jewelry. She was still seriously hot.

We chatted with Murray Glassberg and the bartender, Heather, and our waitress, Ronnie, who took our orders. No one brought up the subject of a massacre and there was no foreign waiter to remind us of a war, so
I
had to.

“Can you keep a secret?” I asked Jane.

She laughed, startled, almost giddy.

“I’m a medical professional,” she said with mock seriousness. “I’ve never revealed anything any of my patients have told me.”

“The animals? That’s very discreet of you.” She waited, her smile slowly evaporating. “The massacre.”

“Yes,” she said.

“I get it you want to know if I’m a killer. That’s easy. I am. But not women or kids. Came too close once, though.”

“The paper said two of your men went berserk and killed civilians, kids. Then you and other soldiers killed your own guys to stop them.”

“Not true. But some of the evidence makes it look that way. Our enemies are good and they’re ruthless,” I explained.

Jane did not ask whom I was describing.

“When they come into a village, they look like dirty bandits with weapons but they bring their whole version of society with them. One guy with an AK-47 calls himself the teacher and he drills the boys in verses from the Koran. Sometimes he drills the boys, too. Another guy with an RPG says he’s a judge. He starts handing out sentences. Then the guy with the big sword gets busy. First, they try to find a thief and whack off his hand. That shows they are for law and order. Later, they behead anyone who talks to us or fails to help them spy on us. Women who don’t cover up or who associate with the infidels are beaten as whores and raped. That’s their favorite part. They spent a lot of time on that.”

“Your point is the people in Afghanistan are afraid of them—but not of you?” Jane asked.

“Exactly. Wouldn’t you be?”

“Are you explaining why, in war, some soldiers start doing bad things?”

“Like massacres? No. I’m not pleading guilty with an explanation. I’m a killer. We all were. I joined up after 9/11 to kill the bad guys, the people who attacked us, and we did. The people we killed were killers. We were the good guys and they were the bad guys. They used people as human shields. For the first time in human history, we invented smart weapons to avoid killing innocent people.
They
target innocents on purpose. What I’m saying is that the bad guys tried to make us into killers of civilians but, when that didn’t work, they figured out a way to make it seem that way.”

“They faked a massacre?”

“You bet. It was easy. On Tuesday, they ambush us on patrol. We kill three of their guys but two of our guys disappear. We tear the place apart looking for our people. Choppers, jets, drones, satellites, reinforcements, Stryker vehicles, the whole menu. Nothing. We stand down, they stage another ambush on Saturday but we’re ready.”

“Did you find your buddies?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Tell me.”

“We returned fire on a house, lit it up. Small arms, rockets. It was too easy. Our guys were found inside, along with a dozen
Hajis
—civilians. A man, a woman and ten fucking kids. All dead, all ripped with M4 rounds. In the back. Fresh. Make you puke.”

“So your guys went crazy.”

“We were all part crazy but no. Our missing guys were there, unconscious, dying. It was a mess. Mary Catherine, my captain, she called the fucking FBI to join the party. Some of the forensics seemed to support the Taliban scam—that our two guys killed civilians and we killed them because they were rogues. The bad guys were hyping that story before our ears stopped ringing, before they could possibly know. The FBI later proved the bullets fired from my missing guys’ guns killed the civilians. But here’s the thing—our missing guys each had enough opium in their systems to drop a camel.”

“So the terrorists drugged them so it looked like they were dopers who went on a kid-killing spree?”

“Thank God they gave them too much dope. It was in their stomachs, not smoked or injected. The FBI team said my men were not conscious. Also the rounds that killed our guys were fired straight downward. They found some spent rounds in the dirt under them. The only way that could happen was if we were standing above them, which we weren’t. Video to prove it. It proved they were lying on the dirt floor when they were shot from above. Also my two guys had rope burns on their wrists and ankles, and had been beaten, as had the victims.”

“So they had all been held hostage.”

“Yeah. Fortunately, the Taliban thinks western TV shows are Satan’s tools—they missed the episodes of
CSI
that would have helped them fake their crime scene better.”

“Why don’t you go public with this?” Jane asked.

“Classified. My hands are tied. Mary Catherine and I signed a lot of paperwork in blood. If we blab, we go to Leavenworth.”

“Leavenworth?”

“Federal prison.”

“They’re covering it up because it’s embarrassing?”

“Sure. The Taliban faked it too good. Also, it would mean admitting that two of our guys with dope in their systems had rifles that killed kids.”

