The Death Trust

TWENTY-TWO

I called the police in K-town and spoke to a detective who confirmed it. Varvara had lit the fire in her apartment. Kerosene had been splashed around on the carpet and a fire started with a candle used as a timed fuse. The supposed culprit, the kerosene heater, was examined and found to have been faulty. It hadn’t been used in weeks. Also, the security camera in the elevator had captured Varvara leaving the apartment with what appeared to be a half-empty bottle of kerosene. Case closed.

I called Bishop next. He said that on the night of the fire she’d called OSI at Ramstein asking for me and had instead spoken to him. He’d let slip that a suicide note penned by the general had been discovered and she’d correctly figured that this would shut down the investigation. In my mind I pictured her setting the whole thing up, putting Gone with the Wind in the bookshelf, splashing the kerosene around, pushing over the heater, lighting the candle. Then she’d paid me a visit and made sure I came back with her in time to grab the book before the flames destroyed it. Was I angry about being used? Difficult to say. She’d played me like a stacked deck, and I didn’t appreciate that much. But I also admired her for doing what she thought she had to do. And the fact that doing me was part of that — well, fair trade. I’d be deeply scarred, but I’d get over it. The simple truth was, if not for Varvara, OSI would not be pursuing the case.

“Do you know where she is?” asked Masters as I ended the call.

I shook my head. “No idea,” I said honestly. The fact that Varvara’s passport also happened to have been in the same place as the note from the general, and salvaged because of that, should have rung alarm bells, but my bell at the time was suffering from a severe bout of postcoital inoperability.

“How do you feel about all this?” Masters asked.

“I feel used,” I said.

“You’re full of shit, Cooper.”

We stood at the top of the medical center’s steps and looked out across the concrete and razor wire wall. The black cone of smoke that marked the spot of the IED still hung in the sky, although it had diminished in size. Helos hovered around it flying overwatch, looking for an excuse to rocket someone.

It was a short walk around the back of the palace to the area where the convoys marshaled. It was an extraordinary building. “The former residents lived well,” observed Masters.

“Yeah and if they ever come back, they’re going to be mighty pissed off. The sitters are making a hell of a mess in there.”

I sensed Masters flinch.

“Answer me something, will you?” she asked. “Does any of this affect you? ’Cause it doesn’t seem to.”

That stopped me cold. “Listen, I’m not an Oprah kind of guy, and I don’t cry in movies. I deal with things my own way.” The tone of her question, which implied that I could care less about the destruction of lives, made me angry.

“It’s just that it seems like a game to you.”

“What do you want me to tell you, Masters? Do you want to hear about the nightmares? The alcoholism? How about the stalled career and the broken marriage? Or maybe the phobias? Will me talking about all the baggage I’ve collected make you happy? Make working together easier, or get this case solved faster?” I was working myself up. In fact, I’d only ever boiled it down like that for even myself once before, given myself a picture of what my life was, what I’d become.

“Well, I—”

“It’s called irony, Special Agent,” I said. “It’s a great shield — maybe that’s why it’s called irony, made of iron, y’know? You should try it. If you’re going to stay in OSI, you’re going to need protection that works for you. Or it’ll get under your skin and you’ll never get it out.”

I started walking again. Within a dozen steps, I felt like apologizing. Being in that hospital had affected me. And Masters was just trying to come to grips with me — my personality. We were going through the process of getting to know each other professionally, while sharing a number of intense life-changing experiences…Jesus. I gave myself a mental shake. I was starting to sound like Brenda.

“Hey, soldier — you want an ice-cold Coca-Cola? Or maybe you want to take the Pepsi Challenge?”

I looked up from my boots and saw a corridor of shops. Apparently, we’d just wandered out of the war zone and into a friendly flea market. Servicemen milled about in the fairground atmosphere. Incongruously, a heavily armed marine walked past with an M249 machine gun in one hand and a bag of groceries in the other, a couple of bread sticks poking up out of the bag. He strolled by, acknowledging our presence with a nod. His face was covered in the fine, beige dust of the street and his fatigues were bleached the color of dried mud. I didn’t get to see his eyes. They were behind heavily polarized rose-colored glasses. An interesting choice.

“What gives here, Corporal?” I said.

“New in town, eh?” he replied.

“Yeah.”

“Haji shops. The hajis do a little business, earn a few bucks. You can buy anything you want.” He leaned in close, putting his armored body between Masters and me, and said, “And I do mean anything—know what I’m sayin’?” Although I couldn’t see the wink I’m sure he gave me one behind those lenses, there being no misunderstanding about what that “anything” might be.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” I said.

A young Iraqi male who was all teeth, wearing a Lakers basketball cap and other branded clothing, was hanging out of the nearest stall, beckoning Masters and me to come on over. He repeated the offer of selling us sodas.

His shop was little more than a trestle table with a large umbrella over the top to provide shade. Others on the strip were more permanent structures with proper roofs and air-conditioning. Portable generators filled the air with a choral buzz. I decided to take him up on his offer. “Two Cokes, thanks.”

The boy — he couldn’t have been more than fourteen — took the money and handed over the sodas. I gave one to Masters and said, “Peace?”

She accepted the can and clinked mine in agreement. “Peace. Where are we?”

“Beats me,” I said.

“You want an iPod? New model out — fifty thousand songs, movies. What’s a war without a soundtrack, right? How about CDs, videos? I can get you cable TV,” said the vendor. Masters walked on ahead and the young man said, for my ears only, “Are you lonely here? You like to fuck Iraqi virgin — make your nights as hot as your days…”

“No, thanks,” I said. I’m no prude, but I was dubious as hell about the wisdom of allowing this kind of activity to go on unchecked in what was supposed to be a secure area. I caught up to Masters and we picked up the pace through the market. There was nothing more either of us wanted or needed here.