The Guardian (34 page)

They were both awake when his cell phone rang. It was just after 5.30 the next morning, and her legs were draped languidly over his, her head on his shoulder as they touched
each other idly, running fingertips over arms and legs and chests in a silent, comfortable post-coital dance. She was still trying to adjust to the thought of being a complete person once more. She
didn’t love him, certainly, but he’d opened up possibilities for her again. In many ways, the notion frightened her.

He reached over the side of the bed, found his pants on the floor and dug the cell phone out of the pocket. ‘Yeah,’ he said. He listened to the person on the other end of the line.
‘Yeah, I know it.’ More silence. ‘Okay, when?’

He clicked off the phone and put it on the bedside table. He lay back down and maneuvered himself into a position that approximated the one he’d abandoned to answer the phone.

‘Do we have a plan?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘That was my boss. He’s flying up, and he’s going to meet us. He can get the Cloak to Akhtar’s people and make sure it’s safe.’

‘Is he coming here?’

He shook his head. ‘Castle Island in three hours.’

‘You spooks do like your drama, don’t you?’

‘It’s a public area. Plenty of cops around if anything happens. My boss thought it made sense. He thinks there are people on the inside who are helping Fasil.’

‘Plus, it’s right around the corner,’ she noted. ‘Which means we have two and a half hours before we need to leave here.’

‘Sounds about right,’ he agreed.

‘Hmmm,’ she mused. ‘How will we pass all that time?’

He looked into her eyes as his fingers traced the outer edges of her arm. The sensation of being touched by another human being again was exquisite, and it sent a ripple of pleasure through her
entire body. She was tempted to look away, but managed to hold his gaze. He smiled. ‘I’m sure we can find something productive to do.’

At 7.45 that morning, Detective Harvey Morrell pulled up to the curb a half-block down H Street from Milo’s apartment in Southie. His joints ached from having been left
curled around the table in Spudgie’s kitchen, and the skin on his cheeks and around his lips were raw where the uniformed officer had pulled the duct tape off. The man who claimed to be a
spook had been good to his word, at least insofar as he had called and left an anonymous tip as to where Morrell could be found. At three o’clock, two patrolmen had been dispatched to
investigate, and had found Morrell there, hogtied and gagged.

It wasn’t the humiliation of having been found in such a state that angered Morrell; he had long since relinquished the last shreds of concern over what others thought about him. Being
left out of the search for his brother’s killer, though, was an insult he could not abide. When he’d arrived back at the station house, he’d typed up a cursory report of what had
happened, leaving most of the details out, and then started researching Cianna Phelan’s background. For all he knew, they could have already fled the city, but that seemed unlikely to him.
Besides, if that were the case, there was really nothing he could do to track them down, so he was forced to start from the assumption that they were still nearby. It seemed unlikely that they
would go back to her apartment; that would be too easy. He had to figure out what other options they had.

After an hour, he came to the conclusion that, unless the CIA spook or the towelhead had someplace for them to go, there were very few of her contacts they could rely on. She had no family, and
no serious attachments that he could uncover. The only thing she appeared to have in her life was her job, and that was at a tiny non-profit with only one other employee. It was a long shot, but it
was the only information he had, so he decided to take a chance. He owed at least that much to himself and his brother.

As he sat in the car, looking down the street at the little apartment building, he considered different plans of action. He could march up to the front door and knock – see what would
happen. The chances that they would simply open the door to him, assuming they were there, were roughly zero, though. He could bust in the door, but in all likelihood they would see him coming and
be prepared for such a frontal attack. Besides, he had looked into the spook’s eyes when he was being tied up, and he believed that they had not killed his brother. The spook would have
killed him if he’d been involved in his brother’s death; he was sure of that. Morrell also believed that the piece of cloth in the box was at the heart of whatever nefarious plot had
caused his brother’s death. What he wanted more than anything was to find out who was responsible and take them down. He couldn’t do that by confronting Cianna Phelan and the other two
directly.

His only option was to wait, and pray against prayer that he’d gotten lucky. If they were there, he would watch them as they left, and follow them. It was the only way he could think of
that might provide answers.

