Johnson Denis - The Laughing Monsters

He appeared not to comprehend.

The sandbag detail worked in three-person teams — the digger, the sacker, the stacker — filling bags from a heap of dirt and loading them onto a flatbed truck. I remembered reading, as a child, during the first Gulf War, that in order to supply such sacks for their emplacements the Yanks were shipping thousands of tons of American sand across the seas to the Arabian Desert.

Within our perimeter we had a chemical port-a-potty and a vestibule containing a proper shower that ran hot water up from under the ground. Always hot. You couldn’t run it out.

The mess served excellent fare. Real eggs, real potatoes, American meat. In the mornings we smelled the pastries baking.

We had two sets each of the red pajamas, underwear, bedsheets, and towels, and our laundry was collected by enlisted personnel and returned clean eight hours later. That we made our own beds began to seem unreasonable.

* * *

For nearly an hour I sat alone. When my host arrived he didn’t sit down, hardly entered his own office. “I’ve gone over the transcripts in detail.”

“Very good,” I said, but he’d already left the room again.

In five minutes he returned, shut the door, and occupied his desk. I waited for an offer of coffee. He plunged into a period of meditation in the manner of Sherlock Holmes, elbows on the table, fingertips on his temples.

“What makes you think we’d pay you off and let you stroll out of here?”

“You’ll have to help me figure that out.”

Silence.

“I’ll need a convincing story.”

Silence.

“But if I turn up with a good enough story, and if I’ve got a bag of money to vouch for it, then the thing is in motion again, and the direction of that motion is toward something that has to be taken extremely seriously. Don’t you think?”

“We’re taking it seriously. No matter how unlikely. This shit story from Michael Adriko — Adriko? Or Adriko.”

“Accent on the second syllable. Adriko.”

“A ton or more of HEU. You’re really alleging that?”

“I can only personally vouch for the existence of two kilos, approximately — judging by its weight in my hand.”

“You held it in your hand.”

“I did so. Yes.” He was silent. “I don’t know anything about nuclear devices or their manufacture.” Silent. “I’m wondering, though, if a couple of kilos wouldn’t go a long way.” I wished I’d stop talking, but his silence was working on me. “I mean in terms of explosive capability. I have no explosives training. But possible damage. Destructive potential.” Still silent. “So even if two kilos is all he’s got—”

“Would you submit to a polygraph?”

“Oh. Well. Where — here? When?”

“It wouldn’t be hard to arrange. Can I arrange it?”

“Of course. If it amuses you, fine, sure, but I mean — I can tell you now, you’ll get an Inconclusive. I mean to say — I’ve been telling so many lies and listening to so many lies until I don’t know what’s true and what’s false. And we’re in Africa, you realize”—shut up shut up, I told myself, shut up —“and you realize it’s all myths and legends here, and lies, and rumors. You realize that.” I bit down on my tongue, and that worked.

He waited, but I was done.

“All right. Excuse me for just a minute. Help yourself to coffee. Ten minutes max.” He left the door halfway open behind him.

The coffee urn waited within my reach. I drew myself a cup — yesterday’s, room temperature. I couldn’t form a useful thought. I kept tasting the coffee, expecting it to turn hot and fresh. Without a watch I could only guess, but it seemed rather closer to thirty minutes than ten.

When he came back in, he drew himself a cup too and sat behind his desk, sipped once, said, “Jesus,” and then went silent.

He interrupted his thoughts only once to say, “No polygraph.”

He got up and went to the door and called out, “Clyde?” and sat down behind his desk again. “Take these cups, will you?” he said to the private who arrived. “And bring us a fresh service. Not the whole bucket. Just a carafe or something, okay? Leave the door open.”

The silence resumed. I had the impression nothing in the world could happen until we had coffee.

“I’m authorized to tell you Davidia St. Claire is on her way home.”

“Oh…”

“You can assume she’s been debriefed. Queried. Meticulously.”

“You mean she’s already left?”

“Let’s concentrate on the people in this room.”

“Just tell me — is she gone?”

“If she’s not, she will be soon.” The private took a step into the room and paused. “Thank you, Clyde. Is it Clyde?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thanks. Pull the door shut as you leave.” To me he said, “I want to hear you say it.” He let the carafe languish on his desk. Poured no coffee. “I want to hear exactly what you’re proposing.”

“Well, just what you said a few minutes ago, what you suggested.”

“Which is?”

“That you pay me off and let me stroll out of here. And I get back to what I was doing, and see if the deal is still in motion, or if the deal can be started up again, and see if we can bring the parties together as arranged.”

“The parties to this proposed, this alleged, this fucking unprecedented criminal conspiracy.”

“Yes. Those parties.”

“You, and these Israelis, and the people Sergeant Adriko represents. If such exist.”

“That would be the objective.”

“A sting operation.”

“That sounds,” I agreed, “like the applicable terminology.”

“I think we’ve already deployed the applicable terms, fairy tale, for instance, and bullshit, what else, God,” he said, “there’s not a shred of doubt in my mind. You are fucking with us.”

“And yet — here we are.”

“I can’t deny it. Since nine-eleven, chasing myths and fairy tales has turned into a serious business. An industry. A lucrative one.”

“Are we talking price now?”

“What a silly, silly man.”

“But if we were.”

“Then I suppose this would be the moment when you say a number.”

“They want two million.”

“Cash? Or account?”

“Gold.”

“They expect gold?”

“Would that be possible?”

“Gold. What’s the price of gold these days?”

“Around forty-five a kilo, US.”

“Forty-five thousand. So, forty-some kilos. Forty-four plus.”

“Call it forty-five.”

“Forty-five kilos of gold.”

“Could you do it?”

The look in his eyes made me sorry for him. “Do you want to hear the truth?”

“Yes.”

“We can do anything.”

* * *

Early afternoon. I lay on my bed. I heard the sound of a helicopter coming down.

The walls of the tent rippled. Then they convulsed. I determined to stay inside and avoid the dust, but I was visited with an intuition. I knew. I went outside.

I stood by the sandbag hedge and watched the man I still believe to have been Colonel Thiebes, now in officer’s dress, heading for the chopper as it swayed in its descent, a duffel grip in his left hand, his right hand cupping the elbow of Davidia St. Claire.

Davidia and her protector stopped and let the red cloud overwhelm them while the machine completed its landing. It was a utility helicopter, but not a Black Hawk, something smaller, I don’t know what kind. Davidia leaned toward its skis as they felt for the ground. She concentrated on that vision. No backward glance. The chopper had hardly touched down before they were in motion toward it.

I ran to overtake her. I called her name. She couldn’t hear me for the roar of the blades. I called again—“Davidia!” I screamed it many times over.