The Guardian (13 page)

She looked at him, and he could tell she was deciding whether or not to trust him. ‘Fine,’ she said at last. ‘He may have taken something from the last shipment he made for
Sirus.’

‘What did he take?’

‘He said it was an antique knife.’

Saunders considered that. It was possible that what Charlie stole could be the ‘Heart of Afghanistan’ referred to in the communiqué. If he could find it, it might unravel the
mystery of his informant’s murder. ‘Did he tell you where he stashed it?’

She shook her head.

He looked closely at her, and she stared back. ‘It’s important,’ he said. ‘Unless you have some idea where this Stillwell took your brother, we’re at a dead end. If
we can find whatever he stole, maybe we can use it to get your brother back.’

‘You think I don’t understand that?’ she spat at him. ‘He didn’t tell me where it was. All he said was that it wasn’t in the apartment. He said he would take
me to where it was to show it to me, but then Sirus showed up.’

‘He didn’t say anything else?’

‘No, he didn’t,’ she insisted. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. For the first time Saunders noticed without intention that she was attractive, and he thought about what
Ainsworth had said to him. ‘Wait, that’s not true,’ she said. ‘He said he put it in a safe place.’

‘A safe place,’ Saunders repeated. ‘Like a bank safe-deposit box?’

‘No, wait, that’s not exactly what he said,’ she said, frowning. ‘He didn’t say “a safe place”. He said “a place where we were always
safe”.’

‘And that’s different?’

She nodded.

‘Where were you always safe?’

She closed her eyes and frowned. After a moment, she said, ‘There’s only one place I can think of that makes any sense.’

Akhtar Hazara pulled up to Cianna Phelan’s building as the sun started to set on the backside of South Boston. He looked at his watch; international travel had thrown his
sense of time into confusion. It was just after four o’clock. He parked and sat back in the driver’s seat, staring at the door to the tiny apartment house, wondering what his next steps
should be.

He leaned forward and popped open the glove compartment. A Glock 9mm pistol was tucked under the registration, another gift from his contact at the bar. At least they understood the importance
of his being armed.

He sat back again and looked up at the window on the fourth floor.

Suddenly, the door to the apartment house opened and two people walked out. One was an attractive young woman in her late twenties. She was in disarray, and it looked as though she had a large
bruise on her face, but she fit the description he had of Charles Phelan’s sister. He opened the folder on the passenger seat, flipping through pictures until he came to the one he was
looking for. He held it on his lap, looking at the image of the girl in the photo. It was two years old, and the subject in the photo was in military fatigues and handcuffed, but there was no
question it was the same woman.

He looked up again. Her companion was a wiry, tense man with black hair and sharp features. Akhtar guessed he was in his late thirties, certainly too old to be Charles Phelan. He was talking on
a cell phone, and had his hand through the girl’s arm. He was pulling her along with some urgency. They walked across the street, and he led Cianna Phelan around to the passenger side of the
red car parked three in front of Akhtar’s. He opened the door and deposited her, then walked back around to the driver’s side, and got in. The engine came to life, and they pulled out
immediately.

Akhtar looked up at the apartment. If Charles Phelan was still there, he was likely alone, and this might be a perfect time to confront him. Something about the demeanor of the sister, though,
gave Akhtar the feeling that wasn’t the case. There was something in her eyes – fear and anger and desperation – that made him think something had already gone wrong.

He hesitated for only a moment before he turned the key and pulled out after the red car.

Charlie Phelan was on a chair in the basement of the little house in Cambridge. His hands and feet were bound, and a piece of duct tape covered his mouth. The blood clotting in
his nose made breathing difficult. It was cold and damp, but Charlie could still feel the sweat dripping down his face, soaking his body.

The basement had an unusual setup. Most of it was unfinished, and moisture stains covered the cement walls. One section, though, had a freshly painted length of drywall propped up against it. A
small area of the floor in front of the wall was covered with a run of thin, beige carpet, and two chairs sat facing each other across a knee-high table, like a cheap imitation of the old set for
the Dick Cavott Show. Several tin lights hung from the ceiling, aimed at the chairs, and a small camera was set upon a Walmart tripod underneath the lights. It was, Charlie realized, a makeshift
television studio. It was unclear, though, what kinds of programs were filmed there.

