Darya Bulkh Valley Detention Camp

Afghanistan

The adrenaline was coursing through my body as I was stumbling away from my attacker and towards Gunny and Webb. I could tell they were as jacked up as I was, and Webb said breathlessly, “I knew if he thought he was getting his way, he’d relax and give you an opening.”

Webb’s words barely registered at the time, because I was coming down, and then, after getting information from the prisoner I gave water to, being debriefed. I didn’t have time to even think through what had transpired until much later, back on the Seahawk. As Webb and I went our separate ways on the ship, after talking to Harm inside the makeshift courtroom, I looked at him and said, “Thanks again.” He seemed to know exactly what I was talking about, and he looked at me for a long moment and said, “What for? You just did your job.” He then trudged off in the direction of Mustafa Atef’s holding cell.

I was pondering Webb’s parting words to me when I ran, literally, into Harm.

He said, “Thank God, you’re okay. I knew I should have gone instead.”

I’m sure I looked at Harm like he had three heads, particularly since he didn’t ask how I was, how I got out of the situation, or what exactly had happened. “I’m fine,” I said, more gently and calmly than I felt. “I was doing my job. I am trained to deal with that type of situation, you know.” I sighed and mumbled under my breath, “Webb managed to remember that.”

Harm said, “What about Webb?”

“Nothing,” I replied. “Excuse me, I’m going to take a shower.”

While I let the water run over me, washing the day and the dust away, I thought about Harm’s reaction to my brief captivity at the camp. ‘Typical!’ I think to myself. ‘Everything always has to be about him. He says he’s glad I’m okay and then brings it back to the fact that HE should have been the one going.’ Bud thought I was the obvious choice to go, in light of my language skills, and I know full well that Webb would have balked at taking me, if he believed that I would be a hindrance or of no use there. I did talk to Bud briefly, and he told me that Harm had given him the silent treatment because he spoke up in favor of my going.

In that moment, thinking back on all of this, it’s almost like a light bulb went on over my head. It’s funny, because before Harm and I left for the Seahawk, after we bumped heads under his dining room table, I wanted nothing more than for him to kiss me. Although the Admiral had left it up in the air, Harm didn’t really want to consider that I might be lead counsel. I was willing to flip for it, in light of the uncertainty, but thinking about it now, I seriously doubt he would have been resigned to second chair, if I had won the toss. In fact, I’m almost certain that he would have spent our entire journey to the Seahawk trying to convince me to let him be lead counsel. In other words, he would have handled it as “gracefully” as he handled my going to the camp.

In that instant, something inside of me broke free. I realized that, as much as I thought I wanted a real relationship with Harm-including marriage, house, dog, and 2.5 kids-I was not willing to live my life on his terms. In the past, he had showed varying levels of respect for my ability to get the job done, and he had often accused me of bias, while displaying it himself at the same time. I admire his singlemindedness and willingness to do what it takes. It made him a great fighter pilot, and makes him a great attorney, but it also makes him really quite selfish. I was on the verge of crying, not only because I realized that I didn’t really want what I thought I had for so long, but also because of the sudden realization, which hit me like a ton of bricks, that a life with Harm would not be good for me. His need for control would have pulled me back into the cycle I had had with the men in my life, and I had to break free from that. When I realized that Webb’s words to me, both at the camp and on the Seahawk, and the faith he had put in me to do my job, had been the catalyst, I had to chuckle. The cantankerous and annoying Webb, who relied on no one, had trusted me to do what needed to be done, and, in doing so, he had just done me a great favor, even if I was a little sad about it.

I got out of the shower, finally, and stumbled to bed. Although I was still a little upset, I also felt as though a great weight had been lifted, and I fell asleep immediately. I awoke a mere 91 minutes later, to pounding on my door. I was totally disoriented, and, for a moment, had no idea where I was. I opened the door, to find Harm on the other side.

“I’ve been knocking for three or four minutes,” he said. I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.

“Well, did you think I might be sleeping? I was sleeping. I’m very tired,” I yawned back.

“Well, I wanted to chat and hear exactly what happened at the camp.” He gave me that patented flyboy grin.

“Harm, did you hear me? I was sleeping, I’m tired. You weren’t interested when I got back on board, so you’ll have to either wait until tomorrow, or go ask Webb about it. Good night.” I closed the door in his stunned face.

I woke the next morning feeling refreshed, which was short lived, in light of Mustafa Atef’s suicide the night before. Webb looked like death warmed over, and I could tell that he felt responsible. Of course, Harm didn’t make it any better by immediately assuming that somehow Webb was to blame for it. Harm went to lead me out of the brig, but I motioned for him to go on ahead. He looked a little miffed, but he went. I turned to Webb.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” I said.

“Well, it certainly feels like it is. These terrorists have millions of dollars of money floating around, Atef knows-I mean knew-about it. If I’d tried harder...” He wiped his hand over his face. “It’s just that... it’s so much money... think of what they could do.”

I put my hand on his arm, “I know, but we’ll find it some other way. I know this doesn’t make it better, but he clearly wanted to kill himself. He’d been planning it. I doubt there was anything you could have done-he wanted us to know that he had information we need, and he didn’t want us to get it.”

“I guess that’s true, but I can’t help but think that there was something that could’ve been done to make him talk. I couldn’t figure out what it was, although it was probably all part of the game. I’m so exhausted; I didn’t think it was possible to be this tired. Maybe because I wasn’t 100%...”

“Webb, you are not Superman, or Superfly Spy, or whatever,” he smiled at this, “but you’re good at your job. You should take a shower and sleep for as long as you can. It did wonders for me yesterday.”

There was sort of an awkward pause, and Webb was studying me, as if he wanted to say something, but he apparently thought better of it. I was a little uncomfortable under his scrutiny, and feeling a little strange, so I said, “Well, I better catch up with Rabb, so that we can get instructions from the Admiral. I don’t know if he’ll have us stay out here now. I guess I’ll see you the next time I see you.”

“Bye, Mac,” Webb said softly. “Thanks.”

Back in D.C., things got busy with Judge Sebring being arrested, and I didn’t think too much about the little awkward moment I had with Webb. I have to admit, though, that I was somewhat glad to be on the opposite side of the case from Harm. Because we had to put a Chinese wall between us, it allowed me to withdraw a little bit so that when we can start talking freely again, I can try to keep it on a friendship basis.

When we went back to Afghanistan, I felt like we were probably better friends than we had been before, and I don’t know if I’ve ever been as terrified as I was when I heard that mine click under his foot. But we got out of that mess unscathed, only to find ourselves stranded. I felt a little stupid, setting myself up on the ground an arm’s length away from him, but I really didn’t want him to think that I was looking for some sort of romantic interlude, even though he was, of course, right about the body heat. It all became a moot point when we ended up in the middle of Webb’s air raid.

I was actually a little surprised that I was glad to see Webb again, even if we were sent there to keep an eye on him. I have to say, he shocked the hell out of me by quoting a love song, in Spanish no less. I don’t know what on earth he and Gunny talked about, but they had apparently had some kind of bonding moment during a discussion of Fareeza. Later on, Gunny told us that Webb had arranged to send folding chairs to the man who tried to misdirect them, so “he could sit down and talk to his enemies.” I can’t remember the last time I laughed that hard. Harm didn’t think it was that funny, but all I could think was, “Only Webb would come up with that.” It’s one of those things that made me laugh every time I thought about it, but I didn’t see Webb after that for probably six weeks.

The Road to Havana

BACK IN WASHINGTON, DC

MAC’S APARTMENT-GEORGETOWN

Sunday afternoon

I was in a bit of a fit of nostalgia and was contemplating my future. I had always been so sure that Harm would be a central part of it, and, while I wanted him to be part of my life, his role was going to be far different than the one I had imagined. I was, I admit, feeling a little melancholy that particular day, and I was feeling my age and how much time I had wasted waiting for Harm, so I was listening to the Cure, Depeche Mode and the Smiths, the CDs set on random. I discovered these groups after I got sober-I realized after I got back from the trip with Uncle Matt how alone I was, and this music seemed to get that feeling down thoroughly. In fact, there was a time when I had to be careful not to listen to it too much. Songs like the Smiths’ “Unloveable” sometimes hit too close to home, and it had been too easy to get lost in the music and that particular feeling. I had been just lying on my couch, letting the music wash over me when I heard a knock at the door. I was a little annoyed, because I did want to just be nostalgic and melancholy alone, and I was pretty sure it was Harm.

I went to the door slowly, trying to think of a way to get him to leave without being rude. There was another knock, and, when I opened the door, it wasn’t Harm at all. It was Webb, although he wasn’t dressed in his normal “uniform.” He had on riding breeches and boots, and a thick and slightly too large, wool turtleneck sweater. Wow, I didn’t realize how nice his legs are. And his chest looks like it has possibilities, too. I found myself staring and getting a sort of funny feeling in my stomach.

“Mac?” he said, forcing me to look up.

“Webb, what’s up? Isn’t it a little late in the day to think about riding?”

“Huh?” Webb said, looking puzzled. I gestured to his attire. “Oh, I was riding with my mother-I do that every Sunday when I’m in town. I got a call... could we possibly not talk about this in your hallway?”

“Oh, sorry, please come in. Would you like something to drink? I have orange juice, root beer, Coke, and, of course, water.”

“Actually, Mac, root beer would be really good. Thanks.”

When I came back from the kitchen, Webb had a really odd look on his face, like he was lost in a memory. “Reel Around the Fountain” by the Smiths was playing-I immediately recognized the song by the lyric, “I dreamt about you last night and I fell out of bed twice.”

“Penny for your thoughts,” I said, handing him the root beer. He blushed to the roots of his hair. Noticing this, I said, “Okay, it looks like a good story. How about a dollar for your thoughts?”

Webb cleared his throat and said, “This song just reminded me of something.”

“Something pleasant?”

“Well...” Webb cleared his throat again, and I can tell he is about to change the subject. Okay, I’m very intrigued, and I vow to figure out some day what memory that song just triggered. “Aahh, as I was saying in the hallway, I got a phone call when I was out riding with my mother...”

“You bring your cell phone when you go riding with your mom?” I asked, somewhat incredulously.

“Well,” Webb said somewhat defensively, “I would prefer not to, but since September 11, I have to be accessible. She hates it, but she understands.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad about it. At least your mother wants to spend time with you.” Geez, how did I let THAT slip out. I didn’t really want to go there...

“Um...” Webb clearly didn’t know how to respond.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. Let’s start again. So, what was this phone call about? I gather it was fairly urgent, or you wouldn’t have showed up at my door on Sunday afternoon if it could have waited until Monday morning... Not that I mind you stopping by.” Okay, I thought to myself, where the hell did that last bit come from?

