The Artifact (5 page)

Andrea took a different tack: “How do you explain the Arabs description of the Airborne insignia patch?”

Brooks smiled for the first time since their meeting began. “Easily. One of our units came upon their caravan searching for Saddam among them.”

“
They claimed they were engaged by enough soldiers to make up an entire platoon.”

“
Can you imagine a tribal chief concocting a story in which they were bested by half a dozen infidels?” Brooks asked.

“
General, you accompanied Bravo Company on that search and destroy Black Dawn mission--which platoon or squad did you travel with?”

“
After we set up HQ at Hawija Arban,” Brooks answered, “we took the first platoon east toward Tikrit.

Andrea’s next query was also directed at Callaghan. “Did you go to Tikrit or remain in Hawija Arban during Black Dawn?”

Brooks glanced at Callaghan before answering. “The capture or elimination of Saddam

Hussein was one of the primary objectives of the entire war,” Brooks explained. “Tikrit is

where he was raised, his tribal homestead.”

“
But you missed him.”

“
He probably hadn’t gone down in his hidey-hole yet,” Brooks said.

Andrea looked at Callaghan. “So where were you?”

“
Hawija Arban most of the time. Major Geoff flew me to Tikrit to inspect various patrols.”

“
Did you visit Mitchell’s platoon?”

“
One of his squads, I recall. I did not run into Lieutenant Mitchell himself, however.”

Brooks placed the binder on the cushion beside him as he slid to the edge of the sofa. “I’m afraid that’s all we have, Miz Madigan.”

“
I’d appreciate a copy of your intelligence investigation,” she said to Callaghan.

“
That is definitely classified information,” Brooks answered.

“
What about the Freedom of Information Act?”

Brooks was getting annoyed. “Do your homework, Miz Madigan. That public document proviso does not apply to classified military records.”

“
I’m sure you don’t expect me to go on the air with a report to the American people,” Andrea said, “that the army conducted a full investigation that turned up nothing without some sort of verification.”

Callaghan looked at Brooks. “How about the Executive Summary submitted to JCS, Paul?”

The captain nodded thoughtfully as though reviewing the contents of the document in his mind. “That should be OK, sir.” He rose to his feet and left the room.

“
Assuming you will not give this up,” Callaghan said, “until you are convinced that your questionable sources are perpetuating some fictitious hearsay, how will you proceed next?”

“General Callaghan, I’m appalled at the question!” Andrea exclaimed with mock

indignity. “Even the wide open portals of the American press has secrets of its own.”

Callaghan smiled. “I retract the question. It’s just that your business has always fascinated me.”

“
Probably because mine is exposing secrets, while yours is keeping them.”

“
It wouldn’t do to tell the enemy all our plans.”

“
The American people are not your enemy, General.”

“
The dilemma,” he said.

Captain Brooks reentered the room with a spiral-bound plastic folder containing a dozen typed sheets of paper which he proffered to Andrea. “This is an official summary of the MI investigation into the alleged theft of antique treasure by army personnel during the Iraq War,” he told her. “There is no more information on the subject we can give you.”

“
Will
give me,” she corrected.

“
None of the second-hand accusations by the Iraqis claimed the purported theft was in the northwest sector as your nomads have done,” Callaghan told her. “So we had the entirety of Company ‘B’ to interrogate--almost 300 troopers. Every one we could locate five months after the alleged incident when the Iraq protest filtered down through their lame-duck diplomatic channels.”

“
Which produced no leads, clues or information whatsoever,” Brooks said.

“
You mean this,” Andrea waved the MI report in the air, “is not only a farce, but incomplete?”

“
Your entire assertions are a farce,” Brooks blurted.

Callaghan raised his chin in Andrea’s direction. “Is there anything else, Miz Madigan?”

When Captain Brooks returned to Callaghan’s office, the general was seated at his desk talking on

the phone. Brooks stood at ease before him until he had completed his conversation regarding their

previous meeting.

“
Thanks for your help with this, Captain. I needed a PR officer with Top Secret clearance.”

“
My pleasure, sir.”

“
The cause is righteous, Paul.”

“
I accept that without question, general.

“
I think you had better make yourself unavailable.”

“
I could put in for a third tour.”

Callaghan shook his head. “Not necessary. Pick an interesting duty station and I’ll sign off on it. Tomorrow, if that’s convenient.”

“
Yessir.”

General Callaghan leaned back, his hands gripping the arms of his chair, eyes fixed on his junior officer. “What was your take on the Madigan woman?”

“
Competent, determined. She’s not going to walk away from this, sir.”

“
My sentiments exactly.”

“
Quite attractive in her own way.”

