Landslide, page 3
Caroline, my ex-girlfriend of two years in London whom I’d just broken up with last week and whom I’d never deserved, hadn’t liked Hannah. She probably had good reason given how I was when it came to relationships, but that wasn’t an issue anymore, was it. What’s done is done.
“Not very surprising,” I offered, “but the firm can act with more certainty, now.”
“I agree,” she replied, crossing her arms. “So, discuss over lunch?”
I hesitated, admiring Hannah’s almost smile and intelligent eyes. She regularly invited me to lunch and on occasion to dinner. She had a decidedly attractive presence about her—shoulder-length auburn hair, blue eyes, medium lips, attractive body bordering on athletic, and a confidence in her about everything she said or did.
The offer for lunch was tempting; we knew each other well and it would be nice to chat now that Caroline and I were done. I almost said yes. I normally would have said yes.
“I wish I had time,” I replied, “but I really must attend to something. Can we do a fast thirty-minute review later this afternoon?”
Hannah’s face didn’t reveal a thing; neither did her voice. Her Prussian heritage wouldn’t allow it. She had no idea what was going on in my head, but she took my rejection in stride. She’s measured like that. “Of course. Four thirty, my office,” she said.
“I’ll be there.”
“Good.”
She closed the door to leave me in silence, though the interruption had been good. I no longer felt myself dropping into the darkness.
Gomez was dead, I repeated to myself. I watched him die, saw the doc zip up the body bag, heard the teeth clip together with a tic-tic-tic-tic, and watched two corpsmen carry him away to the idling mortuary affairs truck. Days later I’d stood at attention during the battlefield funeral; I can still picture the empty boots, upside-down rifle, and helmet resting on the buttstock. And six months later I visited Gomez’s grave at Arlington, the inscription on the headstone etched into my mind.
KEVIN J. GOMEZ
LT US MARINE CORPS IRAQ
JUL 17 1979 SEP 2 2004
Navy Cross Bronze Star Purple Heart
My friend is dead; it’s a fact.
This individual named Henry Delgado was exactly that—someone else entirely. Nature’s failure at variety. It was anyone but Gomez.
I shook my head once more and sat back down in the chair behind my desk. I had work to do, the German matter one thing among the fray. Opening up my email, I began triaging the urgent from the mundane, all thoughts of Gomez and Mr. Delgado receding.
I read a few messages from the team back in London, a couple from Ruttfield’s regional office in Tokyo, my travel facilitator in Bucharest inquiring about any future trips, a ministry official from Istanbul fishing for a bribe.
Then I spotted a subject line that read Past Debts 1 of 1, which struck me as odd. I didn’t recognize the sender’s address and was about to hit delete assuming it was spam, but the preview pane stopped me.
The weight that had been lifted moments ago suddenly fell back on my shoulders and the air left my lungs, making me light-headed. I double-clicked on the message and the words jumped off the screen. I saw nothing else.
Brother Hackett,
It’s been a long time, and no doubt you think I’ve crossed to the other side, but it’s me. If you’re getting this, it means something has gone wrong and I need your help. Remember that promise we made in the desert sitting on the berm? I’m calling it in—Landslide.
SF,
KG
P.S. Start with Doug.
CHAPTER THREE
RUTTFIELD’S OFFICES,
MAIN TOWER BUILDING, FRANKFURT
For how long I remained transfixed by the computer screen, I don’t know. Ten, fifteen minutes—time slipped away from me. I read the email over and over again, picking apart the words as if there should be a hidden meaning beyond their simplicity. It took the buzz of my desk intercom to snap me out of it, the office manager asking if I wanted lunch brought in.
“No, not right now,” I muttered.
I looked at the time stamp on the email and saw it hit my inbox at 11:52 this morning, after my meeting with the ministry but before getting back to the office. The address had the mark of a random account generated by Google, but the content of the message was anything but.
