The Guardian (15 page)

‘There’s not much we can find. Phelan’s from the same neighborhood, and from what we can tell his sister used to hang out at Spudgie’s.’ Sirus had taken off his
shirt, and was cleaning the wound in his shoulder as he stood in front of the sink. The shoulder was stiffening, and he cursed quietly under his breath.

‘Are you going to tell me how you were injured?’ Fasil asked. They had been in the basement since Fasil’s arrival and had not had a chance to discuss what had happened at
Cianna Phelan’s apartment.

Sirus hesitated. ‘There was some trouble at the girl’s apartment,’ he said hesitantly.

‘I have found that gunshot wounds are rarely suffered without trouble.’

‘The police may be involved now. There was a guy who showed up at the girl’s apartment claiming to be a cop when I took Charlie. We traded shots. She’s probably talking to them
right now.’

Fasil turned on Sirus, staring hard into his eyes. ‘Tell me about this man,’ he said slowly. ‘Tell me what he said and what he did.’ He listened as Sirus relayed the
information, his eyes never leaving Sirus’s. When Sirus was done, he said, ‘He is not the police.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because a police officer would have neither the skill nor the presence of mind to shoot your gun out of your hand. If this man was the police, he would have shot you in the chest as soon
as you pointed your gun at him. There would have been no hesitation. Police are trained to look after their own safety first in such a situation. This man was able to wound you as you sped away
from him in a car.’

‘That might have been a lucky shot.’

Fasil shook his head. ‘This was not luck. This man you dealt with had special training, and he was trying to keep you alive so that he could gather information from you.’

Sirus frowned. ‘If he’s not a cop, then who is he?’

‘That,’ Fasil said, ‘is the interesting question, no?’

One of Fasil’s men came up from the basement, walked over to the sink and began washing the blood off his hands.

‘Is he alive?’ Fasil asked.

The man at the sink nodded. ‘I stopped the bleeding, and have given him some additional painkillers and a sedative. He should sleep. We will see if he wakes.’

‘It would be good to keep him alive,’ Fasil said. ‘He may be of more use in the future.’

‘I will do my best. There is much damage.’

Fasil addressed Stillwell again. ‘You were telling me of the tavern owner.’

‘Like I said, he’s a neighborhood guy. We don’t think he’s involved in anything illicit, but he definitely hangs out with that crowd. He could move this thing if he
wanted to.’

Fasil held up the blade he had used to cut off Charles Phelan’s hand, examining it to make sure it was clean. ‘We will have to convince him that he should not want to move it, then,
won’t we?’

Cianna Phelan paused at the door to Spudgie’s Bar and Grill. Her heart was beating so fast and hard it was all she could hear. She’d been back in Southie for more
than three months, but this was the one place she had taken pains to avoid. Nick was the only person through her tumultuous childhood who had actually cared for her and her brother. He had been the
one person she could rely on, and she had let him down. He had been opposed to her going into the military – it was no place for someone as smart as she was, he’d said. She would never
be able to conform enough to avoid trouble, he’d predicted. He’d been right about that, and the only time she felt real shame about all she had done was when she thought of facing him.
Given how her military career had turned out, he would have every right to throw her out, pretend as though he didn’t know her anymore. That possibility struck more fear into her heart than
anything she could imagine. It was why she had not returned before now.

He was behind the bar, as always. The hair was a bit greyer, perhaps, and there was a little more fatigue around the eyes, but other than that he looked the same as he had when he’d
toasted her deployment with more concern than joy. ‘Be careful, and take care of yourself,’ he’d said. She was never very good at taking advice.

‘Is this the place?’ Saunders asked. He was standing behind her, and she was blocking the door as she hesitated at the threshold.

‘Yeah,’ she said.

‘There a problem?’

‘There are lots of problems.’ She took a step and entered the pub, walking slowly but steadily toward the bar. She realized at that moment she had never been this scared.

Nick O’Callaghan was pouring a drink for a customer, his eyes down, when she reached the bar. ‘Can I get you something?’ he asked without looking up.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Maybe.’

