The Wreckage

4

From an office overlooking Tower Bridge, above the grey, grey river, the only signs of vegetation are smudges of green between the buildings. Brendan Sobel looks at his wristwatch and then at the row of whisky glasses gleaming on the shelf above the drinks cabinet.

It’s too late for lunch, too early for sundowners. In Washington it is mid-morning. They’ll have finished their egg white omelets and skinny lattes, ready to make decisions about current wars and future conflicts, discussing “ops,” “intel” and “assets.”

They must be drinking somewhere in the world, thinks Sobel. What time is it in Australia? Aussies like a drink. He pours two fingers of bourbon and drops in a handful of melting ice. Why can’t the Brits make a decent ice-cube? How difficult is it to freeze water? Their pipes freeze all the time.

His secretary appears in the doorway, head to the side, noticing the glass in his hand. Sobel feels a pulse of embarrassment. Anita is twenty-four, fresh out of training, too young for him, but keen to learn the ropes.

“Mr. Chalcott is on line two.”

“Thank you, Anita.”

Sobel watches her calves as she leaves, wondering if she’s wearing tights. Women don’t wear stockings any more-not unless they’re hookers or getting married.

“Artie.”

“How’s Blighty?”

“Small and soggy.”

Arthur Chalcott chuckles with all the sincerity of a salesman. “Andy tells me we’re close.”

“There have been a few small complications.”

“Complications?”

“We tried to pick up the girl, but we missed her.”

“That sounds like a fuck-up, not a complication.”

“We’re searching for her.”

“You’ve lost contact.”

“For the moment.”

Chalcott grinds his teeth. “Who did you send to get her?”

“A freelance team.”

“Limeys.”

“They’ve done the job before.”

Sobel takes a sip of bourbon and pictures Chalcott in the bunker, sitting on his inflatable ball. The two of them were interns together. Old buddies. One was promoted faster than the other. Understood the politics.

Chalcott was a desk jockey who talked like a veteran despite serving only six months in the field-South America; a summer in La Paz, sipping sangrias and sleeping with cheap whores. Agents like him prefer to refashion their own history, making it sound like they served in Iraq or Afghanistan.

“OK, so let’s be clear on this-you’ve lost Richard North and now you’ve lost the girl. Does she know anything?”

“Ibrahim believes so.”

“How are you playing it?”

“I need clearance to pay twenty-five thousand.”

“Dollars or pounds?”

“Pounds.”

“Recoverable?”

“That’s the plan.”

Chalcott is silent for a time. Sobel thinks the line has gone dead.

“You there, Artie?”

“I’m here.”

“We might have to involve MI6 on this one. You want me to liaise?”

“Say nothing about the main game.”

“What do I tell them?”

“Tell them the girl has compromised one of our people-a married man. Stolen something of value. We’re trying to be discreet.”

Sobel thinks about the three men who stormed the house in Hammersmith. It was hardly discreet.

The call ends and he pours himself another drink, thinking about Kansas. Home has never seemed further away or felt less like home. He has been away too long, moving from one conflict to the next. The true America has become harder to identify.

He remembers a rendition prison in Afghanistan. A Taliban leader he interrogated for three days-sensory deprivation, waterboarding, stress positions-until he broke. Cried. Scratched at his face in shame.

“I weep for my land,” he said, “but mostly I weep for yours.”