Home for a Soldier (15 page)

 
Got here in one piece, but let me tell you this, if these clowns ever want me to
fly coach again, I’m going to tell them where to stick it. I’m too big to fit in
one of those seats, and that’s a fact.

 
We are staying in a private house in Baghdad. Sorry, can’t say exactly where, my
boss is nuts about secrecy. He has a pet phrase he bellows out when someone
talks carelessly.
Secrecy
Equals Security
. He is British, ex-Special Forces. One of those Public School
types (in
England
Public School means private education, just to confuse you). Stiff upper lip,
plays polo, father is probably an Earl or Viscount or something. We call him
Goldilocks, because of his blond hair. Drives him crazy.

 
Whoops, got to go, Goldilocks is calling. I haven’t been allocated a client yet,
but when I do, I expect I won’t be allowed to tell you much anyway.

 
Hope you are doing okay.
Rory

 
From: Grace Clements

 
Dear Rory (I’m allowed to say that because I’m your wife – in fact there is
probably a legal obligation for me to call you “Dear Rory”).

 
The heating is much better now. I’ve been snooping in the desk and the bookcases
in the living room. Yesterday, I found a picture of you as a teenager. It was
tucked between the pages of a book. You are dressed in a navy blue jacket with a
crest on the breast pocket and holding up a trophy, so I guess you must have
been good at some sport, although probably not polo.

 
I’m now fully moved out of the house in Jersey City. I’ve never lived in
Manhattan before. I love walking around and getting to know my way. I haven’t
spoken to any neighbors yet. Mostly they seem old, and they all give me curious
looks when they pass me in the stairwell. I’m not much for socializing, so I
plan to keep to myself, unless someone corners me and leaves me with no choice.

 
Love from Grace

 
From: Rory Sullivan

 
That trophy was probably
tennis, although I also did track and field. I was pretty mediocre, not terribly
interested in sport, except for boxing for a few years. I don’t really think
much of those days. I guess I never told you that I went to a boarding school.
It seems ten lifetimes ago now.

 
I’ve been assigned to protect a civil engineer who goes out of town to do
surveys for road building projects. He is German, but his English is excellent,
so there’s no language problem. This guy is the coolest dude I’ve ever seen. We
were caught in sniper fire the other day, but he kept taking his soil samples,
refusing to get in the car until he was done. I yelled at him like a madman. I
was just about to knock him unconscious and haul him into the vehicle when he
agreed to leave. Son of a bitch. I tried to make him understand that it was my
job to protect him, and if he got killed, it would be my ass on the line. He
didn’t seem all that concerned about making my task harder.

 
I’m afraid I have a bit of a situation with your picture. I printed out the one
of you lying on my bed wearing your black things. I wanted to be able to look at
it without powering up my laptop. I was going to fold up the picture and carry
it in my pocket, but I was in a hurry this morning and left it on my nightstand
when I went out.

 
My room is the size of a broom closet, but I don’t really mind. We’re short on
housing, and in the bigger rooms, you have to share. For security, we need to
leave the doors open when we’re out, and some asshole sneaked in and stole your
picture. I rattled a few heads, and discovered that since skin magazines are
impossible to find in a Muslim country, there’s a black market in pictures of
scantily clad women.

 
So, I’m really sorry, but it seems I’ve made you into a sex object. The guys I
work with had all looked at the picture before it disappeared, and they were
arguing what that thing you wore is called. Goldilocks says it’s a basque, but
one of the other guys says it’s a corset.

 
I wanted to throttle them all.

 
Rory

 
From: Grace Clements

 
Dear Rory,

 
Please promise you won’t print out any more pictures of me!!! God only knows
where they’ll end up. It’s my own fault, wearing that thing, and asking you to
take my photograph. I should have known better.

 
There’s good news (and a miracle of miracles, no bad news at all, at least not
today). I have a job interview!!! It’s with an investment firm on Wall Street.
They called me on my cell, completely out of the blue, and said they have a
vacancy that I might be suitable for. It’s not through an agency, it’s a
personal recommendation. Someone gave them my name and number. Isn’t that
wonderful? I’m going to ask who it was when I go in tomorrow. The secretary who
called to make the appointment didn’t know.

 
Must go now, I’m studying for the interview.

 
Love from Grace

 
From: Rory Sullivan

 
What did they say when you
asked who recommended you?

From: Grace Clements

 
Dear Rory,

 
The man who interviewed me didn’t recall. With the recession, when he put out
the word that he needs someone, he got so many recommendations he can’t remember
where they all came from. Anyway, I have another interview on Friday. Wish me
luck!!!

 
Love from Grace.

 
PS. And old lady called Mrs. Carmichael waylaid me in the stairwell last night.
She demanded to know who I was, and what I was doing here. I told her I’m your
wife, and I live here. I hope that was all right. Let me know if I should
instead apply the Goldilocks Principle of Secrecy.

 
From: Rory Sullivan

 
Your picture has been
laminated and pinned on an armored vehicle. The British guys did it. They name
their armored cars after women. Someone has painted your name in black letters
next to the picture. You are in good company, as they also have Sharon Stone,
Britney Spears, Nicole Kidman, and some European girls I’ve never heard of.

 
Got to go. Goldilocks is doing an extra briefing tonight. We’ve got two more
contracts, so lots of new clients.

