Operation Mockingbird (19 page)

He quickly made his way back to Alex. The air space was even smaller. Her eyes were wide with panic.

“Okay,” he sputtered as he took in some air, grabbing her hand at the same time. “Let’s go.” She nodded.

They both took a deep breath and plunged into the water. Matt led her through the two seats and out the driver’s side window. Once outside, he kicked hard, pushing them fast and far. His legs pulled Alex with him, his heart pounding in his ears. His lungs began to burn. He felt grass pressing against his face as they finally reached the other side of the canal. Still, he didn’t rise to the surface.

Matt pushed deeper into the weeds. He pulled Alex close to him before starting a painfully slow arc to the surface. When he finally broke through, he tried to breathe calmly and quietly from behind the weeds. Alex quickly followed. He put his hand over her mouth lightly as she gasped for air. With his other hand, he put one finger to his lips and motioned with his head to the other side of the canal.

They were still not safe.

They watched the lights in the distance, flickering across the canal. They sat there in the water, shivering as the rain cut through them. Dark clouds now covered the moon. And still they waited. Large heavy drops of rain continued to pelt their bodies. Finally, the flashlight beams were extinguished and the SUV pulled away.

CHAPTER TWENTY

CATCHING A RIDE hadn’t been easy after dark on the nearly desolate street but the storm and their thoroughly soggy appearance had helped elicit some sympathy from a trucker on his way down to Key West. Keg South was on the man’s way and he was happy for the company, although he was probably disappointed that Matt and Alex weren’t such good company.

Matt didn’t expect to find anyone still at the Keg when they arrived but thought they needed to try. Alex and Matt exchanged looks as they pulled into the parking lot and saw two cars parked in the back. Matt recognized one as Dan’s truck. Perhaps Patrick had waited after all.

They thanked the trucker and headed to the entrance of The Keg, their clothing beginning to dry. Matt pulled on
the door handle, expecting it to be locked and was surprised when it opened easily. He walked through the doorway and stopped just inside. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the cave-like darkness. He felt Alex close behind him.

“Dan?” Matt called into the dark room.

“Patrick?” He tried again when there was no answer.

The bar was quiet. No music. No sound of pool balls colliding into each other before falling into pockets. There was the smell of stale beer and fryer grease but something else as well. Something Matt couldn’t immediately identify. He turned the corner of the bar, instinctively looking toward the register where Dan should be closing out. He stopped short. Alex bumped into him from behind. He heard her sharp intake of breath.

The area at the back of the bar above the register was covered with something. Splattered across the pictures of the loyal Keg customers that had earned a spot on the wall was something dark. Red. Blood. And something else. A robbery, Matt thought. Dan must be on the floor behind the bar.

Matt started to take a step forward, but Alex grabbed his arm and stopped him. He turned to look at her and saw she was staring down. He followed her gaze to the floor in front of them and saw a small trail of a thick dark liquid. Blood. His eyes tracked the blood across the floor as the trail grew wider.

It ended under a tall stool in the far corner of the small bar. The stool was placed behind a high-top table. Again, it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the
even deeper and darker recesses, but he could just make out the silhouette of a man. A large man. It took him a few minutes to make out his features. A moment more to realize that there, propped up against the wall, was Patrick Mullarky.

Patrick’s mouth was open as if in a silent scream, a wad of paper towels filling the void. His eyelids were open but his eyes were unseeing. There were two dark holes where his eyes should be. Blood ran down both sides of his head. Matt’s eyes traveled downward. A rope was tied tightly across Patrick’s chest and around his upper body but disappeared behind him. His hands rested on the table in front of him. There was a stab wound in the middle of the back of each hand and several fingers missing from both. Matt looked down and saw the missing fingers scattered on the floor around the small table.

Matt felt himself begin to gag and immediately looked away. He placed his hand across his mouth. He turned away and pushed Alex as he did so, turning her around roughly so she wouldn’t see what was behind him.

“Get back. Don’t look at this.”

She didn’t resist and moved away with him until they were back near the entrance of the bar.

