Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

Pierce sees one of the courtroom officers—an older male with a paunch who looks like ex-military—staring at him and Huang, and he shuts up.

District Attorney Cornelius Slate is at the judge’s bench, talking to the judge, and overhead, huge fans are slowly moving, trying to stir up the dead air.

Abruptly the district attorney goes back to his table, and the judge says, “All right, Gene. Bring in the sergeant, will you?”

The court officer who earlier had been staring at them goes through the door near the clerk’s station and comes back with Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson. He’s dressed in the same orange prison jumpsuit, with RALSTON PD JAIL in black letters on the back. His hands are cuffed, and he moves with grace and confidence, like whatever is going to happen today is a minor annoyance, nothing else.

There are whispers and a few comments after Jefferson comes in, including one woman’s harsh voice—“Baby killer!”—but the Ranger goes to the front of the table directly next to the district attorney’s and patiently stands there.

The old judge at the bench makes a soft rap with his gavel and says, “Okay, folks, simmer down. We’re about to begin.”

Pierce is reminded of those dreams he has when he’s under some heavy stress, the dreams of going to class and realizing that today is exam day, or the dreams of ending a semester and finding an old class schedule, realizing that he’s forgotten to attend an important class all these past months.

These dreams are nothing compared to what’s happening now, as the Ranger just a few feet away from him—a fellow service member!—is being railroaded and, based on the sheriff’s record for removing evidence, will be dead in a day or two.

Protect the Rangers.

But how?

Chapter 92 Afghanistan

THE CIA MAN SIGHS. “But don’t feel sorry for me, Major Cook. Working back there near Khost, I had forms to fill out, superiors to satisfy, and Company lawyers on my back, making sure I didn’t cross any magic lines that had been drawn the previous week in DC. Here, it’s like something out of Lawrence of Arabia . Just me and these fine fellows. I find it…liberating. Clean. Precise.”

As much as I want to press him, he seems to be in a mood, and I don’t want to disturb it. “What do you do here? And how can you—”

“Trust them?” Kurtz asks. “Is that what you’re asking? Well, a few things work in my favor. Deep back there in the rock is my quarters, with a safe that automatically changes its combination every twenty-four hours. In there is a million or so dollars that I dole out at appropriate times. And these tribesmen love to fight. They’ve been fighting one another for centuries and will continue to do so even when we have colonies on Mars. And two tours ago I converted to Islam. I’m now part of the tribe. Not an infidel.”

He says something in Pashto to the men, and they all laugh with pleasure.

Kurtz says to Cook, “Up here, we keep an eye on local ratlines in the deep valleys and ravines, bringing in men from Pakistan. We’ve got observers in all the local villages. Don’t care what tribe they’re from or if they’re crossing borders. But if they’re Al-Qaeda, ISIS, any foreign fighters…they come to a nasty and bloody end.”

“But…you’re so isolated. Remote.”

He smiles through his thick beard. “I’ve got the finest communication gear the Company can provide. And there are air packages overhead at my disposal. Whenever my guys run into something bigger than they can handle, or if the Taliban try to assault my little fort here, I send a call up to the Air Force. You know, the fellas you use when you want to send the very best.”

Now, I think. Now.

“Good for you, Mr. Kurtz,” I say. “Whatever happened back then, whatever complications ensued, it sent you to your dream job. And it sent those Rangers to jail.”

His happy mood is gone.

I push him. “What happened? Are you going to sit up here like some new T. E. Lawrence while men you worked with, men you trusted, men who served this country, are being treated with disgrace? Imprisoned? Ruined?”

Kurtz says, “Probably too late.”

“I’m the investigator here. Let me decide.”

His fellow tribesmen sense a change in their leader’s mood, and they look at me with hate. From friend to enemy in a matter of seconds.

Kurtz sighs. “They went to a house when they heard screaming from inside. They should have ignored it. We’re not here to give the Afghan people the Bill of Rights or copies of the Federalist Papers or anything similar. We can’t change thousands of years of history—”

“What was going on?”

Kurtz rubs at his beard. “It was…an arrangement. A welcoming gift to a foreign visitor, who was promising lots of millions of dollars of additional aid. An American, who was taking advantage of the local world, with no bloggers or journalists nearby, fulfilling his…needs. A man with a twelve-year-old.” He pauses. “A twelve-year-old boy.”

“The Rangers broke in and stopped him?”

“Yes.”

God.

Then it comes to me, like a series of lightning flashes in the distant sky, remembering a man, with a woman, at a campaign rally, expressing his support of the troops and how he had visited them on the battleground.

Chapter 93

STAFF SERGEANT CALEB JEFFERSON is in a familiar place, standing at attention in front of a supposed superior. Even with his hands cuffed in front of him, he’s still maintaining his military bearing. The judge is an old man who looks like he keeps photos of his grandpappy in Klan robes in a secret drawer in his desk, but he starts off the process by reading some official paperwork, and the droning goes on and on.

Jefferson looks around the courtroom, crowded with reporters, locals, law enforcement, and, standing up against the wall, the Army doc and lawyer back there, looking tired and discouraged. Poor guys. They thought they could help him and his men. Nope. Wasn’t going to happen.

He —Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson, Second Platoon, Alpha Company, Fourth Battalion—is going to take care of his men.

Jefferson spots Sheriff Emma Williams sitting in the front row, arms folded, looking pretty damn pleased with herself.

Same look as a week ago.

Chapter 94 Afghanistan

THE MEMORY FROM that time at the campaign rally back in Sullivan is fresh in my mind, and I say, “The American was a congressman, from Georgia.”

Kurtz grins. “He was.”

“And he was being escorted by a woman public affairs officer. From the Georgia National Guard.”

A happy nod. “Damn, you are a good investigator, Major Cook.”

“What happened?”

“What do you think happened? The Rangers weren’t officially there, nothing officially happened, and to make sure I kept quiet, that woman made some calls, pulled a few strings, and here I am.”

A thump shakes the little bunker, and dust falls from the overhead rocks.

“Ah, shit,” Kurtz says. “Looks like the muj want to let us know they’re around.”

Another, closer thump .

I turn. “Mortars?”

“The same,” he says. “Excuse me. I’ve got to get to work.”

“But—”

“Sorry, pal, you’re our guest for the foreseeable future.”

He snaps out a series of orders in Pashto, the men grab their AK-47s, and Kurtz stands up, pulling aside a nearby blanket. “Come along, Major. We’re going to wait this one out.”

The men rush past me as I look at Kurtz, then grab my rucksack and head outside.

Kurtz yells but doesn’t follow me as I go after his men, who are moving under the netting, taking up binoculars and grid maps, looking out, two of them talking quickly on handheld radios, probably trying to reach their observers out there among the rocky peaks.