Only Gomez—or someone with whom Gomez had shared intimate details—could have written the email. Gomez was the only person who’d ever called me Brother Hackett, and only Gomez and I had been on that berm in the Kuwaiti desert. No one else knew what we’d promised each other that morning as we watched the sun come up to roast the desert sands.
A red warning light started flashing in the back of my mind. A dead man was speaking from beyond the grave, and the correlation with Henry Delgado blared painfully right beside it.
But unlike before where I’d been grossly unsettled because of a damned picture on the television, I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, focusing on a spot on the far wall, looking through it. Something real was happening, I thought, the coincidences too many.
I calmly reached into my briefcase and removed a narrow leather portfolio, placing it on the desk in front of me. It contained old-fashioned business cards, an antiquated thing, but suitable for those moments when people still shook hands and presented contact info with pretentious flare.
I flipped to the back of the portfolio where I stored the cards for those individuals I never intended to call but had known not to toss. I quickly found the one I was searching for with its white background, embossed black lettering, and gold seal in the upper left corner. I took out my mobile phone and dialed the number, bringing the handset to my ear.
After one ring the line came alive. “This is Doug.”
The voice hit my ears with a despised familiarity. “Doug Mitchell?” I asked.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Mason Hackett.”
“Mason? Mason Hackett? How are you, man? What’s it been, like two years?”
“Something like that. Barcelona,” I said.
“That’s right. You still in finance? What’s the name of the firm? Muttfield and … ?”
“Ruttfield and Leason.”
“Ah. That’s right. Sorry. How’s things? How’s business? I’m still waiting for my stock tip.”
The man’s insincerity grated on me, just as it had in Iraq, just as it had that day in the Pentagon, and just as it had during a random encounter at a restaurant in Barcelona two years ago. Doug was one of the few people in this world who irritated me so deeply, I could feel my blood pressure rise like a thermometer over a blue flame.
“Don’t hold your breath. I’m not calling to catch up. It’s something else.”
“Ha. Sounds ominous. What can I do for you?”
“You still telling folks you’re a diplomat?”
“I am a diplomat, Mason.”
“Yeah, sure. You back stateside or still in Paris?”
“Paris, obviously. This is my office line.”
I knew it was but wanted him to say it. In the fifteen years I’d known Doug, trust never characterized our interaction. But it made our relationship straightforward, believe it or not. If you know you can’t trust someone, you’re never caught off guard.
“Why?” asked Doug. “You eager for some inside scoop on the next G8 or something?”
“No.”
“Then what? I’ve got a meeting in ten and then I’m meeting my daughter for lunch, so either spit it out or call me back in a few hours. How’d you get this number, anyway?”
“You gave me your card, remember?”
“That’s right. Figured you would have burned it. So, come on. What’s up?”
“Have you seen the news today?”
“You’ll need to be more specific. I watch a lot of news.”
“Did you see the story about a journalist getting detained in Ukraine?”
“There’s been a few. Which one are you talking about?”
“It just happened today. The news is saying it’s a guy named Henry Delgado.”
“Yeah, I think I saw it. So?”
“They showed his picture.”
“Okay?”
“It looks exactly like Kevin Gomez,” I said, pronouncing each syllable of his name so it was unmistakable.
Doug didn’t respond, his pause breaking the back-and-forth of our conversation.
“Doug? You there?”
“Mason, Gomez died. Remember? You were there, so was I.”
“I know where I was, and I know he died. But I’m telling you, this guy Delgado looks just like him. Spitting image.”
“Okay, so what?”
“Why did you hesitate when I said the picture looked just like Gomez?” I asked.
“Because Gomez is dead and, to be frank, you sound off.”
“I can assure you I’m not.”
“Fine. What gives? You saw someone on TV who looks like Gomez,” Doug said with a huff. “I got a meeting, so come on.”
“Your meeting can wait. I’m not calling about what I saw on the TV.”
“Then spit it out, man. Goddamn. I should be the last person you’d call about that guy.”
“I got an email,” I said flatly, once again staring at the cryptic words on the screen coming from beyond the grave.
“An email?”