On the other side of the basement, closer to where Charlie was tied, a massage table stood against a wall with leather straps hanging off it at both ends. There were dark stains running down the
side of the table, and on the cement underneath.

Sirus Stillwell had brought Charlie down to the basement as soon as they exited the car. It took a few moments for him to make certain that Charlie was tied tight enough that he couldn’t
escape, and then he had disappeared up the stairs. Charlie could hear him pacing the floor above him, and heard his voice in the muffled half of a telephone conversation.

A few moments later, Sirus came back down. He was still limping slightly, and he winced as he took off his jacket. Charlie could see the large bloodstain on the man’s shirt at the shoulder
where he’d been shot. He put his gun down on the massage table and opened a drawer in an ancient wooden cabinet built into the wall. Charlie couldn’t see exactly what he took out, but
he caught the flash of metal, and he felt his stomach lurch toward his throat. Finally, Sirus turned to Charlie.

‘We don’t have much time, Charlie,’ he said. ‘I know you took it. We both know you did. Others know it, too. Some of them are on the way here. If you tell me where it is,
I may be able to save you, do you understand? If not, there is nothing anyone will be able to do. If the others get here, and I can’t tell them that you’ve agreed to cooperate,
it’s over for you. You’ll tell them what they want to know eventually, trust me, but you’ll suffer very badly first.’

He walked over to Charlie, crouched in front of him, so that he was looking into his eyes. Stillwell’s eyes were ice blue, almost clear. They cut through Charlie for a moment.
‘I’ve known you for, what, almost three years, Charlie?’

Charlie nodded.

‘You’re not someone who is prepared to suffer,’ he said. ‘Not the way you’re going to be made to suffer. I’m going to take off the tape now, and you are going
to tell me where it is.’ He reached up and tugged at the corner of the duct tape to get a good hold. Then he ripped it off in one clean, quick motion that took several layers of skin off and
left Charlie gasping in pain. ‘Where is it?’ Sirus said after a moment.

It was true that Charlie had known Sirus for three years, but he’d heard of him long before that. Sirus was a legend in military circles in the Middle Eastern theater. His brutality in
battle, and his unforgiving nature with respect to those in the allied military forces who crossed him, were legend. Even the illegal activities with which Charlie had helped him were generally
regarded as an open secret. The military police were never called in to investigate him. It was as though the command structure was afraid of this man. He had become untouchable. And as Charlie sat
tied to the chair, looking back at him, he knew that Sirus Stillwell had no intention of sparing his life if Charlie agreed to talk. It wasn’t Sirus’s way, and Charlie knew it. He
tightened his gut, and tried to brace himself for what was to come.

‘I don’t know what you’re looking for, Sirus,’ he said. He tried to sound as scared and honest as he could. He was sure he’d accomplished the scared part, at
least.

Sirus nodded, a frown on his face. ‘Okay,’ he said. He stood up and turned for a moment, and then spun back with force and speed, and his enormous left fist hammered Charlie in the
side of his face. Charlie could feel the blood flow from just below his eye, and he was sure that his cheekbone was broken. The pain was more intense than anything he’d ever felt, and he
screamed out in agony. Rather than inspiring pity, though, his scream seemed only to inflame Sirus, and he followed his first blow with several more to the exact same spot. Charlie could feel
several of his teeth come free in his mouth, and it felt as though the entire left side of his face was sliding off his skull. It was remarkable that Sirus could hit him as hard as he did even with
a bullet wound in his shoulder. It was an effective reminder to Charlie of the kind of man Sirus was.

Sirus leaned down close to him again. ‘I’m serious about what I said, Charlie,’ he said. ‘We don’t have much time. Tell me what you know.’

Charlie spat blood and shards of teeth. He was crying, and every movement was its own separate eternal agony. He had to hold to his story, though. It was the only chance he had to survive.
‘I don’t know anything,’ he garbled. ‘I swear to God.’

Sirus hit him again, this time on the other side of his face and not quite so hard. It was odd, but it felt like a kindness compared to the prior blows. ‘You stupid little shit!’
Sirus yelled. He sounded more exasperated than angry now.