 
Good luck with the interview.
Rory

From: Grace Clements

 
How big letters??? (My name
on the armored vehicle).

 
From: Rory Sullivan

 
Not very big. About three
inches tall. I’ve asked someone to email me a picture.

 
From: Grace Clements

 
Dear Rory,

 
I got the job!!! And you helped me. At the end, when we had finished all the
technical questions and the usual stuff about motivation, the interviewer said,
this is totally off the record, but in investment firms, there can be
chauvinistic attitudes. The company doesn’t condone inappropriate behavior, and
is determined to ensure equal opportunities, but how would I react if someone
tried to sexually harass me.

 
First, I was going to say that I’d report them to HR, but I realized that’s not
what the guy wanted to hear. He doesn’t want a whistleblower, but someone who
can look after herself. So, I looked him dead in the eye and said, if anyone
tried to feel me up, I’d grab them by the front of their shirt and say, ‘You try
that again, and I’ll tie your dick into such a tight knot you’ll never piss
straight again.’ I remembered you saying that to Joe when he tried to kiss me at
our wedding.

 
The interviewer smiled and said, ‘Congratulations, Miss Clements, I’m sure
you’ll fit in at Mayfield Investments.’ I start in the beginning of March.

 
Love from Grace.

 
From: Rory Sullivan

 
Miss Clements? Why not Mrs.
Sullivan?

 
From: Grace Clements

 
To put it in Goldilocks
terms, Miss Clements equals practicality, identity, and the appropriate lack of
permanency.

 
PS. These new clients, what are they like? Specifically, have you ever been
assigned to protect a female?

 
From: Rory Sullivan

 
No female clients. Jealous?

 
From: Grace Clements

 
No need to be, since you
don’t have female clients.

 
From: Rory Sullivan

 
In the next couple of
months, I’ll be doing some long trips into the country, and I’m not sure email
will work out in the sticks. Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me as often as
before.

 
Good luck with the new job.

 
Rory

 
From: Grace Clements

 
Dear Rory,

 
The new job is great. I was worried to start with, since it’s investment rather
than insurance, but the risk analysis is similar, and my mathematical modeling
skills are well suited for the role.

 
The people in the office are nice. It’s a small team, only twenty people. My
boss is Stuart Ashton. He is quite young, around thirty-five, and has small
children. He likes to leave early, but he logs on again from home after he has
put the kids to bed.

 
I can walk to the office. When the weather is foul, I take a cab, but in the
summer, I intend to walk and pick up groceries on the way home.

 
I’ve been thinking about the family allowance your company pays. Now that I have
a job, it doesn’t seem fair to take it. I’m already getting a rent-free
apartment, and that should be enough. So, I’m not going to take the money. When
you get home, I’ll arrange to transfer it back into your bank account.

 
Take care, keep safe.

 
Love from Grace.

 
From: Grace Clements

 
Dear Rory,

 
I guess you’re traveling, since I haven’t heard from you this week. I hope all
is well. I’m doing fine. The days are getting longer and the winter is almost
over. I’m working hard, but enjoying it. I got my first paycheck on Friday, and
spent the money on new clothes.

 
Love from Grace.

 
From: Grace Clements

 
Dear Rory,

 
Please write and let me know that you are all right!!!

The days grew mild with the arrival
of spring, and the sweet scent of blossoming trees filled the air when Grace
walked past the tiny stretch of park on her way to the offices of Mayfield
Investments on Wall Street. She worked hard, made an effort to socialize with
her colleagues, and stopped to chatter with her neighbors when she met them in
the stairwell.

A framed photograph of Rory stood on
her desk, and every day she found an excuse to mention his name.

My husband.

Even though his emails had ceased,
Rory was hers for another year and nine months. No one could take that away from
her. Until he came back, it didn’t matter that their union existed only on a
piece of paper and in her imagination. Grace sheltered in her cloud of
happiness, wearing her marriage like a magic cloak, determined not to think of
the day when she would have to give up her illusions.

“Grace Clements,” she said into the
telephone that rang on her desk.

“It that Mrs. Grace Sullivan?”

Her heart sank as she recognized the
formal tone people often used to deliver bad news. “Yes,” she said. “I’m married
to Rory Sullivan.”

“This is Constance Pritchard from
Colossus Security. I’m very sorry to contact you by telephone rather than in
person. I’m based in Chicago, and there’s no one suitable in our New York office
to brief you.”

“Yes.” Grace tried to ignore the
heavy weight of dread that settled on her chest.

“I’m very sorry to inform you that
your husband has been involved in an incident.”

Grace froze. Her mind emptied of all
thoughts. She focused on a fly crawling up the windowpane. The view outside
vanished and instead a series of jumbled images flashed before her eyes, like a
chaotic battlefield documentary. Rory, her beautiful hero, his body torn and
twisted, covered in blood, lying on the gravel ground, others stepping over him
in their haste to escape. For a moment if felt so real, she could almost hear
the roar of gunfire and smell the acrid smoke.

“Please, don’t be alarmed,” the woman
rushed to reassure her. “Rory is going to be all right. He caught shrapnel in
his chest from a bomb filled with nails. His condition is stable. He was
standing next to the person who triggered the booby trap. The device was hidden
in a crate of equipment and went off when the lid was opened.”