Twilight (23 page)

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Authors: Brendan DuBois

BOOK: Twilight
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“Right. And let's see who'll try to enforce
that
if I resign from the UN's service. All right?”
She continued glaring at me, and then tried another tack. “We have a report that you were using a firearm just before being picked up.”
“So?”
“That's in violation of a number of agreements between UNFORUS and the local authorities. A noncombatant such as yourself is strictly forbidden to bear arms,” O'Ryan said. “You could find yourself in a county jail for a very long time, Mister Simpson, if we decided not to defend you against any local prosecution.”
I wiggled my toes. “Prosecute away,” I said. “I can hardly wait to see the coverage
that
would generate: a young man—myself, in this instance—defending himself against a half-dozen or so paramilitaries with a .22 rifle, a weapon designed for hunting squirrels rather than shooting human thugs. Being a former newspaperman myself, I can see how that would make a hell of a story. Wouldn't it?”
Now O'Ryan was in thoroughly pissed-off mode, another familiar attitude of the not-so-dear, departed Grandmother Simpson. She got up suddenly
and stalked out of my little curtained-off cubicle, without even bothering to draw the curtain behind her. I guessed that Peter would have to wait. I looked out into the bustling emergency room, saw a man in a uniform of some sort, groaning and moaning as an ER crew worked on him. Bloody bandages were on the dirty tiled floor. I couldn't tell if he was paramilitary or UNFORUS, the poor guy, so I turned my attention to a plastic cup of ice water, which I sipped through a straw. It tasted wonderful.
As the wounded man was wheeled away another uniformed man came into my little cubicle. He was a beefy-looking German with a name tag on his heavy shirt that read HORLENGER. A blue UN beret, folded over, was stuck under his shirt's shoulder loop.
“Simpson?”
“The same,” I said.
Horlenger grunted, produced a folded-over topo map. “This house, the one that has the man and the boy. Can you show it to me on the map?”
I said, “Can you show me the highway where I was picked up? By the three shot-up UN vehicles?”
“
Ja
, I can,” he said. He pushed aside my ice water on the little side table and unfolded the map. He oriented me by pointing out the stretch of highway where I had been rescued. I recalled the hill and my little run, and I said, “On the other side of the hill. Right here. A farmhouse, a big barn and a pickup truck in the front yard. There's a field over here that should be a good landing place.”
Horlenger just nodded, folded the map up. “I hope you know what you're doing,” he said.
“How's that?”
He shook his head. “In a few minutes I am going to ask two, maybe three crews to risk their lives,
ja
? Not to mention the equipment, which we don't have enough of. All is being threatened this afternoon. All for an old man and a boy. And a dog. When we could do much more, elsewhere, with what we barely have. You understand?”
“Yeah, I understand. But it's personal. They saved my life, and I promised them.”
He nodded. “Then maybe
you
should go. Hmm?”
“If I could, I would.”
“Bah,” Horlenger said, and he stalked off. I rolled over on my side, pulled up the blankets, and despite the lumpiness of the mattress and the noise in the ER I fell right asleep. As far as I could tell, I didn't dream of a damn thing.
 
 
WET. COLD. WET.
Cold. I woke up with something slathering against my face, and I looked into sad brown eyes and a furry face. I coughed and sat up. The dog called Tucker got back down on the floor, having been up on his hindquarters, licking my face. I heard a boy's laugh and sat up and rubbed at my eyes.
“Well,” Stewart said, smiling at me, his arm round his grandson's shoulders. Jerry had a little blue knapsack in his hands and his nose was still running. Behind them, smiling like she had arranged the whole damn thing, was Ms. Cecile O'Ryan.
“Hey,” I said. “You guys OK?”
Jerry piped up. “We flew in a helicopter! And Tucker peed on the floor!”
“I'm sure he did,” I said. “Flying like that can be scary.”
Stewart came over, offered me his hand, which I gladly shook. He said, “Good for you, Samuel. You didn't forget.”
“Not for a moment,” I said.
Then he choked up some, started stammering, “You have no idea what we owe you, what it meant to see …”
Cecile O'Ryan stepped forward and started tugging at Stewart's elbow. “Now, I'm sure you'd love to talk some more to Mister Simpson, but he's still under treatment and needs his rest. If you come this way, I'll have someone from the nursing staff check you both and get a hot meal into you. All right?”
So they went away, Tucker pausing just to look back at me. Jerry did the same, giving me a little bye-bye wave with his hands, which I returned. They turned the corner, by a nurse's station, and then Ms. O'Ryan came traipsing back, clipboard held up against her chest like a little shield. She came into my area, pulled the curtain shut and said, “Ready to get to work?”
“I thought you told the Carrs that I need my rest,” I said.
She smiled unpleasantly at me. “I lied.”
I folded my arms. “Fair enough. Ask away.” I decided then that I still didn't like her one bit, and that the matter of Peter could wait until I saw Jean-Paul.
 