‘I don’t know—’

Sirus cut him off. He squatted down in front of Charlie again and grabbed the front of his shirt. ‘You need to tell me where it is, do you understand?’ Charlie frowned through the
pain and shook his head. ‘There’s a civil war coming in Afghanistan, and our country doesn’t give a shit. Those of us still over there need to place our bets, do you understand?
I’m not coming home. I’ve invested too much to walk away. I’m staying there, and that means I need the right people to take charge. It’s the only chance I have. It’s
the only chance we all have.’

Charlie stared blankly back at the man in front of him. Sirus’s eyes had grown wide and crazed, and what he was saying made no sense. It was gibberish.

‘Do you love your country, Charlie? Do you respect those of us who have bled over there?’

Charlie nodded. There seemed really only one answer.

‘Then you need to tell me, now!’

Charlie heard the door open upstairs, and there were footsteps on the floor above them. He could hear them moving toward the top of the stairs that led down to the basement, two or three sets of
footsteps moving with direction but without haste.

‘They’re here!’ Sirus hissed. ‘Now! Do you understand? You need to tell me now!’

The footsteps were coming closer. They were at the top of the stairs, and beginning their descent.

Charlie choked out, ‘I don’t know anything.’

Charlie could see the shadows as they crossed from the staircase to the cement floor, and the legs of the newcomers were visible for a moment. Then Sirus hit him again on the side of the face
that was most badly injured, and the howling pain began again. Sirus hit him repeatedly. Three, four, five times in a few seconds, and the agony was so complete that Charlie’s vision
blurred.

The violence stopped, and with his eyes closed Charlie could feel Sirus step away from him. He heard him talking, and his voice sounded distant.

‘He hasn’t told me anything yet,’ Sirus said.

‘Are you sure he knows?’ The voice sounded kind, almost feminine. It had a light accent that reminded Charlie of his time in the Middle East.

‘He knows,’ Sirus said, his voice cruel and harsh in contrast.

‘And yet he hasn’t talked?’

‘No.’

Charlie felt someone touch his chin. The hand was soft, and it raised his head up. Charlie opened his eyes and looked into the warmest face he could remember. The man appeared young, and he had
a quiet, singular confidence about him that comes only from surety of purpose. A dark brown birthmark in the shape of a teardrop adorned his right cheek under the eye, which made the face appear
even more compassionate. He seemed almost to glow, and for just a moment, Charlie felt hope grow in his chest.

Then the man spoke.

‘You haven’t been persuasive enough,’ he said to Sirus. ‘Perhaps I can do better.’

‘Where to?’

Cianna Phelan barely heard the question. She was staring out the passenger window, her mind given over to the fear of what might happen to her brother.

‘Where to?’ Saunders asked again.

She heard him this time, and replied, ‘The waterfront.’

He turned his eyes back to the street.

She gave him a sidelong glance. He had an unremarkable appearance that would never be noticed or recalled if passed on the street, or caught out of the corner of an eye at a bar or on a plane.
And yet when she focused on his face, she could see a gripping strength. It was in his eyes, and in the set of his mouth – hard and evaluating, intelligent and uncompromising.

‘You want to tell me where we’re going?’ he asked.

‘A bar,’ she replied.

‘Are you thirsty, or just a boozer?’

‘Fuck you,’ she said. ‘We need to get to Spudgie’s, down by the water, near the projects. Just drive.’

He leaned forward and tapped the name of the bar into the GPS. A series of options came up on the screen, and he chose the one identified as a bar in South Boston. ‘East Ninth
Street?’

‘That’s the one.’ Cianna Phelan looked back out of the passenger window.

‘It would be helpful if I knew what was at this place.’

‘It’s just a bar.’

‘Then why are we going there?’

She took a deep breath. ‘Because it’s where we were safe growing up.’

Charlie Phelan no longer felt connected to his body. He was floating above the room, looking down at the awful scene as it flickered inexorably along. At one point, when the
pain became too much, he even believed that he’d died and he was no longer suffering. At just that moment, though, he saw the man with the teardrop shaped birthmark reach into a bag and pull
out a needle. He measured an amount of liquid from a vial, and stuck the needle into Charlie’s arm. Charlie felt himself pulled toward his body. He desperately struggled to stay floating
above, away from his body, flailing his phantom arms and legs in an effort to get away as something forced him down, back into the corporeal wreckage.