It was still early when Cianna and Saunders headed out to Castle Island. The place was, in fact, no longer an island, but was connected to the mainland by a causeway that
jutted east from South Boston out into Boston Harbor. The causeway looped in an even curve that enclosed Pleasure Bay, a protected inlet that formed the primary recreational beach in the area. At
the end of the causeway, the land opened into a large bell-shaped protuberance on which Fort Independence was built. Covering ten acres, Fort Independence had been the main military installation
that protected the mouth of Boston Harbor since before the Revolutionary War. It was the final spot from which the British redcoats were driven following the siege of Boston in 1778, and it had
served its watchful role until 1962, when it was officially decommissioned. It now served as a place of historical and recreational interest. The walkway around the thirty-foot-high stone and
earthwork pentagon was a near-perfect-half-mile track, and joggers and strollers were thick there except in the worst weather.

Ainsworth had told them to walk around the fort and meet him on the far side. Under different circumstances, the walk would have been delightful, Saunders thought, as they headed out. It was a
beautiful autumn day, cool enough to be comfortable, but with biting sunlight that radiated off the water. As he walked, he could feel Cianna close to him, and he wondered what she was thinking.
She was, in all respects, a remarkable woman; remarkable enough that, even now, he had yet to figure out who she was. He supposed it didn’t matter at the moment. All that mattered for now was
getting the Cloak back into the hands of Akhtar’s people.

He realized to his chagrin that his idle musings had allowed his focus to wane. There were dozens of people on the walkway, and each one was a potential threat. Joggers and roller-bladers and
old men with bags of day-old bread to feed the birds: any one of them could be waiting to make a move.

Saunders tightened his grip on the box under his arm.

He saw Ainsworth when they were still fifty yards away from him, out at the edge of the pier on the easternmost edge of the land, leaning against the railing, looking out at the water and the
islands that crept their way down south, lining Boston’s outer harbor. He had a bag of peanuts in one hand, and he was dipping into it with his other hand, cracking the shells deftly and
letting them fall to the water fifteen feet below as he popped the nuts into his mouth. When they were twenty feet away, Saunders turned to Cianna. ‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘I have
to talk to him alone.’

She nodded. ‘Don’t take too long,’ she said.

Ainsworth didn’t turn to greet Saunders as he approached. Saunders sidled up to him, and leaned against the railing. ‘Taking in the harbor sights?’ he said.

‘I am,’ Ainsworth said.

Saunders looked out at the water with his boss. ‘It’s nice, I suppose.’

‘It is, depending on your perspective,’ Ainsworth said. ‘You see Deer Island out there, with the giant holding tanks?’ Saunders nodded. ‘Back in the 1600s, it was
used as an internment camp for the native Americans. They were left there, stranded on an island without any trees or shelter, through the brutal winters. Several hundred of them. They were all
dead within two years. I wonder if they found the view as pleasant then as we do now.’

‘Everything in life is a matter of perspective,’ Saunders said. ‘You taught me that, Lawrence.’

‘I did,’ Ainsworth said. ‘And I taught you better than I taught anyone else.’ He looked over at the box in Saunders’s hands. ‘You got it.’ It
wasn’t a question, but a statement. ‘I never doubted that you would.’

‘You knew,’ Saunders said. ‘You were working with Akhtar the entire time. You knew what I was after.’

Ainsworth nodded. ‘I considered telling you, but I couldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘First of all, because I’d given Akhtar my word. And second, because I didn’t know where you stood in all of this. There are people in our own government working against us.
For all I knew . . .’

‘Bullshit,’ Saunders said. ‘You know me. You trained me. You know exactly where I stand. Always.’

‘I should have trusted you,’ Ainsworth acknowledged. ‘That was my mistake. I still had faith that you would come through in the end.’

‘No thanks to you.’

‘Admittedly. But I knew you’d come through nonetheless.’

‘And what about Akhtar? Did you know that he wouldn’t make it through? Did you consider him expendable?’

Ainsworth looked stung. ‘If there was anything I could have done—’ His voice was full of an uncharacteristic protest. He stopped himself and cleared his throat. ‘Akhtar
died for a cause he believed was just,’ he said, changing course. ‘It is the way he would have wanted it.’