Callaghan smiled at him. “You don’t miss a trick, do you?”

Brooks grinned back. “Try not to, sir.”

After Brooks left the room, Callaghan steepled his hands under his chin. She was a very attractive woman; not just physically, but what he could determine of her character, the way she stood up for her beliefs, untainted by all that feminist nonsense. Intelligent, perceptive, a sense of humor lingering beneath the businesslike façade. And here they were, adversaries by nature and specifically at odds on the artifact project. Why was it that every time his genes responded positively to a woman, she was unattainable? For all he knew, she was married or with someone.

Why wouldn’t she be?

CHAPTER THREE

Washington, DC

September 2004

Andrea caught the one-stop red-eye from Raleigh-Durham to Washington, arriving in her Watergate office before six a.m. She had slept on the plane in a first-class seat after two relaxing martinis and felt energized, but not refreshed, sensing the traveler’s body slime beneath her stale undergarments and wrinkled suit. She hobbled through the sparsely populated cubicles on the eighth floor of NNC-TV headquarters leaving a trail of ‘thanks’ to the night crew for their compliments on her newscast special as she made her way to the women’s changing room. Andrea shed her clothes in front of her locker, scrubbed the grime away beneath a hot shower, luxuriating through a double shampoo and conditioning.

Back in her office, she flicked on her computer before changing from her robe to a pair of jeans and maroon cotton pullover. The cramped room looked like the occupant was in the process of moving in or out: the hard rubber surface of her gray metal desk contained only an oversized ashtray, green banker’s lamp and TV remote; a computer workstation occupied a credenza to the left of her desk; an open cardboard box stuffed with Pendaflex file folders sat on a wooden chair at the right. Matching brass floor lamps stood at either end of a floral-print sofa along the outer wall, on which one of twin green throw cushions stated that ‘Life sucks...’ in black embroidery, the other completing the phrase ‘...and then you die’.

A low drop-leaf cocktail table in front of the sofa held another ashtray and a vase of artificial flowers. Black and white photos on the inside wall showed her standing with Margaret Thatcher, another with Germaine Greer, the third with Hillary Clinton. A TV monitor hung from brackets on the wall opposite her desk beneath clocks depicting the time in various parts of the world. There were no windows in the tiny room, and the fluorescent ceiling fixtures had been disconnected in her preference for the subdued lighting from her desk and side lamps.

She pressed a memory button on her phone console that dialed an internal number.

“Commissary,” the accented voice came over the speaker.

“Cookie,” she said, leaning over to get her note pad out of the carryall beside her desk, “how about a big glass of o. j., two poached eggs, ham, toasted bagel, cream cheese and a pot of black?”

“Fast, quick, now, get your ass in gear!”
tout de suite
,

“Your big bad general must have pulled his Bravo Company from every army database right after your interview,” Sammy said. “Eighty-Second Division website, Iraq War Historical, couple of others.”

By the time Sammy walked into her office, a used linen napkin had been tossed over the dirty dishes on the breakfast tray on the floor. Andrea was sprawled on the sofa smoking, reviewing the notes she had scribbled the previous night. He stopped in mid-stride with hands on hips, wrinkling his nose.

“An-dree-ah...,” he admonished.

“OK, OK!” She sat up straight, reaching out to stub out her half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray containing several other bent butts.

“Shut the door.”

Sammy Simkowski was a six-foot-three, broad-shouldered bodybuilder with biceps bulging out of the short sleeves of his Aloha shirt tucked inside stonewashed khaki trousers and wide leather belt cinched around his narrow waist. His blond hair was styled in a wet look, combed straight back from his forehead, and gathered in a short ponytail at the back of his neck. Round glasses the size of quarters lent an aura of academia to his rugged persona, modified by the wide bridge of nose resulting from an apparent break, a subtle raffish accent to his handsome features.

She moved the cane that had been leaning against the cushion beside her and Sammy sat down, placing a printout on the low table before them.

“Round and round the mulberry bush. Neurologists, neurosurgeons, second, triple, quadruple opinions. They even had me checked out by Desert Storm Syndrome experts because I was there in ‘92. Nothing.”

Andrea turned to look in Sammy’s eyes, placing the tips of her fingers on his hairy arm. “I really do appreciate your concern, Sam, but I don’t have time right now.”

“Fine,” Sammy said, standing up. “I’ll just tell T.P. I refuse to consort with moronic females. I’m sure he can find some other project for me to work on.”

Andrea stared up at the man for several moments as her eyes filled. “Sam....”

He sat down again and put an arm around her shoulder. “I’ll go in with you. Everything’s gonna be fine. You gotta do this, Andy.”