Chapter 6
Peabody looked me over as if weighing the words he was about to say. There was a minute sigh and then his expression darkened. “The popular misconception about Green Berets is that we are some super elite warrior who can single-handedly take out an entire enemy regiment armed with nothing but a butter knife. In reality we bleed and die like anyone else but are smart enough to use our small numbers to great effect. But just like in the days of Vietnam, we aren’t interested in going after the enemy by ourselves. We leave those types of missions for the Rangers and the Seals, who like to go in guns blazing. The real job of a Green Beret is to make contact with the locals, convince them to join our side, and give the training so they can fight properly.”
It was obvious that he given this sort of speech before.
He continued, “It’s a dirty job and requires men who are willing to take risks beyond the call of duty – living in terrible conditions, far away from an army base with their hot showers, good food, and a cot to sleep in. Instead a Green Beret has to live like a native and think like one. We learn their customs; their very way of life. I’ve lived in huts and even out in the open. I’ve had to sleep on the ground with nothing but my uniform to keep me warm. I’ve had to eat goat and drink muddy water. It takes a certain kind of soldier that can make it through that kind of experience. You can be sold out any time and the Taliban are ferocious fighters that have plenty of resources at their disposal. It’s no picnic, that’s for sure.”
I was busy jotting all of this down. I said, “Surely some soldiers must fall prey to drugs or any other vice that comes that way.”
“Alcohol is forbidden in strict Muslim countries, but getting a bottle of whiskey is possible if you know the right people. Of course that can be said for any banned substance in any country. But drugs, especially opium, are easily available in Afghanistan. Neither was much of an issue with my men since anyone caught drunk or drugged up would have been court-martialed and removed from the service. The Green Berets are an elite force that requires years of training. Most soldiers would rather die that get forcibly removed.”
“But there was still trouble?”
“There are many vices in the world. Money, as they say, is the root of all evil.”
“So there were some soldiers making a few extra dollars on the side?”
He nodded sadly. “It’s a common enough problem. Some trading is done with good intentions, like getting a rug for your hut or buying a goat for a cookout, but others are done out of pure greed. The Khost province, which is close to Pakistan, is, unfortunately, thick with antiquities. A gold chain or a piece of ancient jade means very little to the haji, not when they can get some AK-47 ammunition in return. Raw opium is also very common.”
“Was Bill Kinney involved in such trading?”
“Bill had two good friends over there. A corporal named Keith Miller, and a lieutenant Eric Sanders. They worked together trading with the natives.”
Of course I recognized Miller, but I checked my list of names that I had already drawn up and saw Sanders had also been mentioned in the emails.
“What exactly did they do?” I asked.
“That’s the thing. I knew they were trading for illegal goods with the locals, but I could never prove it. They had a damn good hiding spot – one that I never discovered – and had some way of ferrying out the goods, probably through someone on the helicopters that came to supply us. As for what they did, you would have to ask them.”
“Surely you must have some idea.”
“There are always rumors. I’ve heard stories about a trove of gold stolen from a tomb, and even raw diamonds moved from Pakistan. Of course opium is the obvious answer. I know the streets of America are now flooded with the stuff, most of it brought in by smuggling the drugs through military supply lines.”
“Did you ever catch anyone? Was anyone ever punished for dealing with the locals?”
Peabody made an unpleasant grimace; his forehead furrowed. “I was busy fighting a goddamn war, not looking after the morals of my boys. As long my soldiers did what they were ordered and didn’t shirk, I gave them plenty of leeway. Bill Kinney was one hell of a soldier. He had several kills to his name and was feared greatly by the Taliban. They even put a bounty out to be collected by anyone who could kill him.”
“What about Keith Miller or Eric Sanders?”
“Miller was just one in a sea of faces. I never had to deal with him directly. On the other hand, Sanders was a lieutenant and had to carry out orders, some at my personal direction. To tell you the truth, I never liked the man. He was all bluff, always bragging about this and that, but actually getting very little done. He never directly went against my wishes, but instead would come up empty-handed if asked to take out a mujahideen or go out on patrol. The men who report to him loved the man. Probably because they knew that they would be coming back to the base in one piece. Sanders lacked initiative.”
“You just said that no one under your command was a shirker.”
He gave me an unpleasant look. “Ideally, yes. But when you’re in a war, you have to deal with the tools that you are given. Sanders was good with the locals and picked up their language real quick. He was a crack shot and good with weapons. I used him the best that I could, which was as an official interpreter and for training the locals.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“The Green Berets are a tight group. I’m retired but still keep up with the soldiers who I once commanded. Sanders, like me, is out of army now. He is running some real estate business of his own over in Los Angeles. The messages I got from him makes it sound like he is a millionaire. I’m not sure if it’s all bravado or not. You never can tell with someone like him.”
