CHAPTER 9

 

9a

Outside Karbala, Iraq, 2005

“We know the girls were here, Major” O’Mara said into the radio. “Everything points to it, but they sure as hell were waiting for us.”

“No shit. Damage?” Major Simpson asked.

“One KIA, Private Nolan, killed when the building exploded. Another with a leg wound,” Sharon answered.

“Enemy?”

“We count seven dead, but in the aftermath of the storm some may have slipped away. Photos and prints are on their way back to you and Intel. Maybe we can find out who these guys are. A lot more sophisticated than your usual al-Qaeda thugs. They knew we were coming.”

“Get your ass back here. Let’s figure this thing out,” Simpson said.

“I want a Bronze Star for Nolan, Major; he saved our asses out here twice and his family should know it.”

“We’ll talk about it when you get back. Out.”

“Out.”

It was a classic screw-up of the worst kind. Bravado mixed with overconfidence, seasoned with the sandstorm, led to a cluster-fuck that left Private Timothy O. Nolan dead. They stripped everything of value from the wasted Humvee; another crew would try to retrieve the remains sometime later. The ride back to the Green Zone was hot and crowded; Nolan was in a bag on the floor between the men, O’Mara sat next to him.

“Maybe it was the loss of the helicopters,” she thought. “Maybe they would have seen something from the air. Maybe they shouldn’t have gone down that alley, maybe, maybe. Maybe the whole thing was fucked from the start. And where the hell are those girls?”

The debriefing took the rest of the day and went on into the evening, Sanchez talked about what happened from the east side and O’Mara from the west, they left nothing out. The operation, other than being screwed-up, went as planned.

“We didn’t find the Mercedes,” Sanchez said during the interview. “Maybe that was something important we should have seen. But hell, they could have hid it or something. We know that as soon as the shooting started we were close to something, we crashed in. These guys were experienced with tactical. Wanted us in the house, tried to push us in, but they failed. If it weren’t for that wire on the stairs, Nolan would be waiting out in the hall with the rest of the squad. It was a fuck-up, but not sure if anyone’s to blame; after all, anything can happen in this shit hole of a country.”

O’Mara and her men were held close to the base for the next few days. The usual hurry up and wait; they cleaned their gear and tried to get their collective heads around what had happened. They went to the airstrip with Private Nolan for his trip home; there were three other caskets on the tarmac below the ramp leading to the C-17. Maybe fifty soldiers were standing in tight formation honoring the men who had died for their country.

Abdul was waiting for them when they returned to their billet.

“I’m sorry about the soldier, Lieutenant,” Abdul said. “He was very kind to me; we talked a lot about my home and your country. He was very nice.”

“Yes, too damn nice to die here,” O’Mara said as she studied the boy, he was calm and engaging, no evasion, full of sincerity. “Have you thought of anything else that might help us since we came back? Anything about the car, the men or the girls?”

She watched the boy as he thought through what he had seen, “No, I told you everything I remembered, the car, the girls in the room, the men standing about talking to the old man, everything.”

“What old man, you never said anything about an old man?”

“An old man came to visit; I stood on the crates and looked through the window. The girls ran up and hugged him,” Abdul said. “One showed him pictures and the other just danced around. After all Lieutenant; they’re just kids and they act like kids, just girls.”

“Was he tall or short?”

“Maybe like the sergeant,” Abdul said pointing toward Sanchez as he walked over toward them.

“What did you see before the man went inside?” Sanchez asked.

“Let me think, he arrived in a car, a Toyota, white. Nice car, someday when I’m in America I will own that car, no damage, it was very nice.”

“Back to the man, Abdul,” Sharon said.

“Yes, yes. When he drove up, the soldiers standing out front came to attention and then a man came out of the building and greeted him, kissed him on both cheeks, like he was somebody important. He was the big deal, is that the right words?”

“Close enough, then what?” Sanchez asked.