Webb looked a little taken aback by that. “Actually, I need to get on this first thing tomorrow morning, but I needed to talk to you first before I could make a final decision as to how to proceed. I’m sure this goes without saying, but what I’m about to tell you cannot leave this room. The call concerned some Iranian prisoners we have in custody in Cuba and Afghanistan that we believe might be connected to al-Qaeda. Of course, this involves the larger and more delicate issue of whether Iran is officially involved in sheltering al-Qaeda, to what extent they are actually being sheltered there, if these particular guys are even connected to bin Laden, or whether they are working alone. Iran, of course, denies that they are sheltering al-Qaeda. I realize that this sort of investigatory work is not really in your brief of responsibilities anymore, but we-I-could really use your investigative and Farsi skills. We just don’t have enough people with language skills right now, and I realize I could just ask for you to be temporarily assigned to this. I wanted to ask you first, though, because, frankly, some of what we need is sort of boring, routine work, listening to and translating wiretaps and the like. Certainly not like prosecuting accused war criminals, or even tasks a Lieutenant Colonel in the Marine Corps would normally undertake.” He smiled at me.

I was a little lost in Webb’s smile for a second, and I was really shocked that he would ask me before just getting the Admiral to loan me to the CIA. I realized just then that this must be really important and is probably going to be risky and, possibly, fairly long-term. “Well, what sort of time frame are we talking about here, and what exactly would I be doing?”

“I can’t answer your question about the time frame.” I rolled my eyes, thinking that the typical Webb was back. “I can’t answer your question because I don’t know the answer,” Webb said with a smirk.

“Hey, if you’re going to yank my chain like that, the answer is definitely no!” I laughed.

“I really don’t know how long it will take to determine with any certainty whether Iran is at all involved with al-Qaeda. We have to tread somewhat carefully. We do have some Iranian nationals in custody who are suspected al-Qaeda, but we haven’t really been able to get good interviews with them. We’re using translators instead of having Farsi speakers do the interviews themselves, and it’s just not effective.”

“Well, to be honest with you, I’m not sure how effective I’ll be. I am a woman, you know.”

Webb smirked a little and looked me up and down. “I hadn’t noticed, but now that you mention it...”

Was Webb flirting with me? “Very funny, Webb. But seriously, what makes you think they’ll talk to me? Although, I suppose I could dress up as a man...”

“Well, I don’t know if they will talk to you, but I was thinking you could try to overhear what they are saying, although that would likely involve guard duty. You could then use that information in an interview. I never thought of dressing you up like a man,” he says, somewhat thoughtfully, as if it might not be a bad idea. His eyes land on my chest. “Although, I’m not sure how that would work.” He tears his eyes away. “Anyway, will you do it? Before you answer, I need to also tell you that this job might involve a trip to Afghanistan and/or Iran, and I don’t have to tell you how dangerous that could be.”

“I don’t know how I could say no. If this is where I’m needed most, I can pull guard duty in the dust to try to get to the bottom of this.”

Webb smiled. “Thanks, Mac, I’ll talk to the Admiral first thing in the morning. You know, I never pegged you for a listener of either Depeche Mode or the Smiths.” Just then the song, “Let’s Go to Bed” comes on. “Or the Cure.”

“Yeah, well, I guess I’m reliving my youth a little. I was feeling nostalgic today. I confess, I’m surprised you know this music, although I guess I don’t really know that much about you, really.”

“Well, now you know one more thing,” Webb says. “If the Admiral okays this, my plan was to go to Guantanamo tomorrow afternoon, so if you could have a bag packed... Well, I have to get going, I’ll see you in the morning at 0830. Thanks for the root beer.”

I show Webb out, and then turn up the stereo so I can hear it while I’m packing. I would be very surprised if the Admiral denied his request.

JAG HEADQUARTERS

The Next Day

As I anticipated, the Admiral didn’t have any problem with Webb’s request.

Rather, he didn’t have a problem with it after I explained that Webb and I had already spoken, and that I was willing to be detailed to the CIA. He wasn’t thrilled when Webb said he needed me starting today, although he understood the importance of the mission. I’m sure this prevented Admiral Chegwidden from saying a good deal of what he was obviously thinking, from the look on his face. Webb and I arranged to meet my place at noon to head for Andrews for the transport to Cuba. I spend the next few hours feverishly trying to reassign my cases. Harm, of course, was not helpful. I think he’s a little jealous that I’m going on this excursion, and he tried to talk me out of it.

“Mac, it’s dangerous, and you know that Webb’s missions always end badly.”

“Harm, I’m not doing this for Webb personally, but give the guy some credit. The problems aren’t always his fault, and you know that he always comes through in the end. He got your brother out of Chechnya, after all. We, meaning Americans, don’t have enough linguists to be able to sift through all of the information that’s coming in. I speak Farsi. There are Farsi speakers in custody that won’t talk. There is information that I can probably get quicker than going through the usual channels. Look, I don’t know why you’re trying to run my life like this. You don’t have a say in this!”

“Look, Mac, I’m sorry. I just worry about you,” Harm said, backing off.

“We go through this all the time, Harm. You get overprotective and then apologize. It’s like a vicious circle. I’m glad you care about me. I care about you, and I worry, too.” He started to say something. I held up my hand. “But,” I said, “I have never tried to talk you out of doing something like this. I don’t have that kind of hold over your life-and you don’t have that kind of hold over mine.”

“But, Mac,” Harm said, “I thought we were...”

I waited for him to finish his thoughts. “Were what?” I asked, totally exasperated.

“I thought we were moving towards something. I don’t know.”

“Harm, that’s the problem. I can’t dance this dance with you anymore. You’re my best friend, and I love you, but I need to live my life.”

A look of panic crosses Harm’s face. “I don’t know what to say, Mac. I thought you were going to wait.”

“How long? Harm, I am not going to wait forever for you to decide whatever it is you need to decide. I’m moving on with my life. It’s been over a year since I almost married Mic, and I’ve been living like a goddamn nun, waiting for you to come to some sort of decision. I’m sorry, but I’m not willing to wait forever. I deserve better than that. Listen, I didn’t really intend to have this conversation with you right now. I need to finish divvying up my cases and get going.”

Harm looks really upset, but I see something else there, too, maybe relief, but I can’t quite tell. He says, “Okay, if that’s your decision. I don’t have to like it, and I think you’re making a mistake. But be careful. I like having you around, and I want you to come back in one piece.”

I hug him tightly for a few seconds, but before he leaves my office, I call him back. “Wait, flyboy, not so fast, I need you to take these four files for me.”

He groans, but takes the files. “Will you be incommunicado?”

“Not that I know of. I’ll have my cell, at least in Cuba-call me if you have questions about those cases.”

I feel better, now that we’ve had this conversation, but it has made me a little late. I make it to my place at 12:05. I had my bag in the car, so we didn’t even have to go upstairs.

As we got into the car, which was driven by someone who was obviously Agency, and headed towards Andrews Air Force Base, I said, “Sorry, I’m late, Webb. I had a ton to do before I left the office. And Rabb cornered me, to try to talk me out of doing this, in that sanctimonious way he has. God! He can be so damn condescending!”

Webb looked a little annoyed, but I didn’t think it was directed at me. “Let me guess, it’s too dangerous, and somehow I’m going to get you killed.”

“Well,” I chuckled, “That pretty much sums it up. I reminded Rabb that you always come through in the end, even if something goes wrong.” Webb smiles at this, and it gets even broader when I tell him I reminded Harm of Webb’s role in getting Sergei home.

“I’m sure he’s just worried about you. He cares about you.”

I snort. “Yeah, he cares when he gets excluded from the action. I think he was more pissed that you didn’t ask him first, but I reminded him that he doesn’t speak Farsi. It was very like the reaction he had when you asked Sergeant Steele for help. He was her greatest defender, and as soon as you asked her if she was willing to put herself in harm’s way-because you thought she could handle it-he tried to talk her out of it, because Harm always knows best. At any rate, I told him that he didn’t have the right to have that much say over my life. He acts like he’s my husband, or something! Geez!”

Webb looks puzzled, and he says softly, “I thought you two were on the verge of being ‘involved,’ if you weren’t already. I mean, after Rabb’s plane went down...”

“Yeah, I know,” I respond, just as softly. The spook driving the car doesn’t need to hear this. “I thought we were moving that way, too. But we’ve been moving in that direction ever since we’ve known each other, only to circle back. In fact, I’ve tried to press the issue, by opening up to him, more than once, only to have him shoot me down. I had decided that, this time, he would make the first move. But, Webb, it’s been over a year since I almost married Brumby, and Harm hasn’t... This is probably too much information.”

“You seem to have changed your mind. If you don’t mind my asking, what happened?”

“Well, actually, it was something you said to me in Afghanistan.” I blushed a little, and he looked intrigued about what I had to say. “After I was attacked at the camp, you told me that you knew that if you gave the terrorist what he wanted, I’d take the first opening. You trusted me to do my job, and you let me do it. You didn’t go into histrionics afterwards, or tell me I shouldn’t have come with you. When we got back on board the Seahawk, his reaction was ‘I knew I should have gone instead.’ He never asked me how I was feeling, what happened, or anything. I knew that I didn’t want to live my life that way, and I just let go.”

Webb’s mind was clearly working, but I couldn’t read him at all. “Mac,” he finally said, “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m glad. Harm is a great guy, but, honestly, he’s not good enough for you. Or, frankly, most women. He’s too selfish.”

“Yeah, it only took me seven years, but I finally managed to figure that out. I sort of let him know all this before I left the office. I actually think that, secretly, he was a little relieved. I honestly don’t know if he has it in him to make a commitment to any woman.”

Webb looked at me, and tried to suppress a laugh. I caught his eye, and we both broke down into hysterics. “That may be the understatement of the century, Mac,” he finally gasped. I continued giggling off and on for the next few miles. I cannot remember the last time I laughed that hard, and it was with Webb, of all people.

We make to Andrews in record time-the lack of traffic, and my laugh with Webb made me wonder if I had suddenly stepped into an alternate universe. I shake this strange mood off, and we get into the transport. We spend the journey down reviewing the files of the Iranian prisoners. Webb began explaining some additional information not in the files.

“The earlier interviews were conducted through interpreters. I don’t know what made them think that was a good idea, although I guess we needed information, and that was all that was available. There was no time to train the interpreters in law enforcement interview techniques, and, of course, there weren’t enough Arabic and Farsi speakers to train and send on guard duty in the cellblocks. Interviewing through interpreters is pretty damn ineffective, and I think we wasted a lot of time. So, anyway, my plan was to put you on guard duty first, and let you just listen and see if you can pick up any information. We can schedule interviews later, but, best case scenario, they’ll speak freely and you’ll overhear information that we can use later.”