“He sounds like the type who makes outlandish claims.”
“As I said, Sanders is his own best promoter. We had plenty of time to talk out there. He was always going on about some get-rich-quick scheme: currency trading, medical stocks, and land deals. It was no surprise when I found out that he had gone into real estate after his army gig was up.
“What about Bill Kinney. Was he out to get rich?”
The colonel sighed. “Bill was getting on in age. The thing about the army is that they take care of you, but once you’re out, that’s it. Other than a small pension, he had nothing to look forward to. He had a family to look after. I don’t blame him for getting wrapped up with Sanders or Miller.”
I changed topics and began asking Peabody general questions about the war and the worst situations he had encountered. It was all thrilling and perfect fodder for a real writer. I learned about the Taliban, roadside bombs, the tribal laws, and living hard in the middle of a combat zone. He seemed to really warm to me and it was almost two hours later when I was able to pry myself away, promising I would send him a copy of the book when it was finished.
By the time I returned to the car, I was starving. I headed back to my apartment. There I parked, and went upstairs. The alarms were still set. There was the smell of cooking chicken. Entering the front door, I saw Pauline busy in the kitchen, working a frying pan. She was wearing a pair of jeans, no socks or shoes, and a simple burgundy shirt with a plunging neckline. There was some light classical music playing on the stereo.
“You’re back,” she said, beaming at me.
“What are you cooking?” I asked, fearing the worst.
“Your refrigerator and cupboards aren’t very well stocked. Do you just live on steak and bacon?”
“Pretty much yes, as long as you add a salad, and the occasional drink.”
“Are you one of those Paleo diet people?”
“Not exactly. I try to minimize sugar and carbohydrates as much as I can. I do make exceptions for alcohol though.”
“You do look trim, but I couldn’t go a day without some potato chips.”
“I’m not evangelical about it. I don’t care what anot
her person does with their body. That’s up to them. I just want to be left alone.”
“So you’re a Libertarian too?”
“You can keep on trying to fit me into your neat little categories, but really, I have very little interest in politics or deciding how other people should live. As far as I can tell, the latter has been tried for years with very little success. I certainly wouldn’t count on anyone, especially a politician, to decide what I should eat, who I can screw, or what car to drive.”
Pauline blinked a few time and then quickly changed the subject. “I’m making Rosemary Chicken with steamed broccoli. I hope that’s to your liking.”
I nodded eagerly. “I’m not used to having someone else doing the cooking. I’m looking forward to it.”
“You can consider it a small down payment for everything you have done for me. I want to be useful. While I’m staying here I can cook and clean for you.”
“That’s not necessary. You’re my guest. You don’t have to do anything unless you want to.”
“I’ve already done a whole bunch of nothing today. I’ve slept on that patio of yours and even used the hot tub. It’s rather liberating to be outside without a stitch of clothing on.”
I raised my eyebrows in mock shock. “You surprise me. I usually save that entertainment for when the lights go out.”
She gave me a shy smile that held plenty of promises. “Why don’t you set the table and we can discuss our fetishes later.”
“That’s right, we never got around to discussing your sexual hang ups. I’m sure it will make for some interesting conversation.”
“Not that interesting,” Pauline said, her expression revealing a painful memory.
I had almost thought that she was back to normal. That was a mistake. I would have to let her come around at her own pace. Instead of saying anything else, I pulled some plates and silverware out and placed them on the dining room table. Even though it was after four, we were running on a different schedule than the outside world. This was a good time as any for lunch. I took out two wine glasses and filled them with cold tonic water from the refrigerator. The drinks could do with a splash of gin but I would also forgo alcohol until she was ready.
Pauline served dinner, nervously watching my first taste. The chicken was good, the rosemary a much needed change from my normal salt and pepper. The broccoli was undercooked, but I didn’t complain since some people liked it that way.
“Was your errand successful?” she asked between bites.
I took a drink of tonic water before answering. “I saw a man named Bob Peabody. He used to be a Green Beret colonel. Bill Kinney, who served with Keith, was involved in some sort of illegal trade with the natives over in Afghanistan. The colonel wasn’t sure what they were dealing in, possibly drugs, but it was something. Did Keith ever give you any clues how he made his money?”
“He just said something about the stock market.”
“More like the black market.”
“So what are you going to do next?”
“There was another man involved in their scheme. His name is Eric Sanders. Is that name familiar to you?”