“He lit a cigarette, the wind blew the smoke to me, smelled like my brand,” Abdul said. “You got a cigarette, sergeant?”

“Don’t smoke kid.”

“They smelled like your cigarettes?” O’Mara asked. “The ones with the clove taste?”

“Yes, they taste much better than the plain kind, except for your Marlboros, those are real good. Lieutenant?”

“No way.” O’Mara looked at Sanchez. “You thinking what I’m thinking Sarg? Get that stack of photos.”

Sergeant Sanchez returned to the Lieutenant and the boy, laid the pictures on the table, said nothing and stood off to one side.

“Abdul, I want you to look at these photos, if you see anyone you know, just point to the photo.”

“Yeah, sure. No problem.” Abdul walked to the edge of the table and began to scan the photos starting at the top row, then the next and so on until he stopped at the last row. He pointed at the third photo in from the left.

“That’s the old man,” he said with his finger on the photo.

“You sure?” Sanchez asked.

“How do you say, damn sure?” Abdul said.

“That’ll work; do you know who he is?”

“No, but I expect that he is the big man, their leader.”

“You have got to be kidding, I can’t believe it,” Sanchez said. “The man would use his own granddaughters as bait to lure us out.”

“After what I’ve seen, I can believe anything in this country,” O’Mara said. “I suggest we pay Mister al-Jamil a visit.”

 

 

9b

Rocco’s is one of those San Francisco restaurants; every city has at least a dozen, hidden, yet in plain sight. Narrow, like a shotgun shack, seats fifty customers if lucky, tall full front glass windows on the street and at night, reminds you of the restaurant in the movie The Godfather where Al Pacino finds the pistol behind the toilet and shoots the mobster and his enabling police captain. And, to no one’s surprise, they all seem to be Italian.

O’Mara arrived early and parked on the street. While the neighborhood, to the casual suburbanite, seemed a bit on the seedy side, it was full of homes, apartments, and high tech start-ups. When the high tech industry started, over fifty years ago, they pushed out their first computer bytes in now famous backyard garages. Today, they start in lofts and warehouses on the south side of San Francisco, where good food and pizza can be found on the first floors of the same buildings that hold nascent Facebooks.

Jean-François Voss sat in the window seat fully engaged with the restaurant owner in an animated conversation as Sharon passed the window; she waved. The usual crowd filled the doorway as she pushed herself through the mix to JF’s table.

“You’re early,” Sharon said, a touch of surprise in her voice.

“You are right on time,” JF answered. “I’ve known the owner a few years; I come for lunch once and a while. Good spot to meet some of the young tech guys, a couple of the guys have shops not more than a block from here.”

“One of my favorites,” Sharon said, and as if to prove the point, a glass of red wine arrived. “You are beginning to annoy me, JF, you and your assumptions.”

“And don’t you look good; it’s refreshing to see a woman dress up even if for a casual place like this. To you,” he said as he raised his glass and smiled. Two girls at a nearby booth giggled; their boyfriends were not amused by the attention they paid to JF.

“You do cause a stir wherever you go,” Sharon said, as one of the boyfriends pointed his finger at his date, she answered with a less than amused look.

“What do you expect one to do?” JF said.

“Now that’s a line of bullshit if I’ve ever heard one,” Sharon answered. She sensed that he was worried about something. “What’s the problem?”

“The missing hydrofoil is setting us back at least six months; there was some data left on the hard drive in the boat that could not be sent on ahead. Mike hadn’t the time to retrieve it after the Coast Guard released the boat. We were going to download it when the boat arrived in France; that data is critical.”

“I may have a lead on the boat,” Sharon said. “We’ve traced it to an area near the Port of Oakland. There is a two hour window that we are trying to open but we are closer now.”

Jean-François paused a few seconds, “Near the port, near the area where it was to be unloaded onto the train?”

“Looks like it, we have video of it coming into the area and then we lost it. Then a few hours later the cab turns up without the trailer.” His reaction caught her attention, something buzzed in the back of her brain.

