Dead of Night

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I went over and my father looked up at me. ‘Samuel, so good to see you. Have a seat.’

I remained standing. ‘Gee, how nice of you to come see me in my room.’

He slurped at his teacup. ‘Don’t get your panties in a twist, Samuel. I knew you were up in your room. I knew you were safe. And this is the only place around here that serves breakfast, swillish as it might taste. So I knew you’d be coming along. Just have a seat, all right?’

I pulled a chair out, sat down. Still standing in line was Miriam, who was looking over in our direction. Father noticed and said, ‘Who’s she? A local, perhaps?’

‘Miriam van der Pol,’ I said. ‘One of the UN investigators I was working with.’

‘Aahh,’ he said. ‘Very sweet-looking thing. A girlfriend, perhaps?’

‘None of your business, perhaps,’ I said. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Well, so much for father-and-son greetings, eh?’ he said, putting the cup down on the dirty table. ‘I’ve been here in this miserable country for three days, ever since I got word that you’d been reported missing. I tried using some of my old contacts, some of my old friends, to see what I could find out.’

‘I’m surprised anyone would be seen talking to you,’ I said.

There was a bright spark of anger in my father’s eyes that immediately transferred itself to the rest of his face, where the skin reddened. ‘That was some time ago,’ he said. ‘And I don’t need you or anyone else reminding me about it. Don’t you think I’ll always remember my time in Somalia, and the trial that followed? Don’t you?’

I looked ,at that stem face, remembered all the times when seeing that particular expression would freeze me, would frighten me, would make me do or say anything to get away from that look. But it didn’t look frightening, not now, not after the past few days. It just looked tired and angry.

I sighed. ‘Yeah, I’m sure you will.’

‘Damn right,’ he said. ‘So here I was, fighting the new war, the war of bureaucrats, trying to find out from what department something might be learned about your fate, Samuel. One office passed me off to another office, one unit to the next. Some people thought you were just missing, others thought you might be a prisoner of one of those gangs of thugs. About the only good fella I met was that black Marine assigned to your unit, Charlie something-or-another.’

‘Charlie Banner,’ I said.

Yeah, Banner,’ my father said. ‘I could talk to him, you know? Like one professional soldier to another.’

I opened my mouth to say something, thought better of it, though my father noticed right off. ‘Hey, I know what you’re thinking, right? A professional soldier. Maybe an oxymoron, right? We’re just trained killers with no brains, sent in to kill or destroy or blow up things. How can we be trained to do anything except that? But listen to me, young man, it’s the trained ones who protect you and your friends. And it’s the trained ones who are called in to clean up other people’s messes, other people’s disasters. Your great-grandfather and grandfather served their country well in uniform. And I did my best as well, despite what happened in Somalia. So there.’

I rested my hands on the stained table. ‘So there. A nice answer, Father. Look, I’ve heard the lectures about the military plenty of times. And I know you wished I had joined the military instead of going into journalism. Let’s just leave it be, all right?’

He stared at me for a moment and I felt a twinge of regret, knowing what was going on inside his mind. His failure as a husband, as a soldier who wanted nothing more than to have the Simpson military gene passed down to another generation. A chance, maybe, to redeem the Simpson family name, which had been burnished at Dieppe and in Korea, and had for ever been tarnished in a hot and dusty place called Mogadishu.

I smiled. ‘Look, Father. I appreciate you coming here. I really do. But seeing you here… well, it was just a start, that’s all.’

He took another sip from his teacup. That seemed to mollify him some, and he looked around. ‘They don’t know how easy they have it here,’ he said, his voice lower now, like he was confiding in me. ‘Here they have power, hot water, hot food and pretty safe conditions, if they keep their noses clean. In Somalia we had tents, dirt everywhere, flies and other vermin, and no air-conditioning, no power, nothing. Here they have the militias. Big deal. They’re a minority out in the towns and counties. A well-armed minority, but still a minority. Back in Somalia there was no government, no officials. There were clans and sub-clans, with alliances shifting from week to week. Here, negotiation is dealing with maybe a half-dozen clowns with guns. Over there, dozens and dozens of groups of crazies…Still, it doesn’t excuse what happened, right?’