Matt’s eyes went to the wall of infamy. He ignored the splattering on the wall and the many familiar faces as he searched the wall. He was looking for something in particular. A picture. A picture of Patrick, Stephen and Dan. He knew it was up there. Matt had taken it himself with Dan’s camera. Dan had proudly pointed it out the
next time Matt had come in. The picture had occupied a place of prominence ever since.

He recalled the afternoon. The big event was Super Bowl XLI. The Indianapolis Colts were playing the Chicago Bears. In the end, Colts coach Tony Dungy became the first African-American head coach to win a Super Bowl in a game that featured the first two black coaches in Super Bowl history. But that wasn’t the reason that Matt, Stephen and Patrick had ended up at Keg South to watch the big game. The game was memorable for another reason. The game was played at Miami’s Dolphin Stadium. The last Super Bowl played at the stadium. Matt had failed to get tickets so they had come here to watch the game.

His eyes searched urgently for the picture, desperate to find something that remotely resembled normalcy. There it was. He made out their smiling faces and somewhat glassy-eyed looks, the result of several pitchers of beer. The picture was slightly obscured by a manila envelope pinned to the bottom half. He squinted in the dim light and barely noticed his name in tiny letters on the bottom right hand corner of the envelope.

Matt approached the bar tentatively. Standing on the chair rail affixed to the bottom of the bar, he leaned over the counter and across the aisle behind the bar. He grabbed the photo and the envelope. As he started to bend back upright and step off the rail, he briefly looked down. He closed his eyes when he caught a glimpse of Dan’s body behind the bar, but he couldn’t avoid the unmistakable stench of fresh blood.

He quickly stepped back and hurried toward the exit. He threw the door open and rushed out of the bar. He raced to the farthest corner of the parking lot. He bent from the waist and grabbed the chain-link fence for support as he prepared to expel the contents of his stomach. But he hadn’t eaten since the morning. The dry heaves continued for several seconds.

“Are you okay?” Alex asked, resting her hand gently on his back.

“I’m okay.”

“So what did you get?” she asked after a moment. He stared at her blankly. She gestured to the items in his hand and he looked down.

“I’m not sure,” he said as he opened the manila envelope and flipped it over. A flash drive slid out.

“Something Patrick left for me,” he said. This time it was her turn to look at him blankly. “And I don’t think it’s a compilation of U2’s greatest hits.”

“Should we call the police, Matt?” Alex asked as they walked a few blocks to a nearby college bar that was still open. From there, they planned to ask the bouncers to call them a cab.

Matt didn’t say anything for a while. He looked at the ragged old photo that he continued to hold.

“This is big, Alex,” Matt said finally looking up. “I know it’s all part of the same thing, but I just can’t connect the dots right now.”

“I’m certain you’re right.” She paused a moment before continuing. “Should we go to the police with what we know?”

“No,” Matt replied firmly. “We have to find out more and be totally sure who’s behind this before we go to the police.”

He half expected Alex to fight him on this, but she surprised him by agreeing with him.

Neither Matt nor Alex said a word on the cab ride to the Brickell apartment where Alex was staying. Matt paid the driver with soggy bills from his wallet.

“It’s my friend Christina’s apartment,” Alex said as they rode up in the elevator together. “No one knows I’m staying there,” she continued. “So, even if those guys somehow figure out who I am, they can’t trace us back to the apartment.”

“Sounds good, Alex,” Matt said as he watched her retrieve a key hidden underneath a fire extinguisher in the hallway outside the apartment.

“My friend works for a public accounting firm,” Alex said as they walked through the front door. “She travels several months out of the year, particularly this time of year.”

Matt walked to the middle of the room. It was an open floor plan. From where he stood, he could see the entire apartment, including into the bedroom on the other side of the living room. The apartment was conservatively furnished. It was also kind of sterile, Matt thought as he looked around, without any personal touches like art on the
walls, photos or books. As a result, the apartment revealed little about the woman who lived there.