“I agree. I know I joked about being ineffective in the interview room as a woman, but that may work to my advantage in the cellblocks. They won’t suspect that I speak Farsi, and it’s been my experience that, often, men like that will just ignore my presence entirely. As a woman, I’m beneath their notice.”

“Interesting,” Webb said. “That may work to our advantage later. So, basically, what I need you to concentrate on is, of course, information on al-Qaeda, but also whether there is some official connection between Iran and al-Qaeda.”

“Have you found any concrete indication that there’s some sponsorship, or at least harboring, of terrorists in Iran?”

“Everything we know is anecdotal. We don’t have that many contacts there, and, obviously, diplomacy is minimal. We’re not buying the party line, but Iran is a tough nut to crack.”

We’ve pretty much covered everything related to my immediate tasks. “Webb, not that I don’t appreciate your company, but why exactly are you coming to Cuba? I think I can handle this according to your instructions.”

“Well, I need to supervise the advanced interrogation of some other guys down there, and I may have some other stuff to do on the island.”

“Webb, I’m intrigued,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “Anything you can share? Do you have a little vacation planned with the local chicas?”

“I wish,” he says. “I can’t really talk about it.”

“Of course,” I sigh. I change the subject. “So, what other eighties music do you secretly love.”

At this point, one of the crew comes up and whispers to Webb, who excuses himself with a relieved look on his face. I don’t know when he gets back, because I’m asleep by that point.

****

GUANTANAMO BAY

It is ungodly hot down here, and, after pulling guard duty for what seems like three straight days, since I started virtually hours after we landed, I remembered why I went to law school. When I think about how far I’ve come, I’m truly grateful. This silent moment of reflection is interrupted as the prisoners I’m supposed to be tracking launch into yet another detailed description of my body. At least they have been true to form and have talked fairly freely, although, I’ve been very careful not to let on that I understand what they’re saying. It is taking every fiber of my being right now not to stiffen at their lewd description of my breasts and what they’d like to do to them. I pretend to be totally oblivious, but I know I’ll need to stop by the gym and work some of this off after I get off shift. My ears suddenly start to perk up-they have switched abruptly from sex to discussing ways that they could possibly get word to someone named Abdur Faisel to carry on plans that were being made. I noticed that another prisoner was shuffling by outside their cells during this time. They were talking in general terms about the plans, but at least we had a name. They then began speculating where Faisal might have run, and talked about three or four rendezvous points at various locations along the Afghan border with Pakistan, and I recognize one of them as being fairly close to the border between these two countries and Iran. By the time the other prisoner is finished walking by, they go on to something else.

Soon enough, the prisoners notice an increase in activity, and realize that it’s time for a shift change, so they become quiet. I follow protocol, and then, as soon as I’m outside of the building, I yank out my phone and punch in Webb’s number. He’s not on base, so we agree to meet later, and I write down everything I can remember on the PDA he’s given me. After that, I ask the guard who had been with the prisoner who seemed to initiate the whole conversation what that prisoner’s name was.

A few hours later, I’m in the gym, using the punching bag, trying to work off some aggression I feel as a result of the commentary about my body, and Webb sneaks up behind me. I wheel around, and almost give him a hard right hook. Luckily, his reflexes are good, and he hits the ground.

“Geez, Mac! I slammed the door as I came in! Remind me never to piss you off!” I didn’t hear the door at all, and I help him up with what I’m sure is a sheepish look on my face. He isn’t wearing a three-piece suit, which surprises me, although it’s so hot down here, I can’t imagine his “uniform” would be at all comfortable. He’s wearing khakis, one of those button down short-sleeve Guayabera cotton shirts with the four pockets and embroidery that Cuban men wear, and, the most shocking thing of all, huarache sandals.

“I am SO sorry, Webb. I didn’t hear the door.”

“Mac, is something wrong? Did something happen today?”

“No, not really. What did you need?” I decide I don’t want to share what I overhead with Webb.

“Nothing, really. I’m just starving. Do you want to grab something to eat? There’s a tiny but great restaurant just off base. You said you had something to report.”

I ask him to give me twenty minutes to clean up, because I’m dripping sweat, and I’m certain I smell really bad. I pull on a t-shirt, khaki shorts, and sandals, and we’re on our way. The restaurant is what I would call a hole in the wall, very small, with little ambience. But the smell is wonderful, and I can tell the food will be delicious. We both eat black beans and rice, with fried plantains-it’s very simple, but tastes great. We realize we can’t really talk about the conversation I overheard in the restaurant, but I did remember the PDA, so Webb reads my notes, and he writes down some questions to discuss later. We manage to agree that I should probably continue to pull guard duty for a few more days and see what else gets uncovered, and he tells me that he has bugged their cells. This means more work for me, though, since I have to listen to the tapes, on top of my other duties. With any luck, we can come up with some interrogation tactics to use in the next week or so.

Once Webb and I finished discussing business, which didn’t take long, since we couldn’t really discuss it in public, we talked about a lot of other things. I was surprised at what a good time I was having with him. He actually seemed to relax a little, and I found out a lot of little details about him. I was a little surprised he was opening up, but it was kind of nice. I’m sure he knows everything about my life, but I really know very few details about him. We talked a lot about our very different college experiences. He admitted to having been the Scrabble champion of his dorm, his first two years at Harvard. He also talked about all of the traveling he did. I told him that it was kind of hard for me to relate to that-we’ve led such different lives. He really shocked me then, by confessing that he would have gladly given up all of the travel and advantages in life, to have his father back. I guess I always knew, on some level, that, underneath his façade, there was a real heart beating. Well, that’s not entirely fair, because most people would feel that way, but I had never really seen this side of Webb before. I guess I was more surprised, and touched, that he would say that to me, than that he felt that way.

I reached over and grasped his hand. I was surprised to feel almost a surge of electricity at the touch. Webb cleared his throat, and I moved my hand away. He then totally changed the subject and lightened the mood, by admitting that he loved cheesy karate movies. Although this comment was totally random, this is also my guilty pleasure, which I reveal, much to his amusement. We spend the rest of our meal talking about movies and books. We actually have a lot in common, although he totally mocked my love of Jane Austen. I hadn’t laughed like that in a long time, our brief spout of Harm-bashing in the car on the way to the airport notwithstanding. I really liked this side of Webb, and I wasn’t quite sure what to do about that.

On the ride back, we talk a little more about the prisoners’ al-Qaeda-related discussion, and Webb then informed me that he had to go to Havana and take care of some unspecified other things, and would be gone for a number of days. After he stopped the car, he gave me an e-mail address so that I can send him daily updates via encrypted e-mail.

“Be careful, Webb. Listen, I had a good time tonight. It’s nice to see another side of you.” I trail off, feeling a little awkward. I am feeling an attraction for this man, which has totally thrown me for a loop.

“Well, I’m glad you finally realized I’m not a total ogre,” Webb teases.

“Well, you are sort of like an ogre. Ogres are like onions, and, like ogres and onions, you have many layers.” Webb looks totally confused, and he’s not sure whether to take this as a compliment. “Oh, sorry, I guess you haven’t seen Shrek. You should see it-it’s really funny. I saw it with Little AJ. It’s great to see movies like that with kids.” I realize I’m totally babbling, and Webb looks really amused.

“Well, I’m exhausted, and I have guard duty again in 8 hours. Be careful in Havana, and you’ll get daily updates from me.”

Webb seems a little disappointed that I’ve gotten back to business. “I’ll be fine, Mac. I’ll see you when I get back, and, if I’ll be longer than five days, I’ll find a way to let you know. Good night.”

“Good night, Webb.”

I have trouble getting to sleep, and, when I do, I dream about Webb. I wake up a little confused, but I manage to focus.

The next three or four days pass in a blur. When I’m not on duty, I’m listening to tapes and preparing reports for Webb. The prisoners have been really chatty and open about al-Qaeda when I’ve been around, although their conversations in front of the male guards are more guarded. They appear to be using some sort of primitive code, but, even though I’m no cryptologist, I managed to break it without help. We have a lot of good information-it’s now a matter of deciding how to use it. I’m pretty exhausted, though, living my life in two languages, and, on the fifth day after Webb’s departure, I decide to pull rank and take the tape recordings from the previous guard shifts to the nearby beach and listen to them on my Walkman, while I get some sun.

I had packed a swimsuit, on the off chance I would have the opportunity to hit the beach while in Cuba. It was an olive-green bikini, so I found a secluded part of the beach and set up shop. On one of the tapes, the prisoners were telling each other old Iranian folk tales, and it made me think of my grandmother. I drifted off into a light sleep. I woke when I sensed a shadow over me. The shadow turned out to be Webb, who stood smirking down at me.

“Is that a regulation bikini? And are you sleeping on the job?” He is looking me up and down, clearly trying really hard not to stare at my breasts.

“Yes, actually,” I retort, moving and deliberately jiggling a little. “My clothing is regulation.” I ignored the jab about the sleeping. I knew I hadn’t been asleep that long, because the tape was still playing, and the speaker was in the middle of a story. I shielded my eyes and looked up at Webb, again dressed in casual clothes, specifically, in shorts. He does, in fact, have nice legs.

“So, Mac, may I join you?” he asks, stripping his shirt off, and sitting down. I guess I had never really pictured Webb without clothes before, but he really has a nice physique. I feel something stir in my abdomen, and I tamp it down.

“Well, make yourself at home, Webb,” I say, throwing him the sunscreen. “So, this is probably a pointless question, but what have you been up to?”

He evades my question initially, saying, “First things first.” We talk about the Iranian prisoners, and discuss the information I uncovered. He hadn’t responded to my e-mails about the code-I had asked whether he thought my code breaking, meager as it was, was correct-but he indicated that he believed I had figured it out. We ultimately conclude that we don’t really need to interview them, but that we had enough information to take with us to our next stop, which would be different prison camps in Afghanistan, where, to the extent we can, we would do the same routine as we did here.

“So, Webb, when do we go to Afghanistan?”

“Well, first I need to finish something up here. You asked before what I had been up to. Actually, I’ve been following the terrorist money trail through secret accounts in Cuba.”

At this openness, I put my hand to Webb’s forehead and say, “What have you done with Clayton Webb? Or are you ill?”

“Ha, ha, Mac. I found out how the money is being passed through, and I need to plant a device someplace. There’s a party there tonight, in Havana, and I’d like you to come with me as backup, if you’re willing.”

“Sure, what kind of party? I mean, I don’t really have any non-uniform clothing.” I decide not to ask about the device, because he was vague enough that I figured he didn’t want me to have anything more specific. Besides, it really doesn’t matter.

