The Last Good Man

Ghost

They arrive in the middle of the night at a British Sovereign Base Area on Cyprus, setting down on an isolated concrete apron. No media waiting. No fanfare. Just a cluster of British officers and American officials, along with three gray vans.

In the deal worked out by Lincoln, the British have agreed to mediate the repatriation of the civilians but they want to stay outside of an anticipated legal squabble over the activities of mercenaries. So Requisite Operations is to depart immediately—a scenario that suits True just fine. Even better, Lincoln has worked a magic spell, persuading US officials to let Miles Dushane leave with them.

“Chris,” True says over the intercom as the H215’s engines wind down.

“Here.”

“Hold the officials at the door. I want a couple of minutes to talk to Fatima.”

“You got it.”

The curtain of casualty blankets still hangs between the seats. True looks around it to find Felice helping Fatima out of her safety harness. Felice looks up. “Ready?” she asks.

“Just about.”

Fatima appears tired but calm. Her face has been washed and her hair neatly tucked away beneath a thin orange cloth that she’s using as a hijab. She meets True’s questioning gaze and with a hoarse edge to her voice she says, “You want to know if I will throw another mad fit?”

True sits down beside her. “You seem past that.”

“For now,” Fatima agrees.

True says, “Felice has told you that there are US State Department personnel here, waiting to receive you.”

“Yes.”

“They’ll see that you get medical treatment and that you get home. Your parents will be here tomorrow.”

“I understand. Thank you.” Her gaze cuts away. Her hand closes into a tight fist against her thigh. “I’m pregnant.”

This is not a surprise. True tells her, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry he’s laid that claim on you.”

Fatima looks at her again. Her gaze is steady, focused. Angry. “You understand, then. If I bear this child, I will be a slave, his slave, for all my life. My body used by him, to his own ends. I hate it. I hate his voice in my head, so superior, lecturing me how it is all God’s will. I hate this fear he has put into my heart. I hate him. I hate him.”

“He deserves your hate,” True says. “Never forget what he did to you. Never forgive it. Never forgive those who inflict such horror on others.” Her focus slips. She hears again the soundtrack of Diego’s agony—and her own hate bleeds as raw as ever.

She draws in a sharp breath, forces herself back to the surface. “Hate him,” she advises Fatima. “But don’t let him live inside your head. Don’t let him make any decisions for you. It’s on you to decide who you are and why you’re here in the world.”

The ghost of a bitter smile surfaces on Fatima’s face. “Thank you for finding me,” she says. “I am ready to go.”

Chris gets the door open. There’s an awkward moment as they say goodbye to Fatima, to Ryan Rogers, and to Dano Rodrigues. When they are gone, a pair of American intelligence officers comes aboard. Everyone signs an electronic document agreeing to submit to an interview within forty-eight hours of their return to the United States, and after that they transfer to a chartered jet. A cheer goes up as it lifts off. There are fist bumps and yells of “Right action!” Chris even gives a little speech: “We did what we came to do and we did it well. Be proud. This will be one to remember.” He sniffs at the cabin air, shakes his head. “And damn, we stink. As soon as we reach cruising altitude, I want everyone to get cleaned up.”

They use the kitchenette and the tiny restroom to wipe down. The clothes worn on the mission, smelling of sweat and smoke and gunfire, are packed away in plastic bags. They change into civilian clothes. An extra athletic shirt and trousers are found for Miles. He still doesn’t have shoes but he’s not going to complain.

“Who’s got a razor?” he shouts down the aisle. He remembers the coarse length of his beard. “Maybe scissors too.”

Rohan grins. “I’ve got just the thing.” He reaches deep into his pack—and produces a straight-edge razor, of all things. Turning the blade so the cabin light flashes against it, he says, “Of course you might slash your own throat if we hit turbulence.”

Miles shrugs and accepts the weapon. “I always wanted an ironic death.”

He manages not to kill himself. Afterward, his face clean, he studies himself in the mirror, startled at how much he’s aged. His face is thin, bony, reminding him of the way his father looked after a bout of pneumonia almost killed him. Miles was lean before this ordeal, but looking at his ribs, his hollow belly, he guesses he’s lost thirty pounds. He pulls his borrowed shirt back on, returns to the cabin, returns the razor to Rohan. Khalid hands him a steaming microwaved meal.