Pauline looked upward, concentrating on nothing but trying to retrieve an old memory. She answered, “I was drunk. I mean really drunk. We were at some dive bar. Keith had been pawing at me all night, just waiting to get me home so he could do his things to me. His cellphone went off. He answered and immediately started shouting at the person on the other end. I couldn’t understand what Keith was going on about, something about how he hadn’t found it yet. And then he told the person to fuck off before hanging up. He mumbled to himself and said the name Sanders under his breath. Then grabbed me by the arm and hauled me back to my condominium. At least that’s how I remember it.”
“It sounds like Kinney screwed his friends out of some money, or else they decided they wanted to take his share. I was planning on going to Los Angeles to talk to this Eric Sanders.”
“Are you going to go by yourself?”
“Why do you ask? Do you think you are up for a road trip?”
“I think so,” she replied uncertainly. “How long were you planning to be gone?”
“Until tomorrow night. It’s going to be a lot of driving.”
“I think I can manage that. I want to be close to you. I don’t think I can handle a night without you nearby.”
“Okay,” I said after a moment of thought. “Pack something for an overnight trip. I may have to leave you at the hotel for a little while when I’m off questioning this Sanders.”
“I can handle that.”
Pauline went to the bedroom to pack. While she was busy doing that, I cleaned up the kitchen and loaded the plates and silverware into the dishwasher. I took the wine glasses and cleaned them by hand. They were antique and a little too delicate to trust to a machine. Afterward I used the computer and looked up the phone number of Eric Sanders. I narrowed it down to the correct number by doing several cross searches. I then went into the bedroom and put together a bag of clothing. While in the closet, I removed a hidden panel and, amongst the various weapons inside, selected a Colt Defender - a sub-compact pistol - and a pistol harness. The .40 caliber slug wasn’t a charging Rhino stopper, but it would put a sizable hole in anyone who stopped long enough to get hit. I added this equipment to the bag, hiding them on the very bottom. When I was done, the panel went back into place. After I was finished in the bedroom, I went to the bathroom and added the toiletries I would need.
I found Pauline at the front door, waiting to go. I shut down the stereo, set the alarm system, and turned off all the lights. Down to the garage we went. We took the Impala. We were soon caught in the crush of rush hour as the office workers fled back to the safety of their suburban paradise. It took a long time to get on the highway which was bumper-to-bumper, but, as the exits went by, the traffic diminished. It was only then that we could start to eat up some miles.
As I drove, Pauline fiddled with the stereo. She apparently liked modern pop music which was only a small strike against her. At least she kept the volume low enough that we could talk. The tone of the conversation was light. I discussed cars, which seemed to bore her to no end, and so I eventually shut my mouth. She prattled on about her childhood – an apparently abnormal one since there were so few roadblocks or trouble – and life in a small town.
She finally said, “You’ve gotten quiet. What was your childhood like?”
“Not much to say. I grew up in a suburb outside of Grand Rapids, a city over in Michigan. I hated the closed-mindedness of the place. I made a vow to myself that I would really experience life. So I did.”
“What did you do?”
“A little college and a little of everything else – I went down to Brazil and worked on a beef farm, I waited tables in New York City, I was a messenger in Chicago, and then I went out to California to try my hand in the film industry. I had no success in that, but realized there were plenty of ways to make money that didn’t involve working for someone else. It’s a long story but I got involved in the security business, doing a little bodyguard work on the side. In my spare time I began to lift weights plus a little jogging and take some Krava Maga classes. I apparently have a natural talent for violence, or so I have been told.”
“Krava Maga? Is that like Karate?”
“You could say that.”
“I feel that I know so little about you, but you know everything about me.”
“I like my privacy.”
“But you’re rich. Tell me how you made all of your money. I bet that’s an interesting story.”
“That’s no secret. I just didn’t spend much in the beginning. I took whatever extra I had and started investing it. I started with stocks, but found that was a sucker’s game since the big players are pulling all the levers. So I got into local real estate and certain opportunities.”
She made a grump
y face. “You’re being vague again.”
“As I said, I like my privacy. And don’t take this the wrong way, but there is always a chance that someday you’ll have to sell me out to save your own skin. The less you know about me, the safer I am.”
She said sullenly, “I don’t think I would ever rat you out. Not after what you’ve done for me.”
“You never know what someone will do in a given situation.”
“You must think that I’m a silly thing. Are you really that confident in yourself or is it all bluff?”