“Already taken care of. We have maybe another hour on the beach before we need to get going. Pack your stuff, because we’re going to stay in Havana. We’ll take a Company plane to Afghanistan tomorrow afternoon. It seems like a bit of a waste to have to come all the way back here to take a less comfortable transport flight.” I very much appreciate this, and we sort of stare at each other for a few minutes, and then I go back to my tapes.

Webb had done well with the dress. It wasn’t low cut in the front, but it had spaghetti straps, a low back, and a slit up the side. I really liked it. I was ready when Webb knocked on the door. I opened it with my bag in hand, and he gasped.

“Wow, Sa... Mac, you look beautiful.”

I blushed, and caught his mistake. “You don’t look so bad yourself, *Clay*, you clean up nicely.”

We took a small Lear jet to Havana, all the way across the island, and the ride was so bumpy that it took everything in my power not to get sick. I managed to remember our cover names, and our cover story was very simple. Webb was considering opening a large account at the bank that was suspected of laundering terrorist money, and I was his girlfriend of very recent vintage, who he was trying to impress with a trip to Havana. The fewer questions asked the better, although I seriously doubted anyone would ask too many questions about our personal lives.

Havana

Cuba Libre Restaurant in the Banco Nacional de Cuba Building

We arrived after the party was already in full swing. There was a Cuban band playing, and, after saying hello to the host and introducing me, Webb asked me to dance. I had absolutely no idea how to dance to this kind of music, but he showed me a simple salsa step, and it was surprisingly easy. It’s all in the hips, and it’s really quite sensual. I was having a lot of trouble keeping my mind on the matter at hand. He was going to wait a while to make his move, since the drinks were flowing freely, in the hopes that it would attract the least attention possible. After learning how to cha-cha, I finally begged to sit down. We sat, talking for a while, and I was almost beginning to feel like we were on a date, when Webb said “Two more dances, and then I’ll do what we came here for.”

The next song had a particularly sensual beat, and we kept dancing closer together, although he seemed to be taking pains to ensure that we didn’t actually touch. Webb and I looked into each other’s eyes, and I found the same surprised desire there that I was feeling. This was very dangerous, though, in light of what we were there to do. We seemed to have that thought at the same time, because we both stiffened a little and moved away from each other, so that we were a little farther apart. I didn’t look in his eyes again. When the two dances were over, he took me by the hand and led me towards a doorway. The party was really hopping at this point, and no one was really paying attention to what was going on. I couldn’t believe the seeming lack of security, although I was sure Webb would encounter some where he was headed. He didn’t explain precisely what he was doing, although he had already told me where he was going, and for me to come find him, if he wasn’t back to my location in 10 minutes.

Things went off without a hitch, and he was back well in advance of when he said. We headed around the periphery of the room, had one last dance in an area close to the door, and then took off. When we were on our way, I turned to Webb, and said, “I’m impressed. I think this is the first mission I’ve been on with you, where things went completely as planned.”

“Well,” he said softly, turning to me, “not COMPLETELY as planned.” He looked me right in the eye, and I felt that feeling again. It seems like every time I look at Webb, I become more attracted to him. It was a strange feeling, although what I had seen of him was more attractive than the sarcastic, gruff exterior he usually displayed. We stared at each other, but neither of us made a move.

He blinked first, so to speak. “Anyway. Thanks for your help, Sarah. Is it okay if I call you Sarah?”

“Only if I can call you Clayton.”

“Clay.”

“Deal.”

We were silent for the rest of the drive. I think we both knew that something had shifted between us. I wasn’t sure I was comfortable exploring it, just yet, particularly since we were doing a very serious and potentially dangerous job, but I did plan on, for once, going with the flow and seeing where this led.

We ended up at a residence. I still am not sure whether it was a safe house, or what it was, but it was very posh. I gasped a little when Webb-Clay, I corrected myself-showed me my bedroom. He informed me when breakfast would be served, and turned to go.

“Clay,” I said. “Even though we were working, I did have a good time tonight. And I really like the dress. Thank you.”

“Well, Sarah, maybe we can find another opportunity for you to wear it back in the States.”

“Why wait?” I joked. “I think it’s perfect for Afghanistan. The fundamentalist Muslim prisoners will love it.”

Clay laughed, and said goodnight. I took a swim in the huge tub that was in the attached bathroom, and thought about the evening. I had a really good time dancing with him. He was very solicitous of me the whole night, and I knew deep down it wasn’t all pretend. I was also relieved that nothing had gone wrong. I finally crawled into bed, and had some very delicious dreams revolving around Clayton Webb. I woke up half aroused and smiling. I normally would never look forward to a flight as long as the one I was facing that day, but, somehow, I didn’t think this one would be so bad. This led me to start thinking about the task we were facing, and I forced myself to focus. I went down to breakfast, to find Clay on the phone, which he handed to me almost immediately. I spoke to the Admiral for a few minutes, and he handed me off to Singer to discuss a case I had left her that was ready to go to trial. She questioned all of my strategy before ultimately agreeing with me, while making it sound like it had been her idea all along, and, by the time I was off the phone, my good mood had completely evaporated.

I groaned when I hung up, “I was in such a good mood when I came down here. I swear, Lieutenant Singer was put on this earth to torment me!” I could tell Clay, who was reading a file, was trying not to laugh, but he poured me a cup of coffee and asked if I was ready for breakfast. After that, he fell silent, which was probably the best course of action at that time. I finally asked what he was reading, and we began to discuss our plan of action for gathering information in Afghanistan. The people we needed information from were scattered in a number of different camps, so, if we couldn’t get cooperation in transporting them to a more central location, we’d have to try to make assessments from the scant information we were given to try to determine which prisoners were likely to have viable information. It would have been, more or less, a waste of time to expend too much energy on men who were the grunts, because they were far less likely to know anything. We ultimately realized there weren’t that many Iranians in custody, and Clay put in a call with instructions to have them consolidated in a few different American-run camps.

On the plane, we spent a good deal of time looking at information on the prisoners, and we had to discuss interrogation techniques to use in Afghan-run prison camps, if we ended up in one. As a woman, I couldn’t pull guard duty in those camps and play a wait-and-see game, like I could in Guantanamo, so we had to rely totally on interrogations in some instances. We also had to put the information we already had in a form that was useable to both the military forces and the CIA operating in Afghanistan. The work was intense, and I had the makings of a horrendous headache as we descended into Rome, where we refueled.

I don’t know how he did it, but Clay managed to ensure that we had a real Italian meal, not of the airport variety, while we were on the ground. I was famished by that point, and also very tired, but dinner helped relax me and my headache subsided. Before we boarded the plane again, we agreed that we’d done pretty much all we could until we landed in Kabul. We chatted for a little while, until we began to grow sleepy. I have to say, one of the advantages of traveling on a private plane like this, is that you actually have room to stretch out and sleep, and that is exactly what I did.

I was in the middle of a really erotic dream featuring Clay. The dream featured the meal we had eaten in Rome, and the bathtub from my room in Havana, which my mind transformed into a hot tub. We were gently caressing each other in my dream, almost, but never quite, kissing. For some reason, our lips wouldn’t meet. I must have been moaning, and the dream was just moving into interesting territory, when I felt a hand on my hair and a soft familiar voice asking if I was okay. I think I was a little confused, because I reached my hand up to his face and said “Oh, Clay...” When I realized what was happening, I shot straight up, right into Clay’s chin, knocking him backwards.

“Oh, my God, Clay, I’m so sorry,” I said, getting up to see if he was okay. He must have bitten his lip, because it was bleeding. I went in search of some ice.

“Wow, what kind of dream were you having?” Clay asked, somewhat testily. “I thought you were having a nightmare.”

I’m sure I blushed really red, because I could feel my face getting incredibly hot. “Well, actually, it was a nice dream,” I said, as I pressed the ice to his lip. “I’m really sorry, you startled me. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Did you hit your head? I mean, other than me hitting it with my head?”

Clay softened a little. “No, my only injuries were inflicted by you,” he said jokingly. “I’ll survive. I wouldn’t mind hearing about your dream, though, you have me intrigued.”

This made me think back to his visit to my apartment, the visit that set this entire trip in motion. “Well, you wouldn’t tell me what you were thinking when you were listening to that Smiths song at my apartment. I’ll let you be as intrigued by my dream, as I am by that.” I take his hand and put it on the bag of ice and gently brush his hair out of his eyes. “Good night,” I said quickly, not really giving him a chance to tell me about the song, if he was even inclined to do that. He just sat there staring at me. I drifted back off to sleep, but I could still feel him looking at me. I didn’t have any more dreams, though, and I didn’t wake again until we were about forty-five minutes outside of Kabul, which left me enough time to freshen up before we landed. Clay actually slept until our final descent, when I woke him. He assured me that his headache was only minimal, but I still felt really bad about the bruise on his chin and the swollen lip.

The Road to Kabul

BAGRAM AIR BASE

Afghanistan

We arrived quite early, and Clay and I spent the morning in meetings with military officials. The Admiral must have called in a favor, or pulled some strings, because Gunny got assigned to us during our stay, and it was made known that it was on the Admiral’s order. “Due to his meddling,” were the actual words used, I believe. I was grateful, not only because we already knew and trusted him, Clay had apparently worked fairly well with him before, and also because of his investigatory skills. He was to arrive at 1900 hours, and it was only 1400. I was beginning to think that we’d never make it until night. We were both suffering from jet lag, and Clay seemed to have a headache. I normally wouldn’t take a nap, because it makes it easier to adjust quicker to the time change, but I believed that we should get as much sleep in the safety of the air base as possible. Clay balked, but he really didn’t look well, so I insisted. We were directed to a room with four cots. There were no windows, so it was perfect. It would be dark when we turned the lights off even though it was still daylight outside. He grudgingly lay down, and I went to round up some aspirin for him.

He was still awake when I returned, and gratefully swallowed the pills. I started to open my mouth, and he said, “If you’re going to apologize again, please don’t. It was an accident. They happen.”

“Well, I feel guilty about that bruise and your headache.” I began rubbing Clay’s temples. “This always helps when I have a headache.”

“Well, as long as you’re feeling guilty, Sarah, my back hurts a little, and my shoulders are stiff.”

“Nice try, smart ass,” I say, but I don’t stop. Clay noticeably relaxes, and the movement makes me relax as well. I run my fingers through his hair, and he mumbles, “Don’t stop.” I’m really tired myself, but I keep it up until I hear his breathing even out. I lay down myself and fall asleep. We both start awake when Gunny walks in and turns on the light. It’s 1900 hours, on the nose.

