Stephen Coonts: Pirate Alley

Molina zeroed in on the wired-up batteries, the radio-controlled receiver and the explosives in the basement. “So you saw the three batteries?”

“Yes.”

“And you saw Admiral Grafton safety them by removing the wires from the terminals of the batteries?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t reattach the wires?”

“No.”

“Do you know who did?”

“No.”

“Two Mossad agents were in Eyl. Could they have rewired the batteries and triggered the blast from a distance?”

I shrugged. “Anyone could have. I didn’t, and didn’t see anyone do it, but it was a long night. The building was used to hold Shabab prisoners. The explosion of the weapons cache could have been an accident. There were over two tons of Russian PVV-5A in there, hundreds of RPGs, tens of thousands of rounds of AK and machine-gun ammo, MON-50 Russian claymores … the whole basement was an explosion waiting to happen. And it did.”

I shrugged again. “I repeat: I had nothing to do with that explosion. But if I had thought of it, I would have been perfectly willing to go down to the basement, wire up the detonators and push the button on a radio controller from a safe distance. If someone did that, they did the world a favor. That part of the world, anyway.”

“The prisoners had surrendered.”

“I am sure Allah considered that when he totted up their accounts. Do surrendered martyrs get fewer houris, fewer little boys?”

Molina grimaced. “The president is out on a limb, and you are doing nothing to help him get off it.”

“I didn’t hold a ladder for him to get up there,” I stated, “and I won’t hold a ladder for him to get down.”

Molina looked at me awhile, then transferred his gaze to Grafton, then back to me.

“We only lost five killed, eight wounded in the rescue operation,” Grafton said. “The president should be crowing about that. And giving out medals to the families in a White House ceremony.”

“Does that include me as a wounded casualty?” I asked.

“No.”

I pulled up my trouser leg and showed Molina my scar. It was still pink. “Nine wounded.”

“You clown,” Molina said to me. He told Grafton, “We’re doing a ceremony.”

Grafton opened his drawer and took out a piece of paper. He passed it to Molina. Looked like a hundred-dollar bill to me. “The counterfeit money went into the ocean with bin Laden. He can spend it in hell. The paper will eventually decompose. Here’s a souvenir.”

“No one knows that money was counterfeit,” Molina said, fingering the C-note.

“My suggestion is we leak the story. The administration can deny it at first, then sheepishly admit it. Everyone will have a good laugh on the pirates, and the president will look tough. That will get him part of the way off the limb, anyhow.”

Molina smiled. The smile turned to a chuckle; then he laughed out loud. “Jake, you are one amazing son of a bitch. Okay. Okay.”

“I know a guy over at the Post . Jack Yocke. I’ll call him and send him this bill. He’ll be delighted to break the story.”

Molina laughed his approval. He tossed the C-note on Grafton’s desk, got out of his chair and retrieved his sport coat from the couch. Put it on.

“What happened to that million dollars in real money that you took with you?”

“I gave it to Ragnar. Maybe it’s still in Eyl. Consider it an investment.”

Molina walked over to a print on Grafton’s wall of a naval battle in the age of sail and stood scrutinizing it. “We’ll probably never know exactly what happened after the battles in Eyl,” he said soberly, all trace of mirth gone from his voice, “and perhaps that is best. Just so it stays that way.”

He turned around. “Merry Thanksgiving to you both,” he said and trooped out.

When the door closed, Grafton asked, “How was your French lady?”

I sighed. “ Tres bien . Very tres bien. ”

“Welcome back to the world.” He leaned forward in his chair and picked up a file, passed it to me. “I’ve got another assignment for you.”

I looked at the cover for the file. Didn’t open it. “I hope you intend to send me somewhere that has ceramic conveniences and toilet paper. I’m really tired of squatting over a hole and using leaves. Or pages from the Federal Employees Handbook.”

“Tommy, Tommy, Tommy.” His eyebrows danced, and a grin crossed that leathery face. “I’ve put you in for the Company camping award. If you win, you get a CIA coffee cup and an embossed compass at the Christmas party. Tough competition, though.”

“I feel so lucky! I’ll buy a lottery ticket on my way home tonight.”

He nodded at the file in front of me. “The IRS says an international ring of thieves is defrauding the government by submitting false income tax returns claiming refunds for people with Puerto Rican Social Security numbers. The real people don’t even know about the returns. Puerto Ricans don’t pay federal taxes. The FBI and IRS want our help. You are the help.”

“Not the revolution in Mali? I thought I was in line for a government-paid trip to Timbuktu. ‘Them being three and us being two…’ I have thought up an excellent list of reasons why I shouldn’t go. Want to hear them?”

“Some other time.”

We talked for a half hour about my new assignment. As I was leaving he came around the desk to shake my hand. “Thanksgiving dinner at my place, Tommy,” he said. “Anytime after noon.”

I grinned, then headed off to study up on IRS refunds-and write an ops report. A little fiction never hurt anyone. Hell, maybe fiction was my calling, the start of a new career.