David Hewson - The Sacred Cut

He looked at her, trying to remember what he’d promised to do.

“You forgot, didn’t you?” she asked with a smile.

He was trying to drag that morning’s conversation back from the depths of his memory. So much had intervened in the meantime.

“I promised I’d check a couple of names for you.”

She held up the laptop case. “It’s OK. I came prepared. I’ve been following the logs. I know what’s been happening. A busy day.”

Costa doubted she knew half of what had really gone on. He led the way to the living room and watched her set up her gear on the coffee table in front of the low sofa.

“You can say that again. Coffee?”

“I’d rather have a real drink,” she said, throwing the black jacket over the back of the sofa, getting straight down to work. “You do have wine here?”

“Wine,” he sighed and wondered how much longer he could keep his eyes open. Then he went to the kitchen, opened a cold bottle of Alto Adige Sauvignon and brought back a couple of glasses. The hard mountain grape had a kick in it. He ought to be able to stay alert for a little while before crashing completely.

Emily looked animated, a little too much for his liking. The more Leapman froze her out of the case, the more she seemed determined to find herself. It was an attractive transformation to witness and the distraction was beginning to worry him.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “You look exhausted.”

“I’ll survive. You said you know what happened?”

She shrugged. “Just from what I’ve seen in the log. Leapman isn’t updating me on anything at all. I heard a woman was killed. And that you guys managed to find where.”

The memory of the little room, and a head rolling crazily off a chair, John Wayne screaming in the background. “Oh yes.”

The blue eyes blinked at him. “Are you sure you’re OK?”

“I’m sure.” He sighed. He didn’t want to go into detail. “It was different though, somehow. Let’s leave it at that.”

She opened the computer, scanned the room for a phone socket, plugged in the machine, then returned to the sofa, motioning for him to join her. “Different… that’s interesting. I don’t think our guy likes different.”

“You think you’re starting to know him?”

“I gave you his name this morning. Now I’ve got a story. A hell of a one. A story that was supposed to end differently, I think, with heroes and victory and what we like to call ”closure.“ ”

Nic Costa took another sip of the wine and tried to convince himself he wasn’t that tired as he sank into the cushions by Emily Deacon’s side.

She hit a key and a couple of images popped up on the screen.

“These are photos I took of some documents I found in the embassy. Leapman may be acting as if I don’t exist but I got a little help there anyway. It took me to places I couldn’t visit before.”

“Photos,” Costa repeated.

“That’s right. They’d have my hide if they knew I had them.”

He groaned and went to the kitchen, returning with a dish of peanuts.

Emily Deacon cast a wry glance at them. “You Italians really know how to treat a woman.”

“Yes and I’ll show you sometime. So you’re stealing information from your embassy?”

Her narrow, pale eyebrows rose perceptibly. “I thought that’s what you wanted. Besides, this is not the kind of stuff you can photocopy, Nic. Are you turning prissy on me? Do you want to hear about it or not?”

He raised the glass and toasted her. “Talk away, Agent Deacon. I’ll try not to fall asleep on you.”

“This is a story that begins in 1990. The Gulf War is about to happen. We were kids then. You do remember the first Gulf War?”

“Sort of. My old man was a Communist Deputy at the time. I remember him burning the Stars and Stripes outside your embassy.”

She stared at him. “You’re kidding me.”

“Not at all. He took me with him. We’re an unusual family.”

“I can believe that,” she conceded. “So you do remember the war. Better than me, but then, you’re a couple of years older. It’s like any war. Each side, naturally, wants some intelligence. And they want it before the fighting even starts. So they put people in beforehand. For reconnaissance. To establish links with the Iraqi opposition. Name the reasons, it really doesn’t matter. They’re putting together a team, mainly American, maybe a couple of Iraqis for local knowledge. They’re putting it together here, in Rome. Don’t ask me how I know. I just do. They don’t want anyone outside their immediate circle to find out. Does that sound plausible?”

Military affairs weren’t Costa’s scene. His late father had a favourite rant about the army. Something along the lines that war was a hangover from another era in mankind’s development, one they’d soon leave behind. Marco Costa hadn’t lived long enough-quite-to see how wrong he was.

“It’s a story,” Costa said.

“No, Nic,” she said firmly, “it’s the truth. The man we’re looking for now was the leader of that team, on the military side anyway. William F. Kaspar. And somehow what happened to him then is behind what’s happening now.”

She paused. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“You smoke?”

“Sometimes. I have been known to have a boyfriend on occasion too. Are you shocked? What is this? A monastery?”

“Not always,” he answered. “But no one-and I mean no one-smokes in here. If you need a cigarette, do what everyone else does-go outside.”

She looked at the door.

“Later,” he added. “Please.”

He was thinking about what she said. Every military campaign had to be preceded by some kind of covert activity. It still seemed light-years away from a bizarre streak of killings more than a decade later.

“This is all a long time ago, Emily.”

She shook her head vigorously. “Oh no. Only for those of us who were young then. For the people who fought there it’s like yesterday. That’s what wars are like, Nic. Haven’t you talked to an old soldier? It’s the first thing you notice. It lives with them, day in, day out, often for the rest of their lives. Usually it’s the most important thing that ever happens to them.”

“This is Italy. We don’t have many old soldiers.”

There was a sharp intake of breath and a cold flash of those blue eyes. “OK, OK. I represent the great imperial power and we’re just brimming over with soldiers. So take my word for it. When It comes to war, memories don’t fade easily . Especially for him…”

She pointed to the name in the middle of the weird, rambling memo that was on the screen. The one that said: Subject: Babylon Sisters. Status: You have to ask ?

He read it, page by page, stumbling over the odd, colloquial language.

“William F. Kaspar again,” he said when he’d finished. “OK. I didn’t have time to chase the diplomat I mentioned. But I called the desk about him . Honest. There’s nothing.”

“I’d be amazed if there was. I didn’t find out much myself. There are no military records. Nothing personal out there. Just this one memo.”

“This is all about some big secret or something?”

“I think so.”

“Then why’s there still some evidence left? Just this one piece?”

“ I don’t know !” Something about its provenance exasperated her too. “Maybe it was a mistake,” she suggested, and didn’t look him in the eye when she said it. “They happen. It was filed under the wrong keywords.”

Costa was starting to convince himself she knew more than she was revealing at that moment. But before he could pursue the point she was moving on, impatient to get over her point.