The Guardian (16 page)

‘Please . . .’ Charlie said again. ‘Water . . .?’

After a moment, the man looked over toward the other side of the room and nodded. The softer voice said something, and the doctor reached over and poured a cup of water, lowered it to
Charlie’s mouth.

Charlie was sickened by the overwhelming sense of gratitude he felt for the drink. He lapped and slurped and coughed as the water spilled down around his neck.

‘Not so fast,’ the man with the stethoscope said in an accent so heavy it was difficult to understand. He pulled the water away.

‘Why?’ Charlie asked.

‘You will choke.’

‘No,’ Charlie said, shaking his head. He looked down again at the spot where his hands had once been, then back up at the doctor, his eyes pleading for an answer. ‘Why are you
doing this to me? You are a doctor.’

The man’s face hardened even more. ‘It is necessary to save my country,’ he said. ‘A great war is coming, and you are an infidel. You would do the same.’

Saunders followed Cianna and Nick as they headed for the narrow staircase at the back of the bar. The boards groaned under their weight. He looked around for another exit from
the second floor, but this was clearly the only way up. It made him tense. He had no reason to distrust the tavern owner, but any space with only one way in or out always felt like a trap to
Saunders. He kept his hand on the gun in his pocket.

‘You should know there are others interested in it,’ Nick said as he continued up the stairs.

‘Others?’ Saunders said.

‘One, at least. Miles Gruden was here earlier. He said he had a deal with Charlie to buy it, but Charlie didn’t show. He thinks Charlie got a better offer.’

‘Shit,’ Cianna muttered.

‘Who is Miles Gruden?’ Saunders asked.

‘Local scumbag,’ Nick said. ‘Thinks of himself as the heir to the Winter Hill Gang’s old business. He hasn’t figured out yet that he doesn’t have the same
muscle. Without muscle, no one in this neighborhood gives a shit about you. Still, he scares enough people to keep himself in business, and he can be vicious when he feels like he’s backed
into a corner.’

The upstairs housed a small office tucked into a low attic with two dormers. There was a desk and a computer, and two chairs that were losing their upholstery. Books lined the walls of the
place, and at first Saunders thought there were built-in shelves. Upon closer examination, though, he realized that the books were just so numerous and neatly stacked that they gave the impression
of being supported by shelves. There had to be hundreds, possibly thousands of them, with titles from every genre ranging from political history and warfare to existential fiction.

‘I like to read,’ Nick said. It sounded like an apology.

He went to the desk and bent down, reaching behind a steel cabinet pushed up against the wall. Standing up, he pulled out something wrapped in a solid length of plain, rough homespun cloth. It
was long and thin, and it made a solid noise as Nick laid it down on the desk. Nick stepped back. ‘Take a look, if you like,’ he said.

Saunders stepped forward and unfolded the heavy cloth. Inside was an ornate dagger around a foot and a half long. He bent down to examine it closely. The handle was fashioned from gold, and
decorated with elaborate renderings of animals, both real and fantastic, devouring each other. Turquoise and jade stones adorned the center in the shape of hearts. The edges were festooned with
diamonds. The blade was rusted iron, though it still looked as though it could cause damage.

Cianna looked over his shoulder. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know, exactly,’ Nick said. ‘Charlie didn’t really seem to, either. It’s clearly very old, but that’s about all I can tell.’

‘Do you know anything about it?’ Cianna asked Saunders.

His face was inches from the handle, and he was squinting to focus on the details. He nodded. ‘A little, maybe.’ He looked at Nick. ‘Do you have a magnifying glass?’

‘In the drawer,’ Nick replied.

Saunders slid the desk drawer open and pulled out an old magnifying glass. He held it up to the handle, and began his examination over again. Once he had examined the entire handle, he looked
closely at the blade.

‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘What is it? Is it old?’

He nodded again. ‘More than two thousand years old, most likely.’

‘Jesus,’ Nick muttered.

‘Older than Jesus, actually,’ Saunders corrected him. ‘From the carvings, it looks like it’s from the first century, BC,’ Saunders said.

‘That’s old,’ Cianna said flatly. ‘Is it worth a lot?’

Saunders looked closer, holding it up to the light, grasping it with the cloth it was wrapped in to keep his fingers off it. ‘Its historical value is hard to even estimate. Do you see the
images of the animals locked in battle? In the nomadic tribes from the northern region from the Black Sea to Mongolia, these sorts of images were used to suggest aggression and invincibility. This
was the dagger of a tribal king.’

‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ Cianna said.

‘Not that much. There are people who spend their lives studying these types of antiquities. I only have enough knowledge to recognize the basics.’

‘How did you learn it?’

‘It was part of my job, once,’ Saunders said. ‘Stolen artwork has formed a large part of Afghanistan’s underground currency for nearly a decade. The Taliban, Al Qaeda,
many of the warlords – they all trade in these things when they are moving arms or drugs. I had to know enough to try to shut it down, or to use it for our own purposes if necessary. Any
historian would tell you this piece is priceless.’

‘How much does “priceless” go for on the streets?’ Nick asked.

Saunders looked at him. ‘In the neighborhood of half a million dollars,’ he said after some consideration. ‘Maybe more.’

‘Nice neighborhood,’ Nick said.

‘I suppose,’ Saunders agreed.

‘You suppose?’

Saunders frowned. ‘You don’t understand what I mean. It’s a very important piece, and very valuable, but it doesn’t make sense that these people would be killing over
this.’

‘It’s worth half a million,’ Nick said. ‘There are people in this neighborhood who’ll kill for a couple grand.’

‘Yes, but they wouldn’t travel halfway around the world to do it.’

‘If you bought the plane ticket, they would,’ Nick pointed out.

‘Let me put it another way,’ Saunders said. ‘The people we are dealing with are fanatics. This isn’t about money, unless we’re talking about enough money to buy a
nuclear weapon – and a half-million doesn’t get you close. Besides, there are thousands of antiquities that have been stolen from Afghanistan and Iraq that are worth every bit as much
as this. I can’t see what’s so unique about this that it would create some sort of an international conspiracy.’

‘Maybe it’s got some sort of religious significance,’ Cianna suggested. ‘That would give it more value for many people.’

‘It would,’ Saunders agreed. ‘But this is from the first century. We intercepted the message about your brother from Jihadis – radical Muslims – who wouldn’t
care particularly about first-century nomads. Mohammed wasn’t born until the sixth century.’ Saunders began rewrapping the dagger in the old cloth, then stopped. ‘Do you have
anything softer? The rag Charlie wrapped this in could scratch the gold.’

‘Sure.’ O’Callaghan dug around behind his desk and pulled out a soft plaid shirt folded into a drawer. ‘I keep an extra here in case I get spilled on.’

Saunders wrapped the dagger in the shirt and left the other cloth on the desk.

‘What now?’ Cianna asked.

‘Now we go back to your apartment,’ Saunders said.

‘The police may still be there. My neighbors would have heard the gunshots.’

‘Maybe, but there’s no blood and no bodies. They may ask some questions, but eventually they’ll have to give up and go home. Besides, we have to assume that Sirus will try to
contact you to see whether you have the dagger. He can’t do that unless you’re at your apartment.’

Cianna looked at Nick, and he nodded. ‘It makes sense.’

Nick looked at Saunders. ‘You gonna take care of her?’

‘I can take care of myself,’ Cianna said.

Nick ignored her. ‘I’m serious. I know you’ve got a job to do, but I need to know that you’re looking out for her in all this. Otherwise I’m coming along for the
ride.’

‘No need,’ Saunders said. ‘I’ll look out for her.’

Nick looked long at Saunders, sizing him up. ‘Okay, then,’ he said at last. ‘I’m here if you need anything.’ He nodded and led them down the stairs.

Lawrence Ainsworth sat at his desk, his wide, bony shoulders hunched forward. In front of him a computer-enhanced map of Afghanistan revealed a mess of divided interests and
limited control. Blue borders indicated the various zones where the American military still held sway, but many of them were dotted lines, a nod to the reality of a fully fluid situation. The map
was the product of military intelligence enhanced with the information gathered by Agency operatives in the field. There were hundreds of such agents, all under Ainsworth’s control. No four
of them combined provided the consistency of accurate and useful information that Saunders had when he was active, though. Without Saunders, Ainsworth felt like he was flying blind.

Ainsworth’s head was down, but he sensed the door open. It was a part of his training that would never go away. He’d grown accustomed to noticing every aspect of his surroundings,
from a shift in a shadow, to the slightest breeze from an opening door.