“Did they see anything else suspicious?”

The buzz became louder; it was her turn to pause, she held back, “No, just the truck and then the cab, nothing else. Whoever took the trailer with the container doesn’t show up on the video. One minute the cab and trailer are there and then two hours later, no trailer, no container, just the cab and the dead driver.”

An antipasto plate arrived and they nibbled on the olives and salami. But Sharon was sure something had changed, there was some type of shift in JF’s mood and attitude. She couldn’t place it. Then he changed the conversation to France and Provence. They shared a Caesar salad and a plate of linguine and clams; they both sopped up the juice with the French bread. For a few minutes, she forgot about his pause and reflection, but only for a few minutes.

The owner stopped by twice and brought them an aperitif the second time around, a glass of anise rich liquor, Pernod.

“I have a friend that enjoys this very much,” Sharon said, thinking of Evelyn Luca, the high-end handbag designer.

“It is an acquired taste but it’s a European drink and quite an industry. Did you know that it was the invention of the man who made absinthe, “the green fairy,” of Parisian fame, Monsieur Henri Pernod?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I did but I’m a scotch drinker, the anise flavor just doesn’t appeal to me.”

“That is a shame but for now, bonne chance.” JF tilted the glass toward Sharon and then sipped the green liquor.

“Tell me more about the videos, they showed the truck and the trailer?” JF asked, returning to the subject they had dropped.

“Yes, we followed it from the Bay Bridge to the port, then we lost it,” Sharon said repeating herself. “It pops-up later near the Oakland Amtrak station. It was found about ten blocks away by the police with the dead driver still in the cab.”

“Shocking, but at the same time surreal. Like one of your reality TV shows.”

“Yeah, but more deadly. And I’m sure that Mr. Flores would rather be on Dancing with the Stars than on one of those cop shows.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” JF said with a touch of distraction in his voice as he glanced at his watch. “I sadly have to call it a night; I have to be in Sunnyvale at 9:00 AM tomorrow, some new software to look at. Do you need a lift?”

“No, I’m fine. Parked just around the corner,” she added.

The owner walked over as they stood and shook JF’s hand, he also smiled at Sharon. “I’ve seen you here before,” he said.

“I’ve been here often but tend to stay to myself, still the best Italian in the City,” Sharon offered.

“Thanks for the compliment, we try.”

The two exited into the fresh evening air, a cool breeze washed down Folsom Street from up in the hills west of downtown. The traffic on the street was remarkably quiet as they walked arm and arm to Sharon’s car.

“Why did you become distant in the restaurant when I brought up the videos?” Sharon asked. “You hired me to find out what happened to your sister, this is all part of it, like it or not.”

JF again paused before he answered; Sharon lit a cigarette.

“Those will kill you, you know.”

“You’re the second person to say that to me today,” she answered, remembering her earlier four-way conversation with herself.

“You should pay attention to us.”

“Yeah, there are a lot of things I should pay attention to; I’ll just add it to the list.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“You’re evading my questions and from your body language you know more about this than you are telling me.”

She waited for an answer, when none came, she pointed a finger at JF’s chest. “Damn it, JF, if you’re involved in this, I’ll walk away right now, I will not be lied to. To hell with your boat and the whole race, good night!” She opened the door to her sedan, pitched the cigarette to the ground and slid into the seat. JF reached in and tried to grab her arm.

“Don’t try that unless you want to eat left-handed,” she said, loud enough that JF quickly yanked his hand back.

“I don’t get it, what’s the matter?”

“We’ll talk later, I’m done for tonight. Thanks for dinner, I’ll call you later,” Sharon said as she started the Jaguar, in two minutes she was on the east bound on-ramp of the Bay Bridge and heading for home.

 

 

9c

“Men are bastards,” Sharon said as she nursed a real drink at Geno’s. “Just when you get stars in your eyes, they kick sand in your face, they’re all bastards.”