“Yeah, and it said to call you.”
“What? Why? What’d it say?”
“It said I should start with you.”
“Start with me? You’re sounding crazy, man. Who sent the email?”
I waited a second before responding, intentionally letting the air between us go dead so my response would hit Doug like a brick. “Gomez.”
There was another pause before Doug uttered, “Mason, Gomez is dead and—”
“I know he’s dead, but he wrote it. It landed in my inbox this morning, and he said start with Doug. You.”
“Mason, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t fuck with me,” I said steadily. “You’re a shitty liar, and don’t think for one second I believe you’re a trade rep or some other bullshit diplomat. I saw you in Iraq. Your crap didn’t fly then, it didn’t fly during that fucking inquisition after we got back, and it’s not flying now. Why am I getting an email from a dead man, and why does he say I should start with you?”
“That’s enough,” Doug snapped. “Where are you?”
“Frankfurt.”
“Frankfurt. Right. Then if you’re not an idiot, you know not to talk about this shit over the phone and definitely not on my work line.”
“I don’t care,” I replied. “You know something. I can hear it every time you stop to think about what to say next. Gomez? Delgado? What’s going on?”
“We’re done talking about this. As far as I know, Gomez is dead, and this email and this Delgado shit is nuts. You should see someone, Mason.”
“Don’t make any plans tonight. I’m getting on the next plane and will be in Paris in a few hours. Meet me at Le Bonaparte on Rue Guillaume Apollinaire. Six o’clock.”
“What?”
“You heard me. You don’t want to talk on the phone, fine. That’s the beauty of Europe. You’re never really that far away.”
“Mason, wait—”
I hung up, setting my mobile phone down next to the keyboard. I then picked up my desk line. “Hi, Marta … Please get me on the next flight to Paris … I believe it departs in a few hours … Thanks.”
I leaned back in my chair, lacing my fingers behind my head and stretching my neck and back. I felt a few pops, releasing the tension in my spine and shoulders. I then stood and looked out my window at the gray sky.
Doug knew something. I just needed to get it out of him.
CHAPTER FOUR
PARIS, FRANCE
The flight from Frankfurt to Paris took one hour and fifteen minutes. Without luggage, I expedited myself through immigration and customs like an entitled ass and grabbed a taxi.
I arrived at restaurant Le Bonaparte on Rue Guillaume Apollinaire just after six to find Doug waiting for me, sitting outside in a row of twenty other tables and chairs filled by the evening crowd. It was open-air, agreeable, and public, across from a pedestrian square with the pointy tower of Église de Saint Germain de Prés staring down at everything.
I surveyed the street once more before sitting down beside Doug, wondering how many eyes, cameras, spotter scopes, and directional microphones were on me. They were the tools nosy, scrutinizing, and intrusive people used—intelligence officers and surveillants—tearing open people’s lives like a can opener exposing the ragged edges. I hated being under a microscope. Hated it.
Doug had spy written all over him from the first moment I had the displeasure of meeting him fifteen years ago. CIA, DIA, NSA—it could have been any one of them. Given our exchange over the phone, the spooks were probably out in force right now, watching the crazy guy—me—who believes his friend has come back from the dead.
“How was the flight?” asked Doug, a pleasant smile on his face, as if martinis and oysters were coming right out. It’d been a few years, but he hadn’t aged all that much. He was a well-built black man approaching fifty, but it was hard to tell he was over forty. Maybe a line or two around the eyes, a strand of gray struggling like a weed in his closely trimmed hair, and a gray suit that was almost too tight.
“Fine,” I said, leaning back in my chair and assuming the necessary café pose, feeling the bamboo seatback cut into my shoulder blades.
“Glad to hear it. The afternoon Lufthansa flight?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve never taken that one. Whenever I need to go to Germany, it’s Berlin. But it’s comparable, I’m sure.” Doug slid a menu across the table. “You like wine? I recommend the Syrah, third one down on the right.”
“Water’s fine.”