Miles wants to ask about the mission, how ReqOps located Hussam, how they got inside the building, how they pulled it all off without taking casualties. He wants to ask who hired them, and what their relationship is to the US government, and what legal basis they had to do what they did. But the smell of hot food reminds him that he’s thirty pounds underweight and starving. So he eats. Afterward he leans back in his seat, closing his eyes for just a minute—and doesn’t wake up again until the plane touches down in Dublin. A brief refueling stop. Only the pilot is allowed to disembark. Miles goes back to sleep.

True gives in to post-mission fatigue, sleeping most of the way to Dublin. She’s more alert as they set out across the Atlantic. It’s 0400 on the west coast. Lincoln has gone home to sleep, but she knows someone will be staffing the command post, so she calls in. Michelle, one of Tamara’s assistants, answers.

“Hey,” True says. “We got anything new on Jon Helm?”

Michelle answers with a low, dejected sigh. “Not really. Any outfit with the resources to field those Arkinsons should have a bigger footprint, but there’s a weird silence around his operation. We haven’t even been able to track down the provenance of the Arkinsons.”

It’s disquieting news. “Do you have any idea why that might be?”

“He employs the right people. That’s my guess. Wildcat cybertechs who make sure his name stays out of the Cloud.”

“Jon Helm,” she murmurs. “Still no idea what his real name is?”

“Not a clue.”

“All right. Keep me posted.”

On the east coast, it’s just past 0700. The day’s getting started. In a couple of hours, Lincoln will be on the phone. He has a long list of contacts—trusted friends and former associates—any one of whom might have insight on Jon Helm’s identity. But True has Brooke Kanegawa—and Brooke has straight-line access to intelligence resources in the US Department of State.

It’s a girl thing. True met Brooke when they were both pregnant—True with her third, Brooke with her first. True had been only twenty-seven—Twenty-seven? My God, was that even possible?—on temporary assignment in Washington DC, drafted onto a committee charged with producing a report on the sequence of blunders leading to the Mischief Reef incident. Brooke, a State Department employee with a master’s degree in international relations, was assigned to the same committee. They’ve stayed close ever since.

True uses her tablet to compose a brief email:

She doesn’t expect an immediate answer. It’s too early. She waits five minutes. Nothing comes, so she gets up to get something to eat. She finds Chris awake. They talk, and then she returns to her seat. Just before 0900 EDT, a reply from Brooke drops into her tablet:

True stares at the note. Reads the second paragraph a few more times. A shiver walks her spine. That second paragraph says a lot: Jon Helm is known to State, he’s supposed to be dead, and he’s someone True knows or at least knows of… If he was a stranger, Brooke would not have made it personal: You believe in ghosts?

So who is it?

True thinks back over twenty-seven years of service. She’s met a lot of soldiers in that time. Some are dead, some still serve. Most have returned to civilian life. She keeps in touch with only a few.

Another email arrives from Brooke. As True’s gaze alights on the subject line, she feels a feverish flush: Diego.

True didn’t mention to Brooke anything about Jon Helm’s tattoo. So why is Brooke thinking of Diego?

She opens the email to find a photo of Diego. Lincoln is on one side of him, face unscarred, Shaw Walker is on the other. All three of them drunk and Diego with a brilliant, carefree smile. He looked so much like his father: a lean face, chiseled Spanish features, dark eyes, dark eyebrows, and skin that turned a rich brown with just a hint of sunlight.

True remembers the day that picture was taken. She remembers taking it. A Fourth of July barbecue she and Alex put on a few weeks before Diego’s first deployment with Rogue Lightning. They were bound for Kunar Province in Afghanistan. Gone three months. Near the end, Lincoln was seriously wounded. That was the first time he was seriously wounded, by gunfire. Diego took no visible wound but after he returned, he never smiled like that again.

Five months later, he was dead.

True blinks against welling pressure in her eyes. Scrolls past the photo to where Brooke has included a single line of text:

True’s heart skips as she scrolls back up to look at the photo again. Who would he be now? She enlarges the image. If he had lived…

She lets Lincoln drop off the screen. Then Diego, because there is no “if” about his death. True read the autopsy report. She examined the x-rays. She looked on his blackened and shrunken body.

Only Shaw Walker’s image remains on the screen. He’s laughing with Diego, but his eyes are narrow, his mouth quirked. His is a cynical humor. He’s a good-looking man, with a high forehead and strong, balanced features. His eyes are light-colored. Easy to think the camera failed to capture their blue hue, but True knows it rendered them accurately: pale gray. His buzz-cut hair is dark blond. In the photograph, he’s clean-shaven.

True studies his face, the set of his eyes, the details of his expression. She strives to see through to his soul. If Shaw had lived, who would he be now?

Brooke has an answer to that: He’d be Jon Helm.