Gina just stood in front of her friend and allowed her to vent. This was one of her forms of therapy, listening. Usually the problem resolved itself with only a little coaching and a little more scotch.

“Yes, I agree that he’s a stronzo, but then again all good-looking, very rich men are stronzos,” Gina said. “I know the type and the attitude; they are all worthless pieces of ...”

“You talking to me?” a male voice asked from near the door.

“I rest my case,” Sharon said as she patted the stool next to her. Kevin Bryan sat and smiled at the girls. “Therapy session?”

“Fuck you, Bryan, I came in here to drown my broken heart and you have to walk in. I honestly believe that God wants me punished, I don’t know why yet but I’ll find out.”

Kevin kissed her cheek.

“That’s not going to help. All you men are bastards, plain and simple. You say one thing and then you just go about your merry way doing what you want, regardless of who you hurt.”

Kevin looked at Gina for an answer. She shrugged and shook her head.

“All right, I won’t defend myself or the male of the species. God knows, from what I’ve seen, that’s a lost argument anyway but something else set you off. You want to tell me?”

Sharon drained the tumbler and pointed at Gina.

“Sorry girl, you’re cut off for the night. Don’t like where this is going. Talk to Kevin, I’ll be back.” She headed to the far end of the bar.

Sharon put her fists on each side of her face and stared into the mirror behind the bar, “Kevin what have I gotten myself into? I had dinner with Voss tonight and at one point, while I described watching videos of the truck hauling his boat, he acted like he already knew what went down. Not in so many words but I can read people and from that moment on, the whole conversation went another way. He wanted to know what else we saw, not the truck; he didn’t care about the truck or the driver, he wanted something else. And I know what it was.”

“What?”

“A black BMW.”

“Why?” Kevin asked.

“The BMW kept appearing in almost every shot, it followed the tractor trailer rig from the bridge to where it was found. The plates are stolen and there is only one person that I know of, amongst this collection of stellar human beings, who owns one, Eva Karg.”

“Did you clue him in?”

“No, he can stew about it. He can wonder about what we know.”

“I’ve got the DNA results in my car, be right back,” he said and left. A minute later Kevin laid an envelope on the table; it was similar to the envelope from the last response by the state C.I.U. lab.

“You were right about your hunch,” Kevin said. “The DNA from the sample you gave me the other day and the one from the boat match, the same horse provided both samples.”

“So now I have a black BMW, a match to a Palomino horse and a Frenchman who went from client to suspect over a plate of linguine. Kevin, this whole thing is screwy. As I said before, what have I gotten into?”

“It’s no different than any other complicated case; you collect the evidence and then see where it leads you.”

Gina sat a glass of water and two aspirin on the bar.

“Take these, drink that and then go home, get a good night’s sleep. Everything will be clearer in the morning, right Kev?”

“Seems to work for me, sometimes,” he answered.

Sharon gathered up her coat and handbag and slid off the stool. With her back to the bar, she waved her hand in the air as she walked out the door.

 

**********

Green Zone, Baghdad, Iraq, 2005

“Major, the kid identified the tribal elder as the leader of this group; this whole operation was a setup from the start. They got us to their village and then, because of the Mercedes, we were led into trap,” Sharon said.

“You think the kid is involved?” Major Simpson asked.

“Not sure, everything is on the table in this country, wouldn’t surprise me but it would disappoint me.”

“You like him?”

“Yeah, he’s smart and intuitive. Learned English from the street and speaks it well. Always on his toes but he’s still a thirteen-year-old when it comes to some things, like his fancy for ice cream.”

“I’m not thirteen and I fancy ice cream, Lieutenant,” the Major said with a laugh.

“You know what I mean, he’s seen a lot, been through a lot and it’s hardened him. He’s defensive and expects a prize when he gives the right answer; maybe they offered him something more.”

“Not seventy virgins, I hope.”