I nodded. My father toyed with his teacup. I glanced over at the line, saw that Miriam had moved ahead. My stomach grumbled, wanting breakfast, but something was going on here. I wanted to wait.

‘We were frustrated, cooped up like that. Day after day, under hot canvas, hardly anything to do. We had warriors there, Samuel, highly trained and eager warriors. You can’t keep them penned up for days. I asked, I pleaded, I begged the powers that were to either send them home or to give them missions. Anything to get out of that blasted tent city. But I was turned down, always turned down. Negotiations were at a delicate stage, they said. Local sensibilities can’t be offended, they said. So keep your boys confined to base until further notice. Jesus Christ on a crutch. Still… no excuses. They did an awful thing, and I did a worse thing, trying to cover it up.’

‘Why did you do it, then?’ I asked gently. We had never had this kind of conversation before, and I was desperate to take it as far as I could.

It was like my father couldn’t look at me, so he kept his gaze focused on his teacup. ‘By the time I got back home, I was exhausted, Samuel. I had some intestinal bug that was chewing me up from the inside out. Our intervention had been a failure, no matter what glowing stories your friends at the Star or Globe or Mail had written. Your mother had packed up and gone to Florida. I felt as though the UN, the all-bloody and all-powerful UN, had screwed us over pretty good. I had argued and fought for my boys, to give them good quarters, to keep them busy, and I had failed. I had failed pretty badly. So when the rumors started that a couple of them had done bad things back there, had tortured and killed a couple of young thieves… Well, no excuses, Samuel. No excuses. But what was I going to do? Go out of my way to help those who had screwed us? Give the UN the benefit of the doubt? Hell, no. My first reaction was to deny everything, to protect my boys. That’s what I did. And we all paid the price.’

I took a breath. ‘You did what you thought was right.’

A brief smile flickered across my father’s face. ‘Thanks -I think. Though the Chief of Staff and a jury and a bunch of newspapers disagreed with you. So here I am, a disgrace and cashiered out.’

‘So here you are,’ I said.

He finished off his tea with a satisfied slurp. ‘When can you get packed up?’

‘Excuse me?’

He put the cup down with a loud rattle. ‘Come along, Samuel. I said, when can you get packed up? I’m not done here yet. I’m here to take you back home.’

Our moment of bonding, it seemed, had just passed. ‘No.’

‘Samuel, be reasonable. You’ve been through a lot, right? Captured and beaten up and escaped, finally getting out free and safe. Shit, boy, you’ve done everything the blue helmets have asked of you and then some. Give yourself a break, get on back home while you can.’

‘What do you mean, while I can?’

My father looked around him for a second. Then he said, his voice lower: ‘Look. The Yanks have a real sense of pride and honor. How do you think they’re feeling, having the UN and foreign armies trooping through some of their territories? They only got here during a moment of weakness, after the Manhattan bombing, after the balloon strikes, after the uprisings and the killings of the refugees. A good chunk of the country that doesn’t have militias, that doesn’t have armed gangs terrorizing its people, well, they probably didn’t give a crap at the beginning. Anything to stop the killing. But now that most of the killing has stopped, that majority still sees Ukrainians and Germans and Hungarians trooping through the countryside. A lot of people are getting pissed, Samuel. Oh, there may be a new armistice soon, very soon, but just as certain as that is that one of these days the US Army or the Marines are going to take matters into their own hands and kick everybody out. And I know the Americans. When they kick someone out, it’s sure to be bloody. So come on home, Samuel. That’s where you belong.’

I shook my head. ‘No, I belong here.’

‘Samuel, you’re being unreasonable, you’re being—’

‘Father, it’s over. All right? I’m staying here, doing my job, because it’s important. As important to me as being in the army was for you. All right? Discussion over. I’m staying with the UN and staying in the States, if they want me. And if you want to have a discussion you’ll have it by yourself, because I’ll get up and leave. Right now.’