“Geez, sorry!” he says. “I didn’t think you guys would be sleeping. Wow, Webb, what happened to your face?”

“Well, Gunnery Sergeant,” Clay says, rising up a little, before collapsing back on the cot, “It’s nice to see you again, too.”

“Hi, Gunny,” I say. “I had a little collision with Clay on the plane on the way here. I’m sure he will be using my guilt to his advantage at some point.” My referring to Clayton Webb as “Clay” was not lost on Gunny, and he raised his eyebrow slightly when he heard me say it. “So, how have you been? It’s good to see you again.”

“Well, I’ve been fine, considering the circumstances. It’s tense out in the field, but I really feel like we are making a difference most of the time. So, what exactly are you guys doing here? They assigned me to you, but didn’t give me any details.” Clay finally sits up.

“We’re concentrating on prisoners of Iranian nationality, trying to determine what connection, if any, Iran has, either officially or unofficially, to al-Qaeda. There’s nothing concrete linking the Iranian government to al-Qaeda. We’re also trying to determine if al-Qaeda troops are being harbored in Iran. With Sar... Mac’s expertise, she was a logical choice. We’re really short of linguists, and she agreed to help.” Clay’s almost calling me Sarah was also not lost on Gunny, who was looking a little puzzled, and alarmed. “I’m going to go make a phone call and search out the food situation. I’ll let you two get reacquainted.”

“May I speak freely, ma’am?” Gunny asks, as soon as the door shuts.

I think I know what’s coming. “Sure,” I sighed.

“You seem to be pretty tight with Clayton Webb. Are you sure that’s a good idea? And what about Commander...” He trails off, realizing that he has probably just crossed a line.

“Gunny. Victor, I know Webb’s not everyone’s favorite person, but he is good at his job. He’s also a good man, when he lets it show, and, frankly, he’s one of the few men I know who actually has professional respect for me. He lets me do my job, and he sought out my help because he thought I was the best person. The fact that I’m a woman doesn’t seem to make that much of a difference to him, unlike, say, Commander Rabb. Listen, Victor, I know that you all have an office pool going about when Rabb and I were going to get together,” Victor has the good sense to blush at this, “but it’s not going to happen. I decided that I cannot get involved with a man who has less than 100% respect for my abilities and what I do.”

Victor looks rather stunned at this last declaration. “Ma’am, I’m sorry if I offended you. And, at the risk of offending you further, I have to say that, although everyone else seemed to be rooting for you and Commander Rabb, I really never thought he was good enough for you.” He spoke these last words as Clay walked back in the door.

“Okay, you two,” Clay says, “We need to move, if we’re going to have hot food for dinner.”

“Lead the way, sir,” Gunny says. “I don’t want to have to eat another MRE today.”

We make pleasant conversation during dinner and catch up with Gunny. We get his take on how the war is going, and I can tell Clay is making some mental notes. As we finish, our discussion turns to the type of equipment we need to take with us. Although the places we are headed to are, theoretically, fairly secure, we will be crossing some brutal terrain, and the locals’ loyalties tend to change with the winds. After dinner, we head out to gather up what we need, and Gunny offers to clean the weapons. We both gratefully accept, and tell him he is welcome to bunk with us, if he doesn’t turn the light on when he comes in for the night.

Before he goes to clean up before we turn in, Clay asks where I got the aspirin before. I told him I’d go get them, and meet him back in the room. He protests, but realizes argument is futile. I hunt down a bottle of aspirin, figuring we would probably need it at some point anyway, and give it to Clay. I get myself ready to turn in, and, when I go into the room, he appears to already be asleep. I turn out the light, and Clay scares the hell out of me by speaking.

“I know I’m not the Gunny’s favorite person, and I’m not trying to pry, but is he going to be willing to work with me? I thought we had reached a détente from before, but I’m not sure now.”

“He’ll be fine, Clay. He noticed me calling you ‘Clay,’ and asked why. I explained, and he accepted my explanation. I don’t think he’ll have any problem working with you. I’m glad he’s assigned to us, because, between his survival and investigative skills, he’ll be a real asset.”

“What did you tell him when he asked about me?” Clay asked softly. He sounded almost scared.

“Well, the fact that you respect me and respect my ability to do my job. You’re one of the few men who does, and I let him know that I appreciated that. I do really appreciate that, Clay.” I felt him reach over and squeeze my arm.

“Good night, Sarah.”

“Good night.”

We were informed over breakfast that two Afghan camp commanders were unwilling to transfer their prisoners. One of them, Mohammed Gul, wouldn’t agree without some sort of explanation, and the other, who goes only as Abdullah, had some other issues with his three prisoners, who he thinks are al-Qaeda, but were actually apprehended trying to steal some villagers’ goats. This wasn’t the greatest news, and we decided that, when we visited Afghan-run camps, we needed to be very careful. Neither the prisoners nor, in some cases, the camp guards, some of whom had doubtless defected from the Taliban, would necessarily appreciate the presence of a woman. We decided to scout our own campsites, which meant that we needed to take along another man.

The commander in charge of the air base was not happy, but he found a Marine volunteer to go with us, Corporal Ari Kefthallah. Ari was the product of Christian Lebanese father and an Israeli mother. His parents were apparently enough in love to weather the hostility that necessarily accompanied their union, although it seems to have prompted them to move to the U.S. at some point, where Ari was born. He was raised bilingual with Arabic and English, and his file said he was fluent in Yiddish, as well. Although Clay was happy to find someone with language skills, I could tell he was angry that the Marines were not making better use of them, and, I suspect, that somehow Ari had slipped through the cracks as far as the CIA was concerned. Ari was very eager to be part of our mission, although the three of us decided that he didn’t really need to know what Clay and I were doing until Clay had vetted him more thoroughly.

We made it in the Humvee to our first stop without incident, although we were all diving for the aspirin after all our arrival, in light of the bone-jarring ride. “And I thought D.C. had a lot of potholes,” Clay had said at one point. I started to laugh, but then bit down hard on my tongue after we bounced over another bump. We were all more or less silent after that, except for the occasional “Ow.” We had to stop for the night, because we really couldn’t drive over 15 miles an hour most of the time. In the late afternoon of the second day, we arrived at the first camp.

Gunny and Ari went off to find a place for us to camp for the night, while Clay and I had to make nice with the camp commander Mohammed Gul, who was from a friendly Afghan tribe. He was NOT thrilled to see me, and I had stupidly left the head covering I had brought in my bag. I finally managed to dig it out and put it on. I apologized profusely, and Gul calmed down a little. We explained what we needed, and we indicated that we would start in the morning. Gul took us on an inspection tour that we cut short. I have been in many prisons during the course of my career, but this one was the most primitive. Probably for the first time in my life, I was happy to be wearing a head scarf, because I could use it to help deaden the smell a little. Clay wasn’t so lucky, and he really looked green by the time we were done.

Apart from the smell, the few prisoners we saw were not happy to see a woman nosing around, and they began to get really restless. I began to notice that a number of the tribesman guarding the camp were also not overly pleased to see me. I was glad we had thought of this in advance, and I was relieved when Gunny and Ari come back. Gul insisted that we all take tea and eat dinner with him. The food tasted surprisingly good, but I was relieved to leave the camp behind. I knew this assignment was going to be tough, but being a woman was going to make it that much harder, because I was going to be spending a lot of time scared and tense.

No one followed us. Gunny and Ari had found a little cave, and I asked if the area was secure of mines and the like. After hearing that it was okay, I excused myself, and pulled Clay off to the side.

“I need to clarify something with you,” I whispered. “The information we’re after, were you planning to use it in prosecuting these men, or for more global purposes?”

Clay spoke softly as well. “Well, I am looking more at the global picture, but I suppose if we determine that they could be prosecuted in a military tribunal or in court, that would be good. Why, exactly, are you asking?”

“Clay, I can tell I’m going to have one shot at these guys tomorrow. The reaction I got today makes me think that I am going to get zero cooperation, particularly if I identify myself as belonging to the U.S. military. I was thinking that we probably only saw a few, if any, of the 10 men we want to interview here. They’ll hear that two people, possibly Americans, are here, but they won’t know that you look so Caucasian.” Clay snorted at this. “Seriously, if the goal is to get information, but not to prosecute, what if I go in posing as a reporter and take Gunny or Ari with me. I’ll have to convince them I’m sympathetic to their cause, perhaps that I decided to move back to Iran or something.”

“That might work. I admit I was a little surprised about the strength of the reaction to your presence. I guess you’d have only one shot, either way. I’d prefer to be able to prosecute these guys, but, if all else fails, we can just turn them over to be prosecuted here.” He said this last bit with just a touch of evilness in his voice. The punishment would certainly be far more harsh, and painful.

“If Gunny is backing me up, you could just roam around with Ari, and see if he overhears anything of interest. It’d be a shame to let his language skills go to waste.”

“I like the way you think, Colonel,” he teases. “If you ever want to join the Agency...”

“I’m happy with my day job, Clay, thank you, though.”

We rejoin Gunny and Ari, who had set the cave up with four sleeping bags. One is against the wall, and Clay sits down on the bag next to it. Ari leaves a sleeping bag between Clay and himself. Gunny and I walked outside, where he pointed me to a tree where I could take care of my personal needs. I realized then that privacy on this trip was going to be practically non-existent, because none of the guys were going to let me be alone. Well, no matter, because I had no interest in what might happen if I was caught out alone, whether by the Taliban, al-Qaeda, or some now-friendly warlord’s tribe. I sighed. I did take the opportunity to explain tomorrow’s plan to Gunny. I told him that he needed to get used to calling me Sarah and to start then. I then excused myself, and went behind the tree.

When Gunny and I got back to the cave, I explained to Ari that, in light of the circumstances, he and Victor could break protocol with me. If they showed me too much deference, it might not be a good thing for me. I could tell that neither of them were really comfortable with this, but I also told them that it had to be that way. Victor then suggested that Ari and Clay consider growing in their beards. Neither of them looked too thrilled at the idea, but I agreed that it would allow them blend in better. Although I didn’t voice this, I knew that what we were doing could potentially lead to trouble, in light of the fact that we were traveling alone. We would blend better, particularly if there was a problem and we ended up having to rely on locals for assistance. Gunny could pretty much pass as an Arab, Ari was Middle Eastern, and looked it, and with a beard, Clay would certainly look enough like a tribesman to pass.

We drew sticks, and I ended up with the first watch. I could feel Clay watch me for a while, but I could eventually tell that all three of them were asleep. Gunny took the next watch, and I lay down between Clay and the wall. I felt fairly protected there, and I watched Clay sleep. He looked so peaceful and a lot younger. I wanted to touch him, but I didn’t. I finally closed my eyes and drifted off.