“No, I think he’s actually too smart for that. Not been through the religious schools, it’s almost too late to get him indoctrinated. Right now he just wants to go to America.”

“Keep him going with that goal,” the Major said.

“What? Hanging that out there may only make matters worse, when he finds out that he’s being lead about, he’ll shut down and we won’t get anything.”

“Who said I wasn’t working on the request for him to go to America, O’Mara?”

O’Mara looked at her Major, “If you weren’t my commander, I’d give you a kiss, then again, screw it.” She gave him a peck on his cheek.

“I’m not making any promises; this will be kicked upstairs before it happens. Keep an eye on him and keep him out of trouble. Now get out, I’ve got work to do.”

Sharon O’Mara climbed the bank of the levee that paralleled the Tigris River and looked over the skyline of Baghdad. The morning heat had started to build after the long night; it was like the heat in Phoenix, except that here, along the grey river, the humidity rose with the heat, the moisture was sucked from the river and it lounged along its flanks like hot steam over a pot. She saluted a young private on guard duty and walked along the wide road that capped the levee.

This was her second tour and she knew it would be her last. She had three months to do before going home, wherever the hell that was. She knew why she liked Abdul, even though she couldn’t tell anyone, especially the Major. They had similar backgrounds. Until she was eighteen, she bounced from one foster home to another; always stubborn and independent, most of the homes tired of her and her inflexible nature very quickly. They wanted to help her, to change her and mold her into the perfect young lady. One even had her go to ballet classes. Her own view of life formed during long hikes and horse rides in the foothills behind Colorado Springs. She had an almost intuitive view of everything she saw; she could look into the heart of something and see all its possibilities. She was smart and studied hard. In high school, she learned math and calculus quickly and picked-up the rudiments of French and Spanish. One of her friends was Mexican and she coached her until her Spanish wasn’t too bad for a “Gringo.”

She learned to hunt and fish from books and videos. At seventeen, she lost her virginity to someone named Bob or Rob; she couldn’t or didn’t want to remember his name. When she turned eighteen, she bought her first hunting rifle; at nineteen she took her first and last deer. There was no satisfaction in the kill; in fact, she was profoundly saddened. She dressed out the animal and lived on venison for a year. She honored the animal before every meal. Never spiritual or religious, she read everything from science fiction to Sartre. When she turned twenty, she loaded up her small pickup, moved to California, found a small house on the east side of Sacramento, took a job as a waitress and went back to college, a small JC near her home. She majored in criminal law and history and audited classes in art and literature; she also joined the school’s Army ROTC program. They would help her pay for college and she was able to spend time at the pistol range. For the first time in her life, she knew she had a purpose, to learn to be a leader of men.

“Excuse me Lieutenant, I have a message for you,” a private said, handing O’Mara a folded piece of paper.

“From who?” O’Mara asked.

“A boy left it at the gate; it had your name in Arabic on the front. They removed the letter from the envelope to clear it.”

She unfolded the paper and looked at the signature at the bottom, Hakim al-Jamil. The note was in English.

My dearest Lieutenant,

Thank you for your efforts and those of your soldiers to try and find my granddaughters. I am very saddened to hear that one of your men died while trying to help. I am sure he is with his God; please pass on my condolences to his family.

I have received a ransom note from the kidnappers; they want 10,000 US dollars for the return of my grandchildren. We are a poor village, we have nothing and we cannot pay this. They will kill them, I am sure. This war has taken everything we once had and turned it to dust. They gave us one week to find the money, once again I ask for your help.

Hakim al-Jamil

O’Mara looked across the river toward the numerous minarets that punctuated the reddish grey skyline of one of the oldest cities in the world, a city where nothing is or was as it seemed, an open hand could not be trusted, a kiss on the cheek may be a lie and a grandfather’s love was most probably a tool for treachery.

She climbed back down the levee and headed toward her quarters, her pistol needed cleaning.