My father’s face reddened some more and then he surprised me for the first time in a long time. He actually laughed. ‘Damn it, boy. Good for you. I can’t say I agree with you and I don’t, but damn it anyway, good for you. I always wondered if you had the balls my father and grandfather had, and I’m glad to see that you do.’

He leaned over the table, gently punched me on the shoulder, which was about as emotional as I’d ever seen the old man. ‘OK, stay here. Do what you think’s best. And if your young ass gets lost again, I’ll come back to look for you. Deal?’

I found myself actually smiling. ‘OK. Deal.’

‘Hello there,’ came a lovely voice. I looked up and my father turned round in his chair as Miriam approached, bringing a tray overflowing with dishes and saucers and coffee cups. She smiled at me and said, ‘It took some convincing the nice servers but I’ve got all of us some breakfast. May I join you?’

‘Absolutely,’ I said, and my father joined in, stepping up to help her with the tray and then retrieving a chair for her. Smiling all the while, he said, ‘Young lady, if Samuel hadn’t said yes, I surely would have.’

She smiled back at that and I said, ‘Miriam, I’d like you to meet my father, Ronald Simpson, lately a colonel in the Canadian Army, who’s been here for the past few days looking for his lost son.’

They shook hands and Miriam said, ‘What a wonderful father you are, to come look for Samuel.’

My father just blushed at that. I looked at Miriam and said, ‘Yes, you’re quite right, Miriam.’

‘Excuse me?’ she asked, and even my father looked a bit confused. I went on, looking at them both. ‘You’re absolutely right. He was a wonderful father, to come find me.’

Miriam started talking but my father, speaking gruffly, said, ‘Come on, kids, let’s eat, before it gets cold.’

Which was what we did.

Miriam had gotten the three of us bowls of oatmeal, with some toast and sausage links on the side, and coffee and orange juice. As we ate I felt this odd calmness come over me, as though things were finally making sense, were finally coming together. All through breakfast my father was a charming gentleman, something I found hard to believe, though I had memories from my childhood of how, maybe at Christmas time, my father would smile and joke and even sing. He told a few tales of when I was younger to Miriam, stuff about falling down a heating vent when it was open for repairs, or going door-to-door trying to sell discarded cigar butts, and even I smiled at the old stories.

When breakfast was finished, Miriam said, ‘Colonel Simpson..

My father shook his head. ‘Please, call me Ronald. Or Ron.’

Miriam smiled, nodded. ‘Very well, Ronald. Can I ask you something?’

‘Ma’am, the time when I cannot answer a question from a beautiful lady such as yourself will be the day I’ll hear dirt falling on the lid of my coffin. Go ahead. Ask away.’

Miriam said, ‘In the time you’ve spent here, have you heard anything about the armistice talks? Are they proceeding?’

My father wiped his fingers with a paper napkin. ‘Yes, they are proceeding.’ And he shot me a look as though he was reminding me of our previous talk. ‘And I’m sure they will succeed eventually. Perhaps today. Perhaps next week. But in the long run… as I’ve told Samuel, I don’t think in the long run that being here with the UN will be healthy. I sense bad times coming, once the people—everywhere, not just in the states with active militia — once the people decide the UN has been here long enough and must go.’

Miriam reached under the table, squeezed my leg. ‘Thank you. And I’ll tell you, in the long run I don’t intend to remain in the UN. And perhaps neither does your son.’

That got my father’s attention. ‘Really?’

‘Truly,’ she said. ‘I am considering joining Médecins Sans Frontières, and Samuel has expressed an interest as well. One of these days.’

‘Ah, Doctors Without Borders. A noble group. It sounds wonderful. But a bit of advice?’

I felt like warning Miriam that advice from my father usually had some sort of price tag attached to it, but I let it slide. Miriam said, ‘All right. Advice I can take.’

My father looked at us both. ‘Don’t stay in the States. Go somewhere else.’

