Chapter 69

Sansom and Springfield went quiet, like I knew they would. They were casting their minds back a quarter of a century, to a dim tent above the Korengal Valley floor. They were stiffening and straightening, subconsciously repeating their formal poses. One on the left, one on the right, with their host between them. The camera lens, trained on them, aimed, zoomed, adjusted, focused. The strobe, charging, then popping, bathing the scene with light.

What exactly did the camera see?

Sansom said, “I don’t remember.”

“Maybe it was us,” Springfield said. “Simple as that. Maybe meeting with Americans looks like bad karma now.”

“No,” I said. “That’s good PR. It makes bin Laden look powerful and triumphant, and it makes us look like patsies. It has to be something else.”

“It was a zoo in there. Chaos and mayhem.”

“It has to be something fatally inappropriate. Little boys, little girls, animals.”

Sansom said, “I don’t know what they would regard as inappropriate. They have a thousand rules over there. Could be something he was eating, even.”

“Or smoking.”

“Or drinking.”

“There was no alcohol there,” Springfield said. “I remember that.”

“Women?” I asked.

“No women, either.”

“Has to be something. Were there other visitors there?”

“Only tribal.”

“No foreigners?”

“Only us.”

“It has to be something that makes him look compromised, or weak, or deviant. Was he healthy?”

“He seemed to be.”

“So what else?”

“Deviant from their laws or deviant like we mean it?”

“Al Qaeda HQ,” I said. “Where the men are men and the goats are scared.”

“I don’t remember. It was a long time ago. We were tired. We had just walked a hundred miles through the front lines.”

Sansom had gone quiet. Like I knew he would. Eventually he said, “This is a real bitch.”

I said, “I know it is.”

“I’m going to have to make a big decision.”

“I know you are.”

“If that picture hurts him more than it hurts me, I’m going to have to release it.”

“No, if it hurts him at all, even a little bit, you’re going to have to release it. And then you’re going to have to suck it up and face the consequences.”

“Where is it?”

I didn’t answer.

“OK,” he said. “I have to watch your back. But I know what you know. And you figured it out. Which means I can figure it out. But slower. Because it ain’t rocket science. Which means the Hoths can figure it out too. Are they going to be slower? Maybe not. Maybe they’re picking it up right now.”

“Yes,” I said. “Maybe they are.”

“And if they’re going to suppress it, maybe I should just go ahead and let them.”

“If they’re going to suppress it, that means it’s a valuable weapon that could be used against them.”

Sansom said nothing.

I said, “Remember Officer Candidate School? Something about all enemies, foreign and domestic?”

“We take the same oath in Congress.”

“So should you let the Hoths suppress the picture?”

He was quiet for a very long time.

Then he spoke.

“Go,” he said. “Go get the Hoths before they get the picture.”

I didn’t go. Not right then. Not immediately. I had things to think about, and plans to make. And deficiencies to overcome. I wasn’t equipped. I was wearing rubber gardening clogs and blue pants. I was unarmed. None of those things was good. I wanted to go in the dead of night, properly dressed in black. With proper shoes. And weapons. The more the merrier.

The outfit would be easy.

The weapons, not so much. New York City is not the best place on the planet to get hold of a private arsenal at the drop of a hat. There were probably places in the outer boroughs selling overpriced junk under the counter, but there were places in the outer boroughs selling used cars too, and fastidious drivers were well advised to stay away from them.

Problem.

I looked at Sansom and said, “You can’t actively help me, right?”

He said, “No.”

I looked at Springfield and said, “I’m heading out to a clothing store now. I figure on getting black pants and a black T-shirt and black shoes. With a black windbreaker, maybe triple-XL, kind of baggy. What do you think?”

Springfield said, “We don’t care. We’ll be gone when you get back.”

*  *  *

I went to the store on Broadway where I bought the khaki shirt prior to Elspeth Sansom’s visit. It was doing a little business and had plenty of items in stock. I found everything I needed there apart from socks and shoes. Black jeans, plain black T-shirt, and a black cotton zip-up windbreaker made for a guy with a much bigger gut than mine. I tried it on and as expected it fit OK in the arms and the shoulders and ballooned way out in front like a maternity smock.

Perfect, if Springfield had taken the hint.

I dressed in the changing cubicle and trashed my old stuff and paid the clerk fifty-nine dollars. Then I took her recommendation and moved on three blocks to a shoe store. I bought a pair of sturdy black lace-ups and a pair of black socks. Close to a hundred bucks. I heard my mother’s voice in my head, from long ago: At a price like that, you better make them last. Don’t scuff them up. I stepped out of the store and stamped down on the sidewalk a couple of times to settle the fit. I stopped in at a drugstore and bought a pair of generic white boxers. I figured that since everything else was new I should complete the ensemble.

Then I started back to the hotel.

Three paces later the phone in my pocket started to vibrate.