Т Паркер - The Room of White Fire

Rameesh brought out two bowls of octopus ceviche. On the side were avocado slices, lemon and lime wedges, tortilla chips, and a tray of salsas and hot sauces. “Ford, I saw a video not long ago of an octopus carrying a coconut shell across the bottom of the ocean. Really something. He held it up over his head, kind of like a construction worker carrying a sheet of plywood. You could see his other six legs conveying him across the sand. Slow motion, under the water. Very graceful. When he got where he wanted he stopped and crawled into one half of the shell, drew his tentacles in, then closed the other half over him. And there he was, safe within his coconut shell at the bottom of the sea. Where he’d wait for some unsuspecting fish to come nose the shell open, then he’d grab and eat it.”

“I saw that one, too.”

“Aaban was like that octopus. He’d go inside his coconut shell and you couldn’t get to him.”

“Which got to you.”

“Everything got to everyone at White Fire. It was war. I don’t have to tell you that. You know from first Fallujah — when they hung those Blackwater men from the bridge. You must have felt the chaos in the air. Cruelty unleashed. A perfect storm of evil and opportunity. Evil and opportunity often go together.”

I agreed with Briggs Spencer on that and told him so.

“How did you do in the war, Roland? Personally?”

I shrugged. “I followed the rules and accomplished my mission.”

“Did you take out any innocents?”

“Not that I know.”

“The kids would have been the toughest. Because a boy is a boy, but he can handle a gun or a bomb or carry a bomb pack.”

I thought again of those door-to-doors — terrified Iraqis in their homes, hands up, eyes wild. I used to imagine what they saw in us. Murderous infidels? Liberators? Another plague to be endured?

After lunch Rameesh took away our dishes and Dawn Spencer brought out a plate of small bundt cakes that someone had spent some time on. She was pretty, plump, and blond, and carried herself apologetically. I remembered that she had been his high school sweetheart and they’d married young, which made her, like Briggs, just under sixty years old.

She sat beside her husband and offered the cakes around. I took raspberry. “I hear you almost got Clay back.”

“Almost, Mrs. Spencer.”

“Just Dawn. Look. I’ve talked to Clay over the years, here and there. Nicest kid you could imagine. The feeling I got was the war took his mind but left his soul. With other people the war did just the opposite. Tim Tritt used to talk about those two types. Sound about right, Briggs?”

“Perfectly.”

“So, I hope you can help him come back safely.” She eyed me, then the cakes appraisingly, chose a lemon one. “I can tell you that my husband has had to climb back from those wars. Many times. And now that Hard Truth is coming out, he’ll be able to answer the critics and set the record straight. Personally, I never thought Briggs owed the world an explanation for anything. He was saving American lives. Period. But now that I’ve heard his full story I’m even more proud of him than I ever was.” Dawn ate the bundt cake daintily but steadily. “Honey, how did that sound?”

“Dawn and I have been training with a media coach,” said Briggs. “For the tour. She’s showing us the best way to say what we want to say. We need to be honest, first and foremost. But we need to be careful, too. If the liberal media can find a way to crucify us, they will.”

“Did I sound believable just now?” she asked me.

“I believed you,” I said. “But it sounded rehearsed.”

“Well, that’s no surprise,” she said. She squinted out at the bright blue day. Without looking at the plate she took another cake and brought it to her mouth. “Every day I read my lines over and over but they never sound right.”

“You’re overpressuring yourself, hon,” said Spencer.

“I know, but I just hate it when other people reach inside my head. Even our coach. Hate it.”

“Well, the coach is just trying to make us feel relaxed with our story. Feel comfortable.”

“All our story makes me feel is sick to my stomach.” Staring out at the water, she finished the second cake. She stood, and we men did, too. “There. Nice to just say what I feel. And nice to meet you finally, Mr. Ford.”

“My pleasure.”

She offered me her hand, which was warm and soft, and a look, which suggested both anger and nausea. Her fair face was deeply flushed. “I can do it, Briggs. I can bring it.”

“I know you can. Thank you, Dawn.”

She headed back inside, walking past Rameesh, who held open the sliding screen door for her.

“She’s a private person,” said Briggs. “I’ve offered to do the tour without her, but she knows she’s a selling point. Team player all the way.”

“You might want to keep her away from that liberal media.”

“I have a plan for that. It’s why I asked you here today.”

“I hope it’s not about all those treasures you told me could be mine.”

“Take a walk down to the cove with me. Hear me out.”

Spencer swung open a tall metal gate that clanged shut behind us before we’d started down the stairs. The stairs were steep but wide enough for two, with a stout iron railing running down the middle. I saw the ocean boiling on the black rocks below.

“Once you’ve reunited Clay and me, I want to hire you as security on my book tour. Starting next week. Mr. Ford, as you might have noticed, there are a lot of volatile people in this world. There are people who hate me and hate America. I could transfer DeMaris from Arcadia for a month, let him protect me and Dawn. He’s a good man. But I can’t tolerate him close by for more than about ten minutes. You, Dawn, and I would travel by charter jet, then fly in as close as we can get to the actual events in one of my helos. Make an entrance in my Sikorsky, for instance. People are going to love me arriving at the helm of my own helicopter. Twelve cities, fifteen days, so far. That means talks, media, signings, media, parties, media, dinners. First-class hotels. All chop-chop. We’ll be in and out the same day whenever we can. No downtime, no waste. I can get you temporary concealed-carry permits in every state. You’d need to stick close to me and Dawn when we’re in public, keep an eye out for the crazies. My agency and NSA people have their ears to the ground. So far, okay, they’re hearing light chatter. Maybe Portland. Maybe L.A. But you know how it is — you listen hard enough to SIGINT, you always pick up something.”

“Why not just hire one of them to go with you?”

“I’d prefer a human being.”

“You don’t like or trust me.”

Spencer stopped so I did, too. The ocean breeze blew his gray hair askew and he gave me his big-chinned smile. I’d seen it before, but it surprised me now, after his ice-blue interrogator’s gaze over lunch. “I like you very much! And I know you’re good. You found Clay’s trail quickly. You kept Clay and the girl away from Rex Hickman’s jackboots up in Ojai. You came damned close to tripping up whoever shot Vazz to pieces in his own home in Mendocino. My home. And you managed to get Clay past five agency men in Oceanside yesterday like they had their butts glued to the floor. So, my first draft pick is you.”

“I like the work I have.”

His smile gradually ebbed. The surf smacked into the rocks below. “How is Clay?”

“I saw a disturbed young man in a motel room.”

“And video of Aaban and Roshaan.”

I said nothing.

“What did you think?”

“I thought they should have had bigger parts in Hard Truth. I got an early copy. You mentioned Aaban, but nothing about his... son.”