I woke up with a start, when I felt someone move me. I was looking into Clay’s eyes, and I realized that one of my legs was over one of his. “Sorry,” he said softly. “It’s my turn to stand guard.” I was a little embarrassed, and I moved so that he could get up. He ran a finger down my nose, and then briefly touched my lips, before getting up. I turned over and went right back to sleep, feeling very safe in that moment.

The next day, we trekked back to the camp, and I explained to Ari what the plan was. I told him that he just needed to listen and remember any seemingly useful information. I then briefly explained what Gunny and I were trying to accomplish. He seemed a little uncertain about the fact that whatever information we got might not be ultimately usable for prosecution. I told him that I really didn’t like it either, but that the information itself was more valuable than prosecution. I also pointed out that we could always turn anyone over to local authorities, where justice did not come with the same sort of guarantees that justice in the U.S. does. “It’s not my preference, but I believe this is the most prudent course of action under the situation.” He agreed, and even produced a professional-looking digital camera from inside his bag for Gunny to use. Apparently, photography is a hobby. I don’t know where this guy came from, but I’m glad he was assigned to us.

Gunny and I spent the entire day interviewing the 10 prisoners, in groups of two. These were less than ideal circumstances, since I had had no time to observe which prisoners were weak and might be more prone to talk. I had to choose two to bring in with me immediately, and then Clay sat observing the others, to try to get some sort of sense by watching the nonverbal communication between the men. This was marginally helpful, and I get some decent information from about four of the men, by playing on their love of families and having Gunny take their photos to “send to their loved ones.” They provided us with a number of set predetermined rendezvous points, including the same one at the border of Iran, Pakistan, and Afghanistan that had been mentioned in Cuba. They mentioned nothing, however, of an organized Iranian sponsorship of al-Qaeda. These men were encouraged to join by their local imam, and the difference between the different types of Islam practiced in Iran and most other Islamic countries didn’t matter, at least in this mosque. One of the men did express some consternation about some of the money-raising methods practiced by al-Qaeda, and he specifically mentioned poppies. He said this to me quietly, after our interview, and indicated that he said nothing to the others because he had determined that the goals of the organization superseded everything else.

After about eight hours with no breaks, we met up with Clay and Ari. I gave Clay a quick briefing of what I had uncovered. I told him that I didn’t think additional interviews would lead to more information and would likely arouse suspicion. He agreed. Much to my relief, he and Ari had already taken Gul up on his offer of dinner, which was ready about five minutes after Clay and I decided we didn’t need to come to the camp again. After dinner, and the endless rounds of tea that seem to invariably accompany Afghan meals, we said our good-byes and headed back to the same campsite we had used the previous evening.

Clay spent the next few hours debriefing Ari and me, with Gunny taking notes on the laptop we brought with us. He talked to Ari first, while I took watch, and then me. We prepare a brief report with the bare bones information, for when we check in tomorrow, using the satellite phone we have with us. We then plan our route to the next camp, which is also Afghan-run. This entire process takes three and a half hours. I am tired and very tense by this point. Gunny takes the first watch tonight, and Ari collapsed on his sleeping bag. He seemed to fall asleep immediately. I lay down and pulled out the book I had brought with me. I have the complete works of Jane Austen in one book, and I brought it because her books have always helped me to shake off my moods. I turn onto my stomach and open the book to Emma. It’s really a random choice-the book happened to fall open into the middle of the story.

“Sarah, what are you reading?”

“Jane Austen’s Emma.” Uh-oh, I think, here we go again.

“Jane Austen, huh. I always thought those books were kind of girly. Although I don’t know why I thought that, never having read one.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t knock it until you try it. She’s very entertaining, and, besides, it relaxes me. She’s actually quite satirical. With your sarcastic sense of humor, you would probably really appreciate her,” I say, thinking in particular of the characters Mrs. Elton and Miss Bates, who I was about to re-encounter in Emma.

I feel Clay’s hands on my shoulders, and I tense a little, until I realize that I am about to get a massage. “I get the feeling you are tense,” he says.

I get the feeling I am not going to be able to read this book, although a massage is a perfectly acceptable way to relax. “Who me?” I ask. “I have only spent the day as the only woman in a camp full of misogynistic, and probably very horny, men. I had to pretend to understand and sympathize with the motivations of ten men who I would be just as happy to rot in this camp forever, and I had to do this for eight straight hours, without food. No, I’m not tense.”

Clay chuckles softly, and continues working the knots out of my shoulders. He hits a particularly painful one, causing me to yelp, “Ah!”

“Shhh,” he admonishes me. “Ari is sleeping. You should try to sleep, too.”

I can’t argue with that logic, and, as the tension starts to leave my body, I drift off into a deep sleep, thinking that Clay can be really sweet, when he wants to be. Probably for the first time since I’ve known him, though, I don’t wonder what he wants in exchange for being nice.

I wake up about five hours later, to something being tapped on the bottom of my boot. It’s Ari, letting me know it’s my turn to take watch. I shake myself awake and go outside the cave. I’m greeted by a sharp, cold breeze, and I’m suddenly fully awake.

In the morning, Clay uses the satellite radio to report in, before we leave on another bone-jarring drive. I spent probably at least an hour of the drive thinking about the state of my relationship with Clay. There seems to have been a sort of sea change, and it’s pretty clear to me that there is some kind of attraction between us. For my part, it’s only growing, the more time I spend with him. He seems to have relaxed around me, somewhat, and I feel like he’s opening up to me a little. Gunny cut him some slack, and there don’t seem to be too many problems with Ari. I anticipate that, at some point, Ari will recover somewhat from the enthusiasm of being with us, and want to know a little bit more about what exactly we’re doing out here. I have the clearance for this operation, and Gunny is accustomed to working on a need-to-know basis, but I’m not sure about Ari. Since the four of us are stuck with each other for an unknown period of time, and we have had to dismiss some of the protocol between us, it could be a little difficult. These thoughts are interrupted by a particularly large jolt, and I smack my head against the metal bar next to me.

“Shit!” I yell. Gunny is driving, and asks what is wrong.

“I just hit my head. It’ll be fine,” I grumble. “I know it’s not your fault,” I add quickly. I make a mental note to write my Congresswoman, to tell her to appropriate money to fix the damn roads over here, when I remember I’m a D.C. resident and her vote doesn’t count anyway. The pain in my head overwhelms these thoughts, and I root through my bag until I find the aspirin, and swallow four. We stop for about half an hour for lunch, because there is just no way to eat and drive with these road conditions. Food would have been everywhere. We take the minimum time necessary in order to get to our destination before nightfall. It’s slow going, but they’re expecting us, and we’re trying to keep use of the satellite phone to a minimum, so that the extra traffic doesn’t raise alarms.

Finally, just as the sun has almost set, we reach our destination. Gunny and Ari drop Clay and me off in, order to scout out a campsite. This gives us an hour and a half to ingratiate ourselves with our host, Abdullah, and we spend the entire time drinking tea. There are only three Iranians at this camp, and they weren’t high on our priority list, but this camp was a logical stopping point for us, and is directly on our way to where we’re going. Abdullah is not a fan of Shi’ites, and is happy to make them available to us tomorrow. I hope I can get what I need, or at least determine that they have no information, in fairly short order. We can take our time at the next stop, which is a U.S.-run camp with potentially knowledgeable prisoners, if we can shake the information loose.

Gunny and Ari are right on time, and we arrange to come the next day at 0800. This cave is bigger, and is located about half a kilometer from a stream, so we can clean up a little in the morning. We are all smelling a little rank, but it’s too dark and cold to go there now. We eat in virtual silence and get ready to go straight to sleep. I end up with the first watch again, and Clay has the last watch-I think that we need to start rotating, so that the same people aren’t getting awakened in the middle of the night for watch every night. The arrangement works to my personal advantage, though, when Clay wakes me in the morning. He also wakes Gunny, taking care to be very quiet. He tells Gunny to wait half an hour before getting Ari up.

Clay and I make our way down to the stream, and I realize that he’s arranged for me to have at least a little bit of privacy, which I greatly appreciate. We check around for booby traps, and I am able to undress a little to wash the dirt and sweat off of me. I had pulled off my shirt, knowing that I had on a bra. Clay was shocked, though, and he stared for a moment, before he turned away. I filed this away, as I dip a cloth into the cold water. I splash my face with the water, gasping at the temperature. I would love to wash out my hair a little, but it’s way too cold.

I’m done, and have changed shirts, by the time we hear Ari and Gunny approaching. Clay then begins to take his turn. I turn around, but I hear him yelp. I turn and run towards him, when he puts his hand up. “Sorry, Sarah, I didn’t mean to scare you-I didn’t realize the water was so cold.”

I notice that he is still fully clothed. “Clay, was that yelp from splashing water on your face?” He has a guilty look on his face. “That was kind of a girlie scream,” I smirk, turning around and walking back to my earlier position. He harrumphs, but is quiet while he finishes up. Ari and Gunny arrive during this time, and the process is a little quicker, because they don’t have to take turns.

We arrive at the camp on time, and Gunny and I do our shtick with the three prisoners. They are sixteen and seventeen years old. They don’t know anything. In fact, they don’t seem to have joined up until early August 2001. They said they had minimal training, and I believe them. They kept asking when they could go home, and why they were being held. If they understood what had happened to lead to U.S. presence in Afghanistan, they were too dumb to really comprehend what had happened. I was glad Gunny couldn’t understand them, because he would have gone ballistic. I had trouble keeping my own temper under control. I talked to them for an hour and a half, and then I called a halt. It really was pointless, and the sooner we left, the sooner we could get to our next destination, although I suspected we would be spending another night in a cave.

We managed to make it out of the camp after only one cup of tea, and we thanked Abdullah profusely for his assistance. We got back on the road, and bounced our way to our next stop. We were only about thirty kilometers short of our destination, when the sun began to set. The terrain was really rough, and it would have been extremely foolhardy to keep going. We could see a little village up in the distance, and decided to check it out. Ari would do the talking, I would pose as his wife, and Clay and Gunny would keep their mouths shut, and look wounded. It turns out that the village was completely bombed out, but the shelter was fine for the night. As an added bonus, the outhouse closest to the shelter was intact, giving me more privacy than I had had the previous three nights.

I had second watch that night. It totally sucks to be shaken out of a deep sleep to stand out and stare into the darkness, but it’s necessary. Ari had had first watch, and he surprised me by saying he had noticed the book in my bag from the day before, when I went searching for aspirin. I told him it was Jane Austen, but he said he just needed something to settle his mind for a few minutes so he could sleep. I could see him reading, and it must have worked, because he fell asleep about 10 minutes later. Clay was next, and when I touched him, he scratched his face, mumbling “God, I hate beards. Razor.” It was pretty clear he was still sleeping, and I chuckled softly. I shook him again, and he grabbed my wrist, really hard, opening one eye. When he saw who it was, he sat upright and loosened his grip, although he didn’t let go.