I said, ‘All right. Advice taken.’

A smile from the old guy. ‘Fair enough.’ He glanced at his watch, said, ‘Time’s not waiting. There’s a chartered flight leaving for Toronto in the hour. Sure you can’t come?’

‘Positive,’ I said.

‘A pity.’ My father got up, leaned over and gave Miriam a peck on her cheek. Then he held out his hand. I gave it a firm shake and he said, ‘Write more, Samuel, won’t you?’

‘Of course,’ I said.

‘Good. You two take care, and remember what I said. Get out of the States.’

He walked away, past the long line of aid people and soldiers and doctors still waiting for breakfast. Then he was gone.

Miriam said, ‘He’s certainly something, Samuel.’

‘That he is,’ I said. ‘That he is.’

When I brought the dirty dishes up to the washing station, there was a woman standing there, scraping a dirty plate viciously with a knife. I looked, and then looked again. Karen Tilley.

‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Karen, how are you?’

She looked up at me from her chore, her red hair unwashed and a tangled mess. ‘I’m breathing, I guess. How the hell are you?’

‘I’m doing all right, considering—’

Karen tossed the plate into a gray plastic bin filled with other dishes, making a loud rattling noise. ‘Hell, I think you’re doing just fine, pal, just fucking fine. You’re standing here, breathing and living and everything seems to be working right. You’re not dead, shot and left behind—shot dead for the crime of being in this hellhole and trying to help people.’

I put the tray of dirty dishes down gingerly, started cleaning them as well. ‘I’m sorry about Sanjay, Karen.’

She snorted. ‘Spare me your fake sympathy.’

‘Nothing fake about it. Sanjay… I can’t believe what he did there, toward the end.’

‘Bullshit,’ she said, now tossing the silverware into a bucket half-filled with greasy water. ‘I know what you all thought about me and Sanjay. Slutty American woman, spreading her legs for a little exotic flesh from the Far East.’

‘Not true. You and he were professionals. I didn’t care what you did in your tents at night. And I know what he did when the shooting took place, that he thought I was coming back and he—’

It was as if Karen wasn’t listening to a single word I had said, as if this talk had been prepared for days. She said, ‘Well, the hell with all of you. Sanjay and me, we had something special, something romantic, something to call our own out there, and it’s gone. Thanks to you.’

I froze, a dirty oatmeal bowl in my hand. ‘Me?’

‘Of course you, you moron,’ she said, wiping her hands on her sweater. ‘I know exactly what happened, how you had to be Mr Helpful, Mr Goodie-Two-Shoes, Mr I’m-So-Sweet. You had to get up that morning and make some hot water so that your girlfriend and Charlie and Jean-Paul and Peter would all look up to you, would think, hey, this kid’s worth it. A little hot coffee to score points. Right?’

‘No, I was just boiling the water to—’

‘Asshole,’ Karen said, stretching out the two-syllable word. ‘If you hadn’t gone out like that, to play Boy Scout, we would have skipped breakfast. I know we would. But we had to wait for you to come back, so there we were, sitting out in the open, dumb and hungry, waiting for you. We waited, Sammy, boy did we wait, and you know what happened next, right?’

‘I managed to warn you, by—’

‘And if you hadn’t gone out, there wouldn’t have been anything to warn us about, right? No hot water, no breakfast, just a quick pack-up and we’re gone. Well, congratulations, Sammy, you got to do a good deed and you got a good man killed in the process. Fuck you very much.’

Karen turned and stalked away, and I just stood there. I suppose a hero in a movie or a made-for-television film would have gone after her to plead his case, to try to explain further, but I was tired. Miriam was back there, waiting for me.

And, after all, I was no hero.

Not at all.

I didn’t feel like talking any more about Karen or Sanjay or anything to do with that day, so I found Miriam and we went outside to a small hillside park near the hospital complex. It was sunny, there was no wind, and it felt more like a pleasant late September day than a late October one. We sat on a picnic table and held hands, and we looked down to the parking lot crowded with APCs, military trucks and a number of ambulances. On a wide lawn on the far side of the parking lot was a small tent city, with some banners flying. I picked out the Red Cross, the UN and one flag that looked German. Wire fencing and guard posts enclosed the parking lot, and there was the steady drone of engines at work.

