The Death Trust

TWENTY

The one-star general regarded us silently over the cathedral of his laced fingertips as we stood in front of his desk. He tapped his forefingers together. He was balding and not doing it graciously. A large flap of dyed brown hair originating from a single point above one ear had been artfully coiffed over the roof of his head, thinly disguising the presence of a collection of fat brown freckles. So this was General Harold Lee Edwards, the Judge Advocate General officer for the U.S. Army operating in Iraq, the man widely known as “the hanging judge.” His lean face was pinched and drawn toward a sharp, upturned nose that was mostly white gristle. He could play the character of Ichabod Crane in a movie without having to visit the makeup department. His teeth were yellow and appeared to slope backward into his mouth like the barbs on a spear. The word around was that once Edwards got hold of you, he never let go.

“General Gruyere has briefed me already,” he said at last, in a voice that reminded me of a piece of wood being worked over by a rasp. I guessed he was a longtime smoker. “She has told me to lend you both every assistance. I won’t interfere in your investigation, but you must abide by the rules. You leave this compound, you go in convoy.” He leaned back in his chair. “At ease. Do you know who you want to interview?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “We would like to review the autopsy processes at the Twenty-eighth Combat Support Hospital—”

“You’ll need to see Colonel Dwyer. He runs the place.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“So you will be gone tomorrow.”

I wasn’t sure if that was a question or an order. I gambled. “There’s every likelihood of that, sir.”

“Good, I’ll get you on a manifest in advance. What about you, Major…Major…”

“Special Agent Masters.”

“Special Agent Masters,” he repeated. He checked his briefing notes to make sure he’d got it right. His sight mustn’t have been too good. Masters’s name was on her shirt not three feet away. “Hot enough here for you?”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Well, let’s hope the hajis give you a break and don’t throw too many bombs at you and make it even warmer.” The general smiled, or at least I thought he smiled — it could have been gas.

Masters gave the only possible answer. “Yes, sir.”

“Hajis, sir?” I asked.

“Locals — that’s what we call ’em.” General Edwards coughed and looked down again at his notes. “Room is at a premium here since the Iraqi government decided to reduce our compound. Fortunately, in the past week, some of our people rotated home. I’ve got you rooms in the Al-Rasheed. My adjutant will see to it. It’s a few hundred feet from the wall and prone to rocket fire, but it’s not a bad hotel. Also, a few survival tips. When you’re outside the wall, stay away from dirt mounds, vehicle wrecks, and piles of rubble. That’s where the hajis like setting their IEDs — improvised explosive devices. Good hunting. Dismissed.” He shuffled his notes like all staff officers do when they want you gone. We took the hint.

The adjutant, a lieutenant colonel, had better things to do than babysit a couple of MPs. I knew this because he said so. He took us across to the Al-Rasheed, a charmless brown lump of concrete pockmarked like an adolescent’s face by the aforementioned rocket fire. We walked into the lobby, where a sergeant sat behind the reception desk with her feet up, watching cartoons on a new Sony hooked up to satellite cable. She got to her feet pretty quickly, but the lieutenant colonel ignored her like she didn’t exist. He grabbed a key off a board covered in hooks. He tossed it to Masters and said, “Best we can do. Hope you guys enjoy a close working relationship. I know the general said rooms…” he emphasized the plural. “Got a problem with it, try finding someone who gives a shit.” With that, he stalked out.

“Must be the heat,” I said. Actually, the foyer of the Al-Rasheed was cold, air-conditioned down to about Alaska in the fall. I shivered.

“First floor, turn right. Sorry,” the sergeant said with a shrug.

We took the elevator to the first floor, wondering about the apology. Was she apologizing to us because we had to share a room? Surely not. We stepped out and were immediately hit with the heat — the air-con was out. Yellow tape was strung across the hallway. Eighty feet beyond the tape was daylight where one of those pesky unguided rockets the general mentioned had scored a hit and caused a minor cave-in.

“Be it ever so humble…” said Masters, keying the lock. The room wasn’t so bad — a time capsule of seventies chic. It was almost the height of modern interior-design fashion, these things happening to come full circle eventually.

I cased the facilities. “Hey, look,” I called out. “We’ve got a Jacuzzi.”