“Listen, you need to wake up,” I whispered. He shook his head from side to side, scratching his face. I pull his hands down from his beard, and hand him my rifle. “Here. All’s quiet.” He finally stands up, and I hear him jumping up and down, when he gets outside, in order to wake up. I fall asleep, amused at his demeanor at being awoken. I dream about him shaving.

****

We are all up by 0530, anticipating being at an American camp in the near future. We were at the camp by 0700. The accommodations were luxurious in comparison to what we’d had the past four nights. We devoured a hot breakfast and bathed. Although the bath facilities were primitive, the water was warm, and I had the privacy I needed to be able to fully undress. I was also able to wash my hair. I felt about 1000% better than when I went in. I checked in with JAG afterward, and spoke to the Admiral at some length. I think he misses me a little, which was nice to hear. Apparently, Singer is on a rampage, as well; a rampage worse than normal. Even Harriet was at her wit’s end, apparently. I suggest to the Admiral that perhaps a transfer, or threat of a transfer, is in order, or he needs to tell her that her career will stall unless she starts acting like a human being. I said it a bit more delicately, but something has to be done. When he left her in charge during the Atef trial, it seemed like the entire office was on the verge of mutiny. Listening to the problems of the JAG office was a nice respite from the past few days, though.

I didn’t notice that Clay had come in, until I heard him chuckle softly when I mentioned a potential transfer for Singer. I took the opportunity to get off the phone.

“So, Singer is at it again?”

“Apparently. Even Harriet is complaining loudly. It must be pretty bad, and I think it’s time to squash it, once and for all. It almost makes me glad to be here.”

“What, is my company not enough to make the whole trip worth it?” he jokes. You know, I think our banter is one of the things I’m really enjoying about this new plane our relationship seems to be on.

“Well, it does sort of balance out the complete lack of privacy, having to sympathize with al-Qaeda members, throwing my entire body out of alignment every time we get on the road...”

Clay cuts me off. “Okay, okay, I get the point. This sort of thing really makes you appreciate life at home, though. I would be so happy if I could just shave...”

“Well, I have to say that the beard isn’t so bad, although I prefer goatees to full beards.” He raises his eyebrow at this statement, as if he’s filing it away for future reference.

“You know,” he says, “I heard that Harriet punched Lauren Singer during our search for Khabir Atef.”

“You did, did you? Well, I don’t know anything about that,” I say, feigning ignorance.

“Fine. Play coy.”

Our flirtation is interrupted by Captain William Estes, who has come to talk about what our plan is. I decide to pull guard duty later in the day, to determine if the prisoners will talk. Estes had already segregated the Iranians into their own area, and they had been for about a week, so they had apparently relaxed. These particular prisoners have been very uncooperative, so an interrogation might be in order. Clay asks me to stick close while he prepares a report, in case he has any questions. I agree, but I run back and get my book. I need to clear my head and relax a little, before having to listen to these prisoners’ conversations. I read a couple of chapters, and I felt my eyes become heavier and heavier. Clay was concentrating on whatever he was doing, and he hadn’t said a word, so I laid my head down on the table. I napped for a couple of hours apparently, and I woke up with a really stiff neck.

When I sat upright, Clay said, “Hi, sleepyhead. When you’re fully awake, could you read this and make sure it’s accurate? I need to send it tonight.” He passes a report over. I didn’t even hear the printer.

“You should have woken me up. I don’t want you to submit your report late.” I realize I have about an hour before I have to go on guard duty.

“It shouldn’t take you that long to read. I just printed it, and I was going to wake you when you sat up.”

I read the report, and make a couple of notations. Clay is looking at me the entire time. I’m not sure why, and it’s making me a little uncomfortable. I try to ignore him. My corrections are really for slight additions to the text. Otherwise, there are no errors, which I find a little strange. That is, Clay has either extraordinarily impressive skills, or that laptop has some kind of special software. It could be either.

I finish and push it back. “It’s not Jane Austen, but it’s entertaining enough. I only have a few suggestions for additions.”

“Well, thanks. Since it’s classified, unfortunately it won’t win the Pulitzer Prize.”

“Well, we can’t have everything we want, Clay. Listen, I have to go. I’ll be on until 2300. Do you want to talk then, or wait until morning?”

“I think it’s better if we talk about what you heard, while it’s still fresh.”

“All right, then, I’ll see you shortly after 2300.”

Guard duty here was remarkably like guard duty in Cuba. The prisoners immediately noticed the new guard, as well as the fact that I was female. They made a lot of derogatory comments about women and military, that they didn’t appreciate a woman there, yadda, yadda. I showed no reaction at all. After the initial tirade, they didn’t talk all that much, and a lot of it revolved around how they were planning on getting out. They did make some cryptic references to rendezvous points and vague future plans, though. Beginning at lights out, which was at 2200 hours, the conversation turned to sex. For like an hour. A good deal of their conversation revolved around my body, but, trying to look at the glass half full, I guess I did learn some new techniques. I was very relieved when the next guy took over.

On the way back to the hootch I was sharing with Clay, I thought about their comments. I have gone through various emotions with respect to my body. I know men appreciate my figure-I’m not blind. My body was a source of embarrassment to me growing up, and I certainly didn’t respect it during this time. When I became a Marine, I realized that my body was really an instrument, that I could shape it, and that I needed to always respect it. I started holding my head up higher, and I realized that I looked how I looked. I also recognized that I was often at somewhat of an advantage in a physical confrontation with a man, because I am a lot tougher than I appeared to be. That gave me a great deal of confidence. It took me a long time to really come to grips with myself sexually, though, probably because of my misspent youth.. One by-product of gaining confidence in myself was actually my unwillingness to give up control, sexually speaking. I tried to let myself give in, particularly with Mic, since we were supposed to be getting married. I say “try” because, looking back, the sex wasn’t all that satisfying, although by the time I realized it, I think I had forgotten how it was supposed to be. In any event, the decision I had come to about Harm had really made me realize how much the control I thought I was retaining, I didn’t have at all. I thought I was making decisions, when they were really being made for me. By Dalton, by Mic, and, most of all, by Harm. I had just recently taken control back, and hearing these idiots talk about my body as if I wasn’t there was messing with my head.

While I was thinking about all of this, I walked around the camp a little bit, not wanting to go back to the hootch just yet, and needing some time to sort through it all in my head. I got the hootch at about 2320, just as Clay was coming out to look for me.

“Where the hell have you been? I was getting really worried. You said you’d be back at just after 2300.” He was a little loud.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. Let’s go inside and discuss it, okay?”

He held open the flap of the tent, and we sat down at the little table. “Is anything wrong? Why are you so late?” I don’t know what makes me do it, but I need to talk to someone, and I decide to be honest with him.

“I’m sorry. The prisoners spent the last hour of my watch talking about sex. In particular, they were cataloguing various parts of my body, and describing what they would do to them. It was really hard to listen to that, and not show any reaction at all. It was almost like being back in high school. The boys used to do that all the time. They knew who my father was, and what he was like. It’s just so humiliating.” I felt tears well up and willed them back down. Clay moved his chair around to my side of the table, and put his arm around me.

“Jesus, Sarah. I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think about that kind of thing. Just ignore them. They don’t know you, how much you have to offer. God, I sound like an idiot! I really don’t know what to say, Sarah.”

“Clay, it’s okay. I don’t expect you to do anything, or say anything. I went through this in Cuba, too, but it wasn’t quite as graphic. I think that not getting a full night’s sleep the past four nights hasn’t helped. This is a job that has to be done, and I’m going to have to listen to this again, before we’re done. I don’t like the way it makes me feel, but I’m not going to quit or anything.”

“I didn’t think you were going to quit. I wasn’t trying to talk you into staying,” he says quietly, removing his arm.

“Oh, God, I didn’t mean to imply that you were. I know that you asked me to help you, because you knew I’d see it through. I was just venting a little.” I decide to change the subject. “They didn’t actually say anything of value, once they decided I didn’t speak Farsi. They started off saying really anti-American things, and complained about being guarded by a woman. When they got no reaction out of me, they talked a little more freely, but didn’t say anything specific. They only talked in vague terms about rendezvous points and future plans. They also discussed escape, but, again, they didn’t say anything specific. If we’re lucky, they’ll act like the prisoners in Cuba, and let down their guard, or at least give us enough information to do some interrogations. I suspect these guys may actually know something, although it’s just a hunch.”

“Okay. I didn’t think you would find out that much tonight. Now, back to what we were discussing before; I apologize for being defensive. I know I’m not the most popular person at JAG and am perceived as being willing to do virtually anything to get my way. But I really didn’t realize some of things you might have to listen to, and, for that, I’m really sorry.”

“I don’t think that way about you, Clay. And I appreciate the things you said to me earlier. I can’t help it that it bugs me that I am so often judged on how I look. I know that it can work to my advantage, but that doesn’t make it easier to hear myself being verbally raped.” Okay, now I am crying, and Clay is looking really freaked out about it. “I’m sorry. It’s just that my whole past suddenly came crashing in on me. I feel like a total idiot.”

He reaches out, and pulls me into a hug, which only makes me cry harder. “It’s okay, Sarah. I don’t think you’re an idiot. And, I promise, that when we interrogate them, I’ll let you be the bad cop, and you can beat the crap out of them.”

I can’t help but laugh at this, but I don’t let go of him. I need comfort right now, and it feels really good to be in his arms. We stay that way for a little while, quietly, until we hear rustling outside the tent, and someone clearing his throat. We break apart quickly, and Gunny comes in to say goodnight. He asks how long we’re going to be here, and I can tell that “As long as it takes” isn’t necessarily the answer he wants to hear. “Well, Gunny,” I say, “I’ll try to make it as quick as possible, but in the meantime, enjoy eating hot meals and having a little downtime. I’m sure they can find something for you to do here to keep yourself busy. Just be careful. We need you in one piece.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he replies. I think he’s a little relieved to revert back to protocol. “Good night, sir, ma’am.”

“Good night, Gunny,” we say at the same time.

We each go to get cleaned up for the night, and I beat Clay back to the hootch. He comes in and turns off the light. I hear the sound of something being dragged across the floor. It’s his cot, which he has pulled closer to mine. He starts to stroke my hair and says, “Sarah, if you need to talk, or vent about the things you hear, please talk to me. I won’t always be able to make it better, but I’d like to try.”