 
I ANSWERED CECILE
O'Ryan's questions for the next hour, and then another German officer came in, a blond-haired guy with SCHNEIDER on his name tag. He spread a big topo map over the top of my hospital bed. From the ambush site of a few days back—and
Miriam's alive, Miriam's alive
, came the singing voice inside my head—I did my best to reconstruct my travels, though I wished I had a better idea of where that damn militia camp was located. Schneider's face darkened some when I told him about the soldiers
I had seen shot and the Luftwaffe pilot's body I'd seen hanging, and he made a series of marks on a little notepad he was carrying. He asked me about the camp's defenses and the number of militiamen I'd seen and the weapons they'd carried, and I told him about the netting overhead and the spread-out nature of the place. He said, “Five minutes. Just five minutes with one of the American spy satellites and I would know where that place was. Just five minutes.”
Eventually he left and Cecile O'Ryan said, “Would you like to go home?”
“Now?” I asked, shocked.
She laughed. “No, not now. Maybe tomorrow or the next day. But I think you deserve a trip home, after all you've been through.”
Sure. Head on out. And I still had a bit of business to attend to, a bit of business that required me to talk to somebody other than Ms. Cecile O'Ryan, from the large UN bureaucracy that was running things.
“Jean-Paul Cloutier,” I said.
“Yes?”
“My section leader. Is he still around?”
She made a notation. “I believe so. Why? Do you want to talk to him?”
You better believe it, honey, I thought. I have a little tale to tell him, about Peter and hidden radios and betrayal. Aloud I said, “Yes, as soon as I can. I just want to see … Well, I just want to see how he and the others in my section are doing.”
O'Ryan nodded, still smiling. I guess she was now my new best friend. “All right. I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, why don't we move you out of here into someplace more comfortable?”
“Sure,” I said.
Which was what they did.
 
 
ABOUT TEN MINUTES
later I was in another part of the hospital, maybe a part where family members could stay while their loved ones were under the knife. I was in a tiny hotel-like room, and I shivered as I remembered that unheated and unlit motel we had all stayed in. It seemed such a long time ago. I was surprised to see two muddy duffel bags on the floor and I opened them up. I felt my throat get thick. My old gear, including my Sony camera stuff and my computer terminal, all in one place. Even some old clothes—though laid out on the bed was what I had been wearing when I had been picked up, freshly laundered.
I went over to a small window and looked outside, feeling calm and peaceful from just looking at all those brilliant electric lights around me, bright lights forcing back the darkness. There were vehicles of all types in
the parking lot—civilian trucks and passenger cars, military lorries and even a couple of armored APCs and it was just pleasurable to see them on the move. I looked out and in the distance, on the horizon, was a small orange glow. A fire of some sort. I only hoped that the polite German who had aided in my interrogation had located the camp where I had been kept and was busily blasting it off the face of the earth.
Before I gave myself the luxury of a thorough cleansing I took a small chair from in front of the writing table and shoved it under the main doorknob. Then I made sure that both locks were secured. Only then did I go into the bathroom. I looked at the mirror and saw red-rimmed eyes, a scabbed-over face that had been swabbed with some sort of disinfectant, and nearly a week's worth of beard that still looked like I had been growing it for all of three days. But behind me was a shower. I turned on the faucet and hot water came out, lots and lots of hot water. Believe it or not, I spent a whole hour in that hot and steamy little room, finally getting myself properly cleaned up.
W
hen I was done with my shower I took an elevator to the basement of the building where a cafeteria had been set up. I didn't expect room-service standards but I was pleased by a little cardboard sign on the room phone—in English, French and German—that advised me that hot meals were served three times a day in the cafeteria and cold meals were available at any time. Checking the little clock by the bed stand, I saw that I had a half-hour before the last hot meal was served.
In the cafeteria there were what looked to be nearly a hundred people, plus a virtual Babel of voices and accents. There were civilians, doctors and nurses, and even some patients, either in wheelchairs or propelling themselves around by metal walkers or canes. Scattered throughout the crowd were the military uniforms of maybe a half-dozen different countries, and their only similarity was the UNFORUS arm patch and brassard on the left arm and the TLDs hanging off lapels. I stood in line and grabbed a plastic tray, still damp and warm from having just been washed. My stomach growled cheerfully at the prospect of hot food coming by for a visit.
I looked around the room. When I got back to looking at the line of people I was in it had moved forward and somebody up ahead was leaning back, looking at me.
Peter Brown.
I dropped my tray, ran forward, and tried my best to kill him.
 