The phony smile remained etched on Doug’s face. He signaled the waiter, ordered himself a scotch and soda and a Perrier for me.
“It’s good to see you, Mason.”
“Of course, and you,” I replied disingenuously. “But let’s skip the small talk.”
“Sure. All business. Still,” Doug went on, keeping his deportment pleasant, “always good to catch up. Especially with someone from the war.”
The war? Is that how it’s referred to now? The modern-day equivalent of saying, Back in Nam? Fuckin-A.
When our unit arrived in Ramadi, someone from on high assigned Doug to my platoon as an observer, whatever the hell that means. No one observes in war—you’re either in it or you’re not. Even if you’re an aid worker with a bleeding heart rather than a soulless one, you can’t simply observe. Bombs and bullets don’t ask whether you’re there to watch or participate—getting killed is equal opportunity for everyone.
With just three weeks on the ground, orders were issued from somewhere outside the battalion. My platoon went on an op that went sideways; lots of people died who shouldn’t have. Similar missions happened six more times during that deployment to the sandbox.
Then, when I got back to the States, battered and scarred, three suits with no names grilled me in the basement of the Pentagon. Doug was connected to all of it, including the final ripping, the entire razing giving off a deceptive stink. Doug was present the day Gomez died too.
Now the email.
Too many coincidences.
“We just got off the phone a few hours ago,” I said, meeting Doug’s eyes. “What’s going on?”
“With what?” he asked innocently.
“Quit the game. With Gomez. A dead man who apparently isn’t.”
Doug pressed his lips into a thin line, seeming to weigh how to respond. His eyes flitted about scrutinizing the surrounding company. Glasses of wine tipping back, small plates of cheese or sliced duck resting on tables, and charming laughter behind chic sunglasses. Paris in the fall.
“That’s right,” Doug remarked as if he suddenly remembered. “You think some reporter who got his ass detained in Ukraine looks like Gomez.”
“Yes, Henry Delgado. A Spaniard.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, man. Weird. But Gomez is dead. You saw him die. So did I.”
“Yeah, I know what I saw back then, and I know what I saw this morning.”
“Then what? You saw it with your own eyes, in person, back in that hellhole. Fucking Ramadi. Yet here you are, convinced it’s your buddy on TV, back from the grave. Never mind the name or nationality.” Doug cocked his head. “The war finally catching up with you? Guilt, PTSD?”
The waiter arrived with the drinks, setting them down indifferently along with a small, black plastic tray holding the bill. Rather than firing back at Doug, I took advantage of the interruption and picked up my glass of Perrier to take a sip. I then set it back down but did not remove my fingers from around the glass. I rotated it on the table in short counterclockwise movements—twist, twist, twist—letting the perspiration form a wet ring on the tablecloth. “You’re forgetting the email I received.”
“Right. The email.” Doug reached for his own drink and swirled it. “What’d it say, again?”
“It said to start with you.”
Doug laughed awkwardly, like a teenager trying to appear more in control than youth would allow. “Mason, you sure someone isn’t playing a joke on you, fucking with you? I mean, if it was Gomez but you think he’s actually Delgado, or is it that Delgado is Gomez? I’m confused, but whatever.” Doug shook his head to break free from his condescending logic. “The guy who’s been detained, how did he send the email if he was captured?”
I rotated my glass again, not smiling or frowning. It was a good question, a nice counterpoint, and one I’d already contemplated but hadn’t sussed out yet. But I would. Doug was acting too coy for there not to be an explanation.
“You’re CIA, right?” I said, redirecting. “All that crap about government observer, now a trade rep. You gave it away when you sat on the board digging into why the ops went wrong. No diplomat acts that way. It’s bullshit, right?”
Doug cringed at the mention of those three letters: C-I-A. His eyes once again bounced around the patrons sitting nearby—three young girls in jeans wearing floral and solid-color blouses, a young man in a navy suit with curly blond hair, two older gentlemen wearing jackets that were worn at the seams and elbows—looking for any sign they might have overheard those forbidden three letters.