Miriam leaned against me and said, ‘Did you ever come here, to the United States, before the troubles?’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Plenty of times.’

‘What for?’ she asked. ‘Tourism? To do stories for your newspaper?’

‘The truth?’

‘Of course, the truth.’

I looked into her eyes. ‘It sounds silly, but this is the truth: I used to go to the States like most Canadians did. For the shopping.’

‘Shopping?’ Miriam sounded incredulous.

‘Sure, shopping. The prices were reasonable and you didn’t have the incredible taxes we Canucks have to put up with to pay for a creaky national healthcare system.’

She put her arm round my shoulders. ‘I always wanted to come here, you know. Had a chance once, as a high-school student, but I got sick and couldn’t make it. And when I did eventually come here, well, it was during a very unhappy time. Right after the Security Council resolution authorizing the intervention. I had often dreamed of coming here to the States as a tourist. It never occurred to me that I would be coming here to look for mass graves. Not in my wildest nightmares.’

Or looking for evidence of the people behind the attacks. That was extra—God, was that extra.

Miriam looked around at the scenery, squeezed my shoulder. ‘Such a big, prosperous and unhappy land. I saw a magazine illustration, last year, before the bombings. It showed a county-by-county breakdown of how the vote for President went. A big divide, with lots of hate, mistrust and bad feelings on both sides. And nobody had the will, the vision, to bridge that gap.’

I put a hand on her leg, gave it a squeeze. Below us some vehicles were moving around by the main entrance to the hospital parking lot. I said, ‘We had the same problem for a while, too. Rural versus urban, the west coast versus the maritimes, the Quebecois versus everybody else. Lucky for us, we managed to muddle through.’

‘Mmm,’ she murmured. ‘Muddle through. I like the sound of that. Tell me, Samuel, what do you think will happen here next?’

I was thinking of what to say when the noise level started to increase. Now there were soldiers down there, coming out of some of the tents. Then came the distant sound of approaching helicopters. I shifted and put my own arm around Miriam.

‘Something’s going on, isn’t it?’ she said simply.

‘Yes.’

‘A guess?’

‘I have no idea.’

She broke free from my grasp. ‘Then come along. I want to know what’s happening.’

I got up from the picnic table and followed Miriam down to the large parking lot, though I really wanted to grab her and take her back to my room. I didn’t like the sudden burst of noise and activity but my old reporter’s curiosity was being tickled. Something was indeed going on.

We made our way down the hill and were soon on the pavement of the parking lot. People started moving about, most of them in uniform, and none seemed to be in a mood to talk. Then, luck of luck, Miriam cried out, ‘Peter!’ and, sure enough, there he was. He looked at us both and then at me and said, ‘You know, Samuel, you are doing much better than I could ever have imagined.’

‘Well, I like to surprise people. What’s going on here?’

Peter looked around, his hands on his hips. ‘You mean all this moving around, all these soldiers marching to and fro?’

‘Yes,’ Miriam said. ‘What’s up?’

‘Very simple, really,’ Peter said. ‘You see, the militias are coming.’

I felt cold again and Miriam brought her hand up to her mouth. Peter laughed. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. What I should have said is that representatives of the militias are heading over. You see, the negotiations are almost complete.’

‘The armistice,’ I said.

Peter nodded. ‘So true. The armistice is back on, so I’m told, but there’s going to be a very steep price.’

‘What’s that?’ Miriam asked.

Peter said, ‘The militia leaders, the ones being held at The Hague. They get sprung, a day ahead of schedule, before any last attempt to find Site A. And in exchange for freeing those bloody murderers the armistice is revived.’

‘That’s a hell of a price,’ I said.

Peter nodded again. ‘True, mate—and I’m sorry to say that it’s a price that’s going to be paid.’