She could tell that he recognized the voice; his head snapped up, and he took a long look at her. The silence between them was suffocating. ‘It’s been a long time,’ he said
finally. More silence. ‘I heard you were back in town, but I haven’t heard from you.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, I was . . .’ The words caught in her mouth. ‘I was . . .’ The collective weight of two and a half years of misery
suddenly seemed to come crashing down upon her. She couldn’t move, and her arms felt like bags of wet sand hanging from tired shoulders. ‘I’m sorry.’

He was still looking at her, his expression inscrutable. He put the drink he was pouring down on the bar slowly. Without a word, he turned and walked in the other direction.

Cianna stood there, watching as he walked away. She felt a single tear running down her stone cheek, and she brushed it away. He had every right to walk away, and it was her responsibility to
honor that decision if necessary. When he reached the far end of the bar, he lifted the service top and came out from behind the well. He walked around the outside of the bar, came over and stood
in front of her. She scrutinized his face, desperate for some clue as to what he was thinking.

He was looking at the deep bruise on her cheek, frowning. ‘You always were a brawler,’ he said quietly. ‘Some things never change.’

‘I’ve changed,’ she said. She fought back more tears, and wondered whether it was true. ‘I’ve changed,’ she said again, as though repetition was the same
thing as truth.

After a moment, he opened his arms. ‘Welcome back,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ve been missed.’

She fell against him, letting him take the weight of her troubles as he wrapped his arms around her. She had forgotten how solid and strong he was, how steady and sure he felt. A light sob
escaped her lips, and she tried to take it all back. ‘I’m so sorry,’ was all she could say.

‘No need for it here,’ he said. ‘This is your home.’

Akhtar Hazara sat in the car, parked across the street from Spudgie’s Bar and Grill. The windows were small and dark, and he could not see inside. He was beginning to
regret his decision to follow Phelan’s sister and her companion. For all he knew, they were just out for a night on the town. Something about it didn’t seem right, though. They
didn’t seem like a couple. He’d lived in the US for long enough to see how American couples behaved with each other in public. Unless married, they touched each other almost
compulsively, giving all those around them an unseemly insight into the intimacy they shared in private. It was, in his view, overcompensation for the shallow spiritual bond western couples
shared.

Phelan’s sister and her companion did not behave that way, though. Both as they walked from her apartment to the car, and again when they walked from the car to the tavern, he had held her
arm almost as though he was afraid that she might escape his grasp. Inside the car they had barely looked at each other. There was a sense of tension that still convinced him that he had been right
to follow them.

Darkness had fallen since they had gone into the bar, and a chilly day had given way to a frigid night. Akhtar was used to the desert cold of Afghanistan, where, during the winters in the
mountains and on the desert plains, the cold wind carried with it the wrath of Allah. And yet there was something about the cold of New England that sunk deeper within him. It was a damp cold that
saturated his soul, and made him long for the desert.

He looked at his watch. It had been a half-hour since they had gone in to the bar. He would give them another half-hour, and then he would make a move, one way or another.

Nick hugged her for several moments. He could feel her body fighting to retain its composure; to keep everything that was trapped inside from leaking out in some maudlin,
self-pitying explication. He understood. It was their way; the way of the streets. When he let her go, he said, ‘I heard you’ve been working with Milo Pratt.’

She nodded. ‘It’s all I could find.’

He patted her on the shoulder as he glanced warily at Saunders, who was standing a few feet away. ‘He does good work. He kept Smitty’s son from going back in. Kept him straight
through a bad patch. It’s good work.’

‘You seem to be the only one who thinks so. No one else would hire me. Not after . . .’

He shook his head. ‘No need for explanations. The other shit is in the past; you just focus on the future.’

‘Thanks. I need you to know the truth, though. Things back in Afghanistan weren’t what they seemed. It didn’t go down the way people said it did.’

‘I never believed it did.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ was all he said. He’d ask once, and never again.

She shook her head. ‘Maybe someday,’ she said. ‘But there’s no time now. Charlie’s in trouble.’

Nick glanced again at Saunders but didn’t ask to be introduced. ‘What kind of trouble?’

‘Bad trouble. He crossed a guy he knew in Afghanistan – a very dangerous guy from the looks of it. He came to my apartment and kidnapped Charlie. He had a gun, and when I tried to
stop him, he tried to kill me.’ She waved at the bruise on her face. ‘That’s how I got this.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah. I was a little shaken up, but I’m fine. I think Charlie stole something from this guy. Did he come here?’