The sliding glass door leading to the balcony was open. A soft warm breeze was picking up the sheer drapes causing them to stir and float into the living room. Matt walked out to the balcony. Outside, he took in the gorgeous view of Biscayne Bay and Rickenbacker Causeway, which linked the mainland to Key Biscayne. It was raining, but the overhang of the balcony was deep enough that Matt could sit on the balcony without getting wet despite the storm that continued to hang over the city. Laughter, loud voices and the sounds of K.C. and the Sunshine Band interrupted the quiet of the night. Matt heard before he saw one of the many booze cruise party boats floating by in the water down below.
Baby, give it up. Give it up. Baby, give it up.

Alex came out bearing two glasses full of a light amber liquid. Wordlessly, she handed one to Matt and sat down in the chair next to him. Both faced the water, neither looking at the other or saying a word. They hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights in the living room, and the only light on the balcony came from the full moon cascading across and then bouncing off Biscayne Bay. Matt watched the palm trees running along the bay whip about from the wind and rain. Occasionally, lightning in the distance flashed against the dark sky and the crack of thunder rolled over them.

Alex was the first to speak.

“What happened in Afghanistan, Matt?” she asked. She said it so softly the words seemed to float in the breeze. A caress almost, but for Matt the words carried a powerful punch.

So much had happened in Afghanistan, so much he could tell. But he knew exactly what she was asking about, what she wanted to know. And he sensed that this was not the time to be evasive. Still, he hesitated. The story had waited a long time to be told and the words did not come easily.

“After the bombing in Kandahar--” he looked over at her to confirm he was starting at the right point, that she had read the papers and knew at least the story that had been published. She nodded.

“When I was being held captive, the Taliban who’d found me wanted to keep me alive. So they sent for a doctor to look after me. His name was Aamir. We quickly became friends -- despite the circumstances or maybe because of the circumstances. I’m not sure which -- probably both.” He was stumbling around, the words trying to find their footing.

“One night Aamir came for one of his regular visits. When the guards were out of earshot, he told me I was in danger. He said I needed to get out of there immediately.”

She didn’t say anything but urged him with her eyes to continue.

“The Taliban were going to move, he told me. The coalition forces were closing in, so my captors wanted to relocate somewhere where their group had a stronger foothold. They were debating whether to kill me as a statement before they left or to take me as additional insurance. Either option would have been bad news for me. Best-case scenario, I would be going on a very dangerous
road trip with some very bad people. I needed to get the hell out of there.”

“And ... What did you do?”

“Aamir told me we were relatively close to the Pakistani border so we decided to make a run for Chanan in Pakistan.”

“Pakistan?” Alex interrupted. “You were making a run for Pakistan?”

The irony of leaving Afghanistan for the “safety” of Pakistan was not lost on Matt. Pakistan’s Interservice Intelligence agency supports and, in some cases, directly assists the Taliban and Al-Qaeda insurgents. As a result, the Taliban continues to operate in Western Pakistan, fighting the elected government, its army and NATO security forces.

“I know what you mean, but Pakistan was and is a major ally of the United States in the war on the Taliban, and there was a U.S. command post in Pakistan not too far away. I wanted to try to make it there. I didn’t have a good plan, but Aamir was willing to try. We thought that we could use the chaos that was going on around the city at the time to get out undetected. Once we got near the U.S. camp, I could use my status to talk our way in. Admittedly, it wasn’t a great plan, but it was all we had.”

“And Aamir? Why was he going with you?”

“Not just Aamir -- his wife and kids too. I never could have gotten out of Kandahar alone, and once the extremists figured out who had helped me, Aamir and his family would be in jeopardy. I guess Aamir saw this as his shot to get out as well.”

“So what happened?”

“The next night Aamir came to check on me. But this time he came bearing gifts for the guards he had gotten to know and who would soon be leaving. Alcohol. Three bottles of some rotgut he’d bought somewhere.”

“That was a big deal,” Matt explained. “During the Taliban rule, alcohol was banned in the country. In the wake of the Taliban, the ban was lifted but it was lifted only for non-Muslims and foreigners. Even then it was very hard for Afghan people to drink alcohol without being subjected to scrutiny from the ‘morality police.’ The men holding me were not Muslim fundamentalists, so they were all too happy to partake.”