‘Most people knock, Bill,’ Ainsworth said.

‘Most people have to,’ Bill Toney replied.

Ainsworth looked up. The retired colonel was younger than him – in his late fifties, with thick dark hair streaked grey at the temples and a posture that betrayed his military background
– but still old enough to remember the Agency’s heyday, when the Cold War required that aggression be carried out in secret. Back then, secrecy was the greatest asset the Agency had in
the battle for inter-governmental influence, and it had wielded that secrecy effectively to maximize the breadth of its influence and funding. Since the collapse of the Soviet Union there had been
far more pressure on the American government to operate in the light of day. The world had little trust for its only superpower, and four successive presidential administrations had bowed
remarkably, if not entirely, to a new spirit of transparency. Covert operations were now looked at as unclean – necessary evils to be tolerated only in the most extreme circumstances. As a
result, the military’s power, and the corresponding power of Toney’s NSA, had grown at the expense of the Agency’s influence. Toney and Ainsworth were both well aware of their
relative positions.

Ainsworth pointed to the chair across from his desk. ‘By all means, then. Please sit.’

Toney remained standing. ‘Where’s your boy, Saunders?’

‘On leave,’ Ainsworth said. ‘I thought it would be best for everyone.’

‘I heard a rumor he was up in Boston. That true?’

Ainsworth shrugged. ‘I don’t keep track of people when they are not on active duty. This job is consuming enough. You’ve got to allow people a little bit of space in their
personal lives, you know?’

‘I didn’t think Saunders had a personal life.’

‘Like I said, I don’t keep track.’ Ainsworth leaned back in his chair, looking up across his desk at Toney. ‘Is there some reason you care? Are you planning out your next
vacation? I could have Saunders give you a call when he gets back, give you a recommendation.’

Toney’s face was stone. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’

‘Let me know if you change your mind.’ Ainsworth leaned forward again and went back to his work. Toney remained where he was. After another moment, Ainsworth looked up again.
‘Was there something else, Bill?’

‘I’ve had my people look into this situation involving Charles Phelan,’ he said finally.

‘That quickly?’ Ainsworth sat back in his chair. ‘It only took two days.’ The sarcasm in his voice was thick. ‘You must view this as a high priority.’

‘There’s nothing to it,’ Toney said, ignoring Ainsworth’s tone. ‘He’s a nobody.’

‘I thought all our soldiers were heroes.’

‘He’s hardly a soldier,’ Toney continued. ‘He was a low-level shipping clerk. And not a very honest one, at that. It looks as though he may have been involved in some
activities shipping looted goods out of the country.’

‘Not the sort of thing we encourage our people to do, these days, is it?’ Ainsworth watched Toney’s face closely. ‘Still, I suppose it’s the same story in every
war. It’s not exactly surprising.’

‘No, it’s not,’ Toney said. ‘But it is embarrassing. And in this war anything that embarrasses the military can have more of an impact than in any other conflict
we’ve dealt with before. We’re viewed as marauding Huns over there, set on conquering and pillaging the land. Anything that reinforces that image tends to inflame the passion of the
Afghan people and provide recruiting material for the extremists.’

‘So,’ Ainsworth said slowly, ‘perhaps the best thing we can do is to make clear that we will not tolerate this behavior. Arrest him and put him on trial in a very public
way.’

Toney shook his head. ‘You and I both know that won’t work. Look at Abu Ghraib. We couldn’t have been any more vehement or public in our disgust over that. Did anyone care? No.
All anyone over there could focus on was that it happened. All anyone remembers is those goddamned photographs. It would be the same here. All anyone would focus on is the fact that some assholes
in the Army were involved in smuggling antiquities. Christ, by the time the press got done with it, people would think we were paying our soldiers with the ancient treasures of Mohammed.’

‘Perhaps we didn’t go far enough in our treatment of those responsible for Abu Ghraib,’ Ainsworth ventured.

‘What are you talking about? They were tried. They are rotting in jail for the rest of their meaningful lives. That’s not enough?’

‘That’s just the people on the ground. Some might argue that nothing happened to those truly responsible. Those farther up the chain of command.’ His gaze bore into
Toney’s eyes as he spoke. ‘Perhaps, in this case, if we found the people responsible farther up the chain of command and put them on trial, then people would believe in our
commitment.’ He could see the muscles in Toney’s jaw tense.