Nick nodded. ‘Two days ago.’

‘Did he leave anything with you?’

‘Yeah. He . . . uh . . .’ Nick looked suspiciously at Saunders, and finally asked, ‘Who’s this?’

‘His name is Saunders,’ Cianna said. ‘He’s with—’

‘Homeland Security,’ Saunders interjected.

Nick examined him. ‘CIA?’

Saunders didn’t respond.

‘He saved my life, Nick. If it wasn’t for him, they’d be doing the autopsy on me right now. He’s not interested in arresting Charlie, he just needs to know what’s
going on. And I need his help to find Charlie.’

Nick was still suspicious. ‘What were you doing at Cianna’s apartment?’ he asked Saunders.

‘Charlie’s name came up in a message we intercepted that was being passed along a terrorist network. The message got one of my informants killed. It piqued my interest.’

‘But you’re not going to arrest him when this is over?’ Nick had trouble believing it. He had never been on the wrong side of the law, but he’d never trusted the law,
either. To him, the cops so often seemed like just another faction – another gang, only with the force of law behind them, which often made them all the more dangerous. He knew plenty of good
cops, but he’d seen plenty of evil perpetrated in the name of justice.

‘If he’s not involved in any terrorist activities, he’s not my concern,’ Saunders said. ‘I can’t make any commitments on behalf of domestic law
enforcement.’

At least he wasn’t promising more than he could deliver, Nick thought. That increased his credibility.

‘Charlie’s got bigger problems right now than the cops, Nick,’ Cianna said. ‘The guy he was involved with was crazed when he showed up at my apartment. I don’t know
what’s going on, but we’ve got to get my brother away from him. If you have what Charlie stole, that may give us a bargaining chip.’

Nick nodded.

‘Do you still have it?’

‘It’s up in my office. Give me a minute.’ He walked out from behind the bar. The only customers left in the place were the slum-divers, still sitting in the window seats to
which Nick had directed them. He went over to them.

‘Sorry about this, folks,’ he said, ‘but I have to close up for the night.’

They looked up at him with hurt and surprise. The boyfriend looked at his watch. ‘It’s seven o’clock.’

‘I know,’ Nick said. ‘Something has come up of a personal nature. I have to ask you to leave. Your last round is on the house.’

The couple stared for a moment. The girl said, ‘We should go.’ Her boyfriend shrugged and tossed a ten-dollar bill on the table as a tip.

Once they were gone, Nick locked the door, and flipped the sign facing outward so that it read
Closed
. He walked back to where Cianna and Saunders were standing at the bar.

‘You said it was upstairs?’ Cianna asked.

‘I did. Do you want to see it?’ he asked.

Saunders and Cianna both nodded.

‘Follow me.’

Charlie Phelan’s eyes fluttered. He sensed movement in the room, but couldn’t focus. The place smelled wet and heavy with a peaty fragrance that made his stomach
turn. For a blissful moment he was disoriented enough that he couldn’t remember where he was. Then it all came rushing back to him with such force he found it impossible to breathe.

He turned his head enough to glance down at the end of his wrist and saw the bandages, soaked through in red. His severed hand had been removed from his chest, at least. It was a small
mercy.

‘Oh, God,’ he moaned. He could feel the tears flowing down the sides of his broken face.

He sensed the movement again. ‘Who’s there?’ he asked quietly. There was no answer. ‘Please, can I have water? I’m so thirsty.’

A voice came from across the room, plain and rough. At first Charlie thought the voice was speaking to him, but it was in a language he recognized but didn’t understand. Then he heard
another voice, this one softer, responding. Charlie turned and looked over, but all he could make out were shapes. Then one of those shapes moved over toward him, coming into focus.

Charlie recognized the man as one of those who had watched his torture. He was short and stocky, and wore a stethoscope around his neck. His eyes were dark and heavily lidded, and there was no
sympathy or compassion in them as he bent down to examine Charlie, pulling open his eyelids, shining a light into his pupils, all the while muttering in Farsi. He put on his stethoscope and
listened to Charlie’s chest.