‘I’m not sure,’ Saunders said.

The two of them stood in silence for a moment.

‘I knew his father,’ Ainsworth said. ‘A lifetime ago, when I was working with the Mujahedin to fight the Soviets in Afghanistan. I worked with his father. He was a good man; a
moderate. He had great hopes for his country if he could just get the Russians out. Then came the Taliban. Now we’re there. It’s safe to say Akhtar’s father would be disappointed
in the progress we’ve made since he was murdered.’ He shook his head.

‘You can’t compare us to the Taliban,’ Saunders said.

‘I don’t.’ He finished the peanuts, crumpled the bag and put it in his pocket. ‘But I’m not so blind that I can’t see that we are all products of our beliefs.
And subject to the limitations they impose.’ Looking up, he said, ‘Is that the girl? Phelan’s sister?’

Saunders nodded.

Ainsworth stared at her for a moment. ‘The reports of her beauty seem not to have been exaggerated.’ He shifted his gaze to Saunders, left it there for a moment before a slight smile
crossed his lips. ‘You’ll never change.’

‘Who amongst us will?’ Saunders took the box out from under his arm. ‘How do you plan to get it back to Kandahar?’ he asked, handing it over.

‘It’s arranged,’ Ainsworth said. ‘I have a plane lined up, and the right people in place. Akhtar’s uncle has already been alerted. He’ll be waiting for
it.’

‘All for a thirteen-hundred-year-old piece of homespun,’ Saunders said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Superstition,’ he muttered.

‘Are we any different?’

‘I thought so.’

Ainsworth laughed. ‘Think again.’ He straightened up. ‘You’ll be reinstated. Of that I’m sure, at least.’

‘What about Toney?’

‘Toney’s an asshole. He has problems of his own. I don’t think he’ll be paying too much attention to you.’

‘What does that mean?’

Ainsworth gave a sphinx-like smile. ‘You needn’t concern yourself with that right now, my boy. You’ve done well. Lay low for a few days, and then meet me back at the office.
I’ll make sure everything is straightened out.’

‘Just like that?’

Ainsworth nodded. ‘Just like that,’ he said. ‘You didn’t think I’d really let them put the best field agent we’ve got in mothballs, did you?’

‘I was beginning to wonder, honestly,’ Saunders said.

Ainsworth gestured to Cianna. ‘I’d like to meet her, if that’s okay. Convey my appreciation, and my condolences.’

‘Sure,’ Saunders said.

The two of them walked over to where she was standing. Ainsworth was carrying the box under his left arm. He extended his right hand to Cianna. ‘Ms Phelan, my name is Lawrence Ainsworth. I
asked Jack to introduce you to me so that I can express my great sympathy regarding your brother. I wanted to tell you that he and Mr Hazara did not die in vain, I will see to that. I’m sure
that is of little consolation to you at the moment, but I wanted to say it anyway.’

‘Thank you,’ Cianna said. ‘It would mean more to me if you could tell me that the man who killed them would be brought to justice.’

‘If I have anything to do with it, I promise you with all my heart that he will be dealt with. I’ll promise you more than that, even. I will promise you that I will not rest until
all those who harbor similar hatreds have been as well. As for justice . . .’ He hesitated. ‘I would have thought that you would have a certain amount of skepticism toward the notion,
given all that you’ve been through.’

‘It’s not justice I question,’ Cianna said. ‘It’s just sometimes the people who administer it.’

‘Fair point,’ Ainsworth said. ‘I’ve read your file carefully. I can say without question that in your case both justice and those who administered it were flawed. You did
not deserve to be treated the way you were by the country you served so well. For that, also, you have my deepest sympathies.’

‘Thank you,’ Cianna said. ‘That means a lot to me.’

‘If I may suggest it,’ Ainsworth said, ‘when all of this is over, I would be interested in talking to you about coming to work for me.’

Cianna didn’t respond for a moment. ‘At the CIA?’

‘Why not?’ He smiled. ‘We are not all as rough around the edges as my friend Jack, here. Based on your record, you might find that you are well-suited to it. And you certainly
have the skills and much of the training already.’

‘I’d need to think about it,’ Cianna said.