 
TRIED MY BEST.
Another way to put that would be “utterly and abjectly failed,” but I sure did a little damage. I made some noise, and there were a ruckus and some shouts and then we were grappling on the floor. Peter managed to roll me over after I had hammered him with some weak punches, and eventually he had me pinned, screaming up at him. Then a couple of bruisers—fellow Brits, it sounded like—helped Peter pick me up and drag me out of the cafeteria where we went into a little office with a small desk and two chairs. After he'd slammed the door shut, Peter said, “Samuel, look, just shut your trap for a moment. All right? Talk some sense. I'll give you five minutes to say anything you want, and after those five minutes you listen to me. Then you can take your best shot. Fair enough?”
“You fucking bastard,” I said, breathing hard.
Peter smiled, leaned back in a swivel chair. “Not very original, mate. Sorry. You're going to have to do better than that.”
“Where do you want me to begin, you traitorous shit? Sanjay's dead because of you.
And it's your fucking fault that I nearly got killed too
.”
That got his attention. He let the swivel chair snap back to its upright position and his ruddy face got even redder. I felt emboldened and went on. “Is
that
better, more original? Got your attention this time?”
Up on the wall behind Peter was a nutrition chart, with dancing slices of bread, grains and vegetables in some kind of food pyramid. It looked ridiculous but my attention was focused entirely on Peter who said, “Have you told anybody this yet?”
I wanted him to be scared of me for a change so I said, “Yeah, I have. And there are others to follow.”
“Such as?”
“Jean-Paul, to begin with, when I catch up with him. And then my friends back at the Toronto
Star
. Oh, that'll be a good front-page story, once I resign my position with the UN and get my old job back. I'll even send them a few nice photos of you working in the field. Working for the militias, though—right?”
“Where's your proof?” Peter asked, his voice flat.
Again, I felt emboldened. I was expecting denials and put-downs and the usual abrasive response from Peter, who had picked on me from the very first day I had come to New York state. I was enjoying the discomfort I was putting him through.
“Sure, all in good time,” I said dismissively. “But let's begin at the beginning, shall we? From the very start when we went out in the field we were going in circles, weren't we? We had bad intelligence, our communications gear was being jammed, and we found evidence of war crimes only by literally stumbling over it. Am I right?”
Peter just nodded. I went on, speaking quickly. “Then we hooked up with the Aussie television crew. Remember one of their questions? All about saboteurs, working within the UN field groups to block their progress—anyone's progress—in finding Site A. We all thought they were making it up.”
“Proof, Samuel,” he said. I felt a tiny thrill of victory at finally having this man call me by my right name. “You said you had proof.”
“OK,” I said. “Let's try this. Four days ago, we went looking for that Aussie TV crew. You tried to give us bogus directions, tried to keep us away from them. Hiding evidence of your mates' activities, were you, Peter? Then, a day after that, I was out in the woods, looking for you. You were out pissing against a tree—or so you said. But I saw something different, Peter. I saw you either losing your mind or talking to someone by radio, because I saw you talking into your wrist. Mentioning grace … oh, yeah, somebody's name. Grace. Who was she? Your Stateside contact? And since you seem stable enough—even though you're an arrogant traitor—I think you were relaying information to someone. Your paymaster, no doubt.”
“Anything else?” Peter asked in the same flat tone.
“Sure,” I said. “One last piece of evidence and then you can give me whatever bullshit you like. Two days after the ambush—and don't you feel guilty about what happened to Sanjay?—I was captured by a militia unit, kept captive in a hidden camp a fair number of klicks away from here. I was being held inside a school bus, and just before I managed to escape I saw the militia leader get a visitor. You. All by your lonesome, all inside that camp, getting smiles and slaps on the back. Like you belonged. Like you were their friend. And I saw you just before I got out. So there you go. Time for your reply, you shit.”
Peter actually smiled at me. A very happy and cheerful grin. I said, “Thinking of killing me and then walking out of here? Sure. Try that, with a hundred or so witnesses outside that door. You go right ahead.”
Peter kept smiling. “Tell you what, I told you that I'd give you a good answer, once you were done. But I'd like to go one better, if that's all right. Permit me to make a phone call?”
“Sure,” I said, now feeling not so confident.
“Fine.” He turned the chair and looked over the small desk, picked up the phone and dialed a four-digit number. “Hello, love. Peter here. I need
to speak with Lawrence. Right away. Well, of course it's urgent, or else I wouldn't say ‘right away.' Correct?” He looked over at me and made a big thing of shrugging. “Secretaries. God help us if they ever—Oh, hello, Lawrence. Sorry to disturb you but I have a bit of a situation. I was wondering if I could borrow you for just a few minutes.” There was a pause, and Peter said, “Well, I know it's short notice. But trust me, it was important enough for me to make this call, now, wasn't it? Yes, I understand … Very well, I seem to be in the manager's office of this dreadful cafeteria in the basement. Thank you, thank you very much.”