“I promise.” He continues running his fingers through my hair until I fall asleep.

I continue for the next week to pull guard duty, and Clay has made sure that Ari is also on guard duty, listening, just as I am. He has apparently had his people check Ari out, and he must be satisfied, because he’s giving Ari a little more responsibility. My prisoners are most talkative around lights out, and Corporal Eric Massey, who takes over for me, says they say very little after that time. They still talk a lot about sex, which I suppose is natural, since they can’t actually have it, but their comments about me personally were not nearly as bad as on the first night. Or, maybe, I’m a little less on edge. The rest of their conversations still tend to be in generalities, although they have let a few names and locations slip out. I turn these over to Clay, and it seems that rendezvous points and names of helpers form a sort of line into, primarily, Pakistan, at the line between Khost and Tora Bora. There also seems to be one route that leads toward Iran, but we haven’t really been able to fill in the blanks yet.

Because my guard duty is the second shift, from 1500 to 2300, I have a lot of free time in the mornings, although I don’t usually get up until 0900 or so, because of post-duty debriefings. I help Webb with stuff where I can, and I have sort of become the go-to girl for soldiers with legal problems. The goal is to get people deployed with no loose ends, but marriages sometimes fray, money problems crop up, and the like, so I help where I can. It’s actually nice for me to be able to do this, and it often keeps my problems from this mission in perspective. It’s hard to get too bent out of shape at having dirty hair, when some poor private’s wife has decided that she can’t handle the separation, and has run off with the mailman.

Ari has been pulling second shift, as well, and the both of us have been meeting up with Clay afterwards for a late night snack and debriefing. I think Clay realized that I’m always more cooperative with food. Debriefings have been taking about an hour, or an hour and a half. Usually, by the time we we’re done, Clay and I aren’t ready to turn in. It was always tempting to try to integrate the information Ari and I had just supplied, with what we already had. We did that on the second night and didn’t get to sleep until 0500. After that, we got into the habit of reading for about a half hour or so before getting ready for bed. I had Jane Austen to keep me company, and Clay produced a copy of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s “Love in the Time of Cholera” from his bag. I may try to borrow it, when he’s done.

We had also gotten in the habit of talking for a half hour or so before going to sleep, kind of like some strange sort of slumber party. We talked about a lot of different things. Maybe because it was easier in the dark. I told him a little about my childhood. I figured he knew it all already, but I think hearing it from me was still shocking, and it turned out that he didn’t know as much as I thought he did. He talked about how hard it was growing up without a father, and how his close relationship with his mother had led to a lot of teasing at school. We also talked about less serious things, too, like places we’d like to visit, people we’d like to meet, that sort of things. We were really becoming friends, I thought. On the fifth night, he asked me about Mic.

“Sarah, I don’t mean to pry, and you don’t have to answer this, if you don’t want to, but what happened with Mic Brumby?”

“What exactly do you mean? Why it ended? Why it began? What did I see in him?”

Clay laughs softly. “All of the above, actually. I know I only met him a few times, but he really didn’t seem like your type.”

“Well, that’s very perceptive of you. He really wasn’t, although it took me a long time to see that. It’s one of those things that makes me say to myself, ‘What the HELL was I thinking.’ Kind of like, what was I thinking, wearing acid-washed jeans and high-heeled white pumps in the eighties.” Clay really starts laughing at that. “But seriously, there were a lot of signs I really should have paid attention to. He was really aggressive in a lot of ways: in court, partying, and pursuing me. In fact, thinking back, I believe that at least some of what happened was due whatever testosterone-laden tug-of-war Mic and Harm had going on, with me in the middle. When he did his exchange program with JAG, I was in a period in which I had sworn off men for a while, although he did his best to change my mind. He kept pushing and pushing, and I think that, because Harm was giving me mixed signals, I saw Mic’s pushing as a sign of affection, or something. Looking back, his pursuit of me was geared only to get him what he wanted, never mind what I wanted.”

Then, when we were in Australia, Harm and I were on a ferry crossing Sydney Harbor. I practically threw myself at him, pretty much laying my feelings on the line. He shot me down. I don’t think I’ve ever been so humiliated. Anyway, Mic continued his full court press, told me he loved me, and asked me to marry him. I think that being humiliated like I was, and hearing that someone loved me, made me agree to wear Mic’s ring on my finger. It pissed Harm off, although he was already chasing Renee at that point. I guess, subconsciously, I did it to let Harm know that I wouldn’t wait around forever. Of course, he was hurt that I had turned to Mic so quickly. I know it was stupid to do that, now, but, at the time, I don’t know. I’m really screwed up.”

Clay interrupted at this point, “Oh, please. We’re all screwed up. But let me get this straight. So, Harm knew how you felt about him, but he pushed you away. What the hell is wrong with him? Frankly, I’ve always been under the impression that his feelings for you ran pretty deep.”

“Well, maybe they did, but he never said anything. Again, looking back, Harm did keep giving me little hints and indications that he might have feelings for me, but, although he hinted at it, he wouldn’t SAY anything. I finally decided to get on with my life, and I thought I could get what I wanted with Mic. But Mic kept making major life decisions without consulting me: moving to the States without a word; quitting his job, although I understood why; and opening up his own firm, which is just a huge risk, on so many levels. He wouldn’t tell me when he had cases with JAG, and then he’d show up and make me look like an idiot. One time, he made me go to this party, when he knew I would be uncomfortable, and then paraded me around like a Barbie doll. I’ve fought a long time to be judged on what I do, and not how I look. He made me feel so small that day, and then I was the one who ended up apologizing. It seemed to go like that a lot. Looking back on it, he was really quite manipulative.”

I have to admit, though, that I’m not blameless. I let Mic make decisions for me and followed along, assuming that I would eventually feel the same way about him as he seemed to for me. I really don’t think I was ever really in love with him. There wasn’t the spark I had hoped to have in my life, but I kept telling myself that he was a good man. Harm asked me on the night of my engagement party whether I loved Mic, and I couldn’t bring myself to say that I did. Harm and I actually had a long discussion that night, and he admitted that, on some level at least, he loved me. But he really didn’t indicate a willingness to fight for me, so I persuaded myself to stay with Mic. I had myself convinced to go forward with the wedding, until Harm’s plane went down. It wasn’t so much that Harm might die, which was very upsetting, but I guess the whole thing made me realize that life is just too short. And then, when I wanted to postpone the wedding for more than 24 hours, Mic got really upset, and couldn’t understand.”

I know that everyone thinks it was all about Harm. It was partially about Harm, but not entirely. He always seemed so indestructible, but he almost died that night. I guess it made me realize my mortality, too. Anyway, I started hemming and hawing about the wedding, and Mic got pissed off and went back to Australia. I went to talk to Harm about the whole mess. I guess I wanted to know where he stood on everything, but he’s been my best friend for a long time, and I also wanted his advice. Mic called Harm’s place, and when he found out I was there, he left for the airport. I went after him, but he got on the plane without a look back. Again, Mic made a major decision affecting my life, without consulting me, although I wasn’t that sorry that he did. Harm told me to come back, telling me ‘I knew why,’ and I thought it would be the declaration I was looking for, finally. But Renee was there when I arrived. Her father had died, and Harm didn’t want to hurt her further.”

“Rabb is an idiot,” Clay said simply. “I understand what he was trying to do, but your life was falling apart, too.”

“Tell me about it! I mean, it was like out of a movie or something. There was pouring down rain, and I was standing outside his apartment building. My fiancé had left me, without giving me an opportunity to say anything, and the man who I was really in love with pulls me to him, and then pushes me away-again. I know that I’ve let this whole thing with Harm get out of control. I’ve always played second fiddle to whatever or whoever else was in his life: his search for his father, his flying, his girlfriends. I just wish I would have fully realized it right then, told him off, and walked away. Instead, I ran away to the Guadalcanal, and our confusing relationship continued. Every time I pressed him to talk about it, he’d put me off. I guess I’ve gotten kind of far afield from your question about Mic.”

“No, that’s okay, you clearly need to vent. Have you talked about this with Harriet, or anybody else?”

“Not really. I didn’t want to put Harriet between Harm and me. The whole thing is just humiliating, on a lot of different levels, and I didn’t behave that well towards Mic.”

“I’m sure Harriet would understand, Sarah. We all make mistakes, and none of us are perfect. And I don’t think it’s all that humiliating. If anyone should be humiliated, it’s Harm. He kept stringing you alone, giving you a taste of what you wanted, before pulling away. It’s convenient for him to work it that way, because then he always has you waiting in the wings, while he continues to test the waters to make sure nothing better is out there. You know, I feel kind of bad for him, because he’s going to die old and alone, through his own stupidity.”

“Well,” I laugh, “that may be true. I resolved back on the Seahawk that I will try to act only in my best interests from now on. I’m not quite sure what I want, but when I figure it out, I’m not going to settle for anything less.”

“Good for you,” Clay says quietly. I decide to change the subject.

“I feel like you know so much about me, and I really don’t know that much about you. What do you want out of life? You said that Harm would end up alone-is that how you see yourself? Or maybe you have a girlfriend, or something, already, a kid running around?” I ask somewhat playfully.

“I don’t have any of those things, no. And I knew when I chose this career that there was a very good possibility that I would die alone, although I might not be old. I guess I shouldn’t joke about it. But the women I work with are off limits, because there is just too much room for problems. Well, you have the same situation in the military. It’s the same idea. As for ‘regular’ women, I have yet to find one that can handle the fact that I can’t tell her where I am, or why, or what I’m doing. Or even who I really work for. It will usually work for a little while, and then the wheels come off the wagon when she starts wanting more information. People think they can handle not knowing, but it’s really human nature, I think, to want and need to know what’s going on in the life of someone you care about. Anyway, I’m usually happy when nothing gets thrown.”

I laugh despite myself. “Oh, Clay, I’m sorry, it’s not funny, really, but your philosophy about it is pretty entertaining. If nothing gets thrown, indeed.”

“Indeed,” he snorts. “I think you’ve been reading too much Jane Austen.”

This lightens the mood considerably, but I have to ask, “What sorts of things get thrown?”

“Well, if I’m lucky, I’m at her place. But, seriously, really, only one woman, Natasha, threw something. It was, unfortunately, a crystal vase that had been given to my parents as a wedding gift. I always knew she was sort of a shrew-she was a $600 an hour litigator, but hadn’t really put the screws to me-but that was really beyond the pale. Natasha knew where the vase came from. I have never wanted to hit someone like I wanted to hit her. She must have seen it in my face, because she turned tail and ran, never to return.” He chuckles a little. “Natasha had left her favorite dress at my place. It was a Chanel. I