I gave her a quick, awkward grin. “Man, our lofty morals aside, are animals. Like beasts they fear the alpha wolf but still want to nip at his heels. If he’s aggressive enough then maybe they will leave him alone. But if the pack senses any kind of weakness, they’ll be after you and tear you into shreds.”
“You make it sound so primitive. We’re not wolves.”
“There’s a difference between the life of a middle-class woman and the rest of the world. You should know that after meeting Keith.”
I could feel her eyes on me, searching my face.
She said, “You’re not anything like him.”
“Don’t fool yourself. I may not be an abusive jerk, but he and I both know the rules of the game. We both know that in order to survive you have to give it all in a fight. There will be no holding back when we finally meet.”
Pauline became silent. She turned to stare out the window, watching the setting sun that was hanging right in front of us. The desert here was beautiful, the blue sky slowly turning into a deep purple as the night took over. It was a rough, untamed country that was filled with rolling hills, scrub brush, and stony outcrops. It reminded me of cowboys and every western movie I had ever seen. I loved the sparseness and the sense of unlimited wildness, harking back to a simpler time. It wasn’t a matter of being old-fashioned, but just a hatred of the worst aspects of our modern world. Too many people were lost in a limited fantasy world of computers and superficial friendships. They did not know the physical feeling of overcoming almost insurmountable odds. I just hoped that Pauline could learn from her experience and not become consumed by it.
We stopped in Barstow, a not very large town that happened to have a military base, an intersection of roads, and a railway. Once I was off the highway, I filled the car up and then proceeded into the old downtown where Pauline selected a Mexican restaurant to eat at. It was a quaint place that served good authentic burritos, unlike the Americanized version that have forever tainted our pallets. We didn’t talk much. Now that her knight in shining armor was a little tarnished, she seemed suspicious of me. Perhaps she thought I was going to turn into another Keith. She already had enough monsters in her life so I couldn’t blame her.
I drove onward, not stopping until we hit the edges of Los Angeles. I stopped at a small motel; one that was off the main road and had a deserted lot. It was one of those funny places - just a single row with doors facing a parking space - that was a leftover from the 1950s. At my request, the clerk gave me two units situated next to each other. I paid cash. I saw Pauline to her door and then let myself into my room. Inside there was a single bed with green sheets, an ugly brown dresser, and easy chair that had a ripped cushion. Home sweet home. The carpeting was red shag. I feared walking on it barefoot. A television was tucked in the corner. The room smelled of Lysol and stale cigarettes.
After putting my bag down, I went to the tiny bathroom and splashed some cold water on my face. I then went and sat on the edge of the bed. Pulling the cellphone from my pocket, I dialed a number that I had already looked up in Vegas.
Someone picked up. Across the line I heard a brief burst of laughter in the background. “Hello?” a man said. His words were slurred.
“Yes, I’m Vincent Poole,” I lied. “I’m trying to reach Eric Sanders.”
“You’re speaking to him, buddy. What do you want?”
“Are you the Eric Sanders who served in Afghanistan as a Green Beret?”
“Yes. Just who is this?” His tone was getting angrier, speaking out of the bottle instead of the head.
“I was talking to your commanding officer, Colonel Peabody. He told me that you might be interested in talking about your time in Afghanistan. I’m writing a book about the war.”
“Peabody? Yeah, I know him alright. Why don’t you come on over and we can talk about this book of yours. We’re having a little party here at the house in celebration of a big sale I just got.”
“That sounds good, Mr. Sanders. Let me have your address and I’ll come as soon as I can.”
He gave me the location of his house and some directions that didn’t make much sense. Thankfully I had a GPS unit in the car that would get me there.
“Is it okay if I bring someone? I have my girlfriend with me.”
“Sure! The more women the better!”
“Okay, I’ll see you in a little while.”
This was a stroke of luck. I feared he would turn me down and I would have to come up with another excuse to see him. But the alcohol had loosened his tongue and more importantly, his brain. A natural braggart gets even worse after a few drinks.
I took my coat off. I dug into the bag, pulled the gun and holster out. I put the rig on over my shirt, reflexively checked that there wasn’t a load in the chamber of the Colt, and then slid the little gun inside the holster. I put my coat back on and checked in the mirror that there wasn’t any sort of bulge under my armpit. There were no plans to kill anyone tonight, but I wanted the kind of protection that a pistol could offer. If I really wanted to murder someone, I would have brought a shotgun with, especially since there’s no ballistic test for matching buckshot to the barrel.
I left the room and knocked on Pauline’s door. She was still dressed and didn’t look very relaxed. Maybe she didn’t like the room.
“How would you like to go to a party?” I asked.