Peter hung up the phone and turned around again to face me. “There you go. All will be revealed very soon—if you can be patient, Samuel.”
I said nothing, just kept on staring at his confident face. We didn't say anything for a couple of minutes. Through the door I could hear the sounds of feet moving on the tile floor, plates being set down on tables, and the rattle of silverware being used. Surprisingly enough, I didn't feel hungry at all.
“Still angry?” Peter asked, his hands folded across his belly.
I said, “I don't think it matters much who's coming down or what he's saying. All I know is what I saw. Including Sanjay, dead because of you.”
Peter ignored that little shot and said, “I saw Miriam an hour or so ago. She was very pleased to hear that you'd been rescued. I imagine your reunion will be wonderful indeed.”
Before I could say something sharp in reply, there was a knock on the door, and a man dressed in military fatigues entered. He was tall, well built, and his white hair was cut short. He had the usual UNFORUS brassard and the blue beret through a shoulder loop, and his name tag said HALE. But I also noticed his insignia of rank. The room suddenly seemed a lot colder, because I suddenly realized I had seen this older man somewhere before.
Peter stood up, shook the man's hand, and turned to me. “Samuel? I'd like to introduce you to General Sir Lawrence Hale. He's head of the British contingent for UNFORUS—but of course, since you claim to be a newspaperman, I'm sure you already know that. General, may I present Samuel Simpson, formerly of the Toronto
Star
, currently assigned to the field investigative unit that I've been working with.”
I stood up too, feeling now like I was living through that dream in which you're in class and called upon by the teacher to stand up and speak and you know right away that you have no clothes on.
“General,” I said.
“Simpson,” he replied, grasping my hand for a moment and then ignoring me. He turned to Peter and said, “Captain? How can I help you? And can we make this quick?”
Captain … The man I'd thought was a former London cop had this gracious look on his face and said, “General, I just need you to verify something for my friend Samuel here.”
“Is that all?” Hale said with a touch of irritation.
“I'm afraid it's necessary. Samuel needs to know my background and what I've been doing here. It's vital for the success of my mission.”
Now the general looked at me, his pale blue eyes frosty. “I'm concerned about security.”
“You have my assurance that everything will be kept confidential,” Peter said.
“Very well,” Hale said. “Simpson, Captain Peter Brown is here working in this country for our foreign intelligence service, M16. He has been detached from his own regiment, the SAS.”
“Special Air Service,” I said, no doubt unnecessarily.
“Indeed,” Hale said. “Anything else?”
I couldn't think of a thing to ask him. Peter smiled. “No, sir. Thank you very much.”
Hale just grunted and left the office. Peter closed the door. We both sat back down and I said, “What's your mission been? Or is that part of the secret?”
“Oh, it's a secret, all right, but I've decided—entirely on my own—that you deserve to know.”
“And why's that?”
Peter said, “That's a rather stupid question, don't you think?”
“Indulge me,” I said.
“Back at the campground Charlie told us later what had happened. You went out to make some hot water for morning tea and coffee. The rest of us were getting up when the gunfire started. Sanjay and Miriam, they wanted to go down the trail to see if they could find you. Jean-Paul and Charlie and myself—well, sorry, we thought it was too late. We managed to get the hell out of there but Sanjay thought he saw you, coming through the woods. He got out of one of the Land Cruisers and that was when he got hit. There was a lot more gunfire but we managed to get out of there, just barely. So you saved our lives, Samuel.”
“How do you know that?”
“A day later, Charlie and a couple of his Marine buddies came back to retrieve Sanjay. Charlie went down the trail, saw the stove, saw where a metal pan had been dumped, maybe halfway down the trail. Charlie figured that you surprised the militia column, maybe splashed the boiling water on a guy or two. True?”
“True,” I said.
“Then they started shooting earlier than they wanted,” Peter said. “Which gave us the time to bail out. So there you go.”
“Sanjay,” I said, feeling my hands get tingly in shame.
“Yes?”
“You said he left to find me?”
“That's right,” Peter said. “He wanted to make sure we didn't leave you behind.”
“Oh,” I said. “It's just that, well, I didn't know him that well and, um …”
Peter said, “I can't say that I knew him that well, either. And he was cheating on his wife, and he was a shitty driver, and he complained about my cooking, but in the end he was a brave one. Maybe the bravest of us all, except for you. I mean, going after a militia column with just a pan of hot water …”
“I wasn't brave,” I said. “I was scared out of my gourd.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But that's why you deserve to know. Ask away, but ask away quickly. Your free access to my secrets is only good in this little room.”
I thought of a few things, and blurted out, “So, acting like an asshole. Was that you or part of the mission?”
“A mixture of both, I suppose,” Peter said, smiling. “I had a role as a cranky Metropolitan police officer to play. I didn't want to get too friendly with the team. It wouldn't have matched my cover.”

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