“But it’s not true.”

“I know but they’re waiting for the Taliban to release their official version and then we can counter it with the truth, the science. If anybody believes us. But I don’t think that’s ever going to happen.”

“Why?”

“Because the Taliban commander who ordered the setup and his whole crew are dead. About two dozen of the nasty fuckers. A few weeks afterwards. It’s nice when nice things happen to nice people.”

“How?”

“Truck bomb.”

“His own people killed him?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I thought they were the ones who used car bombs. So who killed them?”

“That’s also classified.”

“Give me a break, Shepherd.”

I thought about it for a while and then leaned closer, keeping my voice down.

“Apparently this warlord heard that a female American soldier was stranded in a broken-down Humvee. He was known to favor rape as a religious educational tool for women hostages. Especially hot infidel babes, like U.N. workers. He was a very devout guy. Liked to do the instructing himself. A female U.S. soldier would be his ultimate prize.”

“What happened?”

“Apparently he heard a female voice calling for help over our radio frequency. Foolishly, she gave her location. Our friend was very eager to get there first. He and his top guys. Party time.”

“And there was a bomb?”

“Big time. C-4 explosive and a lot of nails. An Improvised Explosive Device. It was a mess. Some of the bad guys lived for a few minutes but no matter how much they screamed, no one came to help.”

“And the female soldier died, too?”

“Funny thing. There was only a mannequin in a uniform and blonde wig in the Hummer. The parts of the dummy were scattered all over, so the ones who took a while to die knew they had been punked.”

I tried to suppress it but I couldn’t help smiling. Jane stared at me with an odd expression.

“So, you did that?” she asked.

“Sorry, classified.”

“That’s why they shipped you home,” Jane said. “You and your friend Mary Catherine? They also covered that up?”

I dug into my steak and ignored her question.

“How long has it been?” she asked.

“More than a year. It was quiet until Ginny Mac dug it up and put it in the
Daily Press
, or part of it. Haven’t decided what to do about it yet.”

“Remind me not to get you mad at me,” Jane said. “What did your new bosses say about the story?”

“They threatened to fire me but didn’t,” I said. “They seemed much more interested in why I’m friends with Mary Catherine, who is a federal prosecutor. Jane, you should try this ginger steak. It’s great.”

Again, she looked at me oddly. I couldn’t decide if she thought I was nuts or didn’t believe what I had told her. Or both.

“Tell me about your face,” she said gently.

“We were on a routine patrol with Fatimah—my dog—tagging along. She sensed something. Started barking. When I kept walking, Fatimah jumped me, knocked me flat. There was an IED. She ran to it. She was a stray puppy we adopted. They set it off because they thought she was a bomb dog. She was killed and I was hurt.”

“This was before the other stuff?”

“Yeah. They took me to a big F.O.B. and then to Germany and Washington. Kansas for a while. I was in the Sand, Iraq, first and then the Stan, other spots.”

I paused. “I still have little pieces of her in me. Bone. It’s dumb because we lost a lot more guys but one dog and… After the massacre, I decided I was done with guns and bombs and orders and crusades and here I am. Well, almost done. I’ve been away so long I feel like a tourist.”

Jane said nothing but reached out for my hand and held it until dessert.

* * *

After dinner we walked down the sidewalk, other couples passing us in both directions. Jane took my arm. I kept searching passing faces, looking for familiar ones, judging intent, gauging threat levels. I was still not used to a world where everyone I saw was a stranger and meant me no harm. Well, most of them, anyway.

Jane’s phone went off. She read a message, saying it was an animal emergency.

“But no sweat,” she said, putting the phone away. “I’ve got a colleague covering for me.”

“Are you in any hurry?” I asked.

She looked at me, cocking her head, trying to figure out my meaning.

“Do you mean do I have to get up early in the morning?”

“I’m not sure. I think so,” I answered.

“No, I don’t have to get up too early. You’re being polite,” Jane said, taking my hand. “That’s sweet. You don’t want to hit on me on the second date. You don’t want me to think you’re a slut.”

“You think so? I was going to suggest a bar in my neighborhood; they have a girl who does a lot of Sheryl Crow songs.”

“I can’t eat any more and I definitely can’t drink any more,” she said. “I was going to suggest you come back to my place.”

“You just want me to think you’re a stud,” I told her.

“You bet,” she laughed. “I can’t wait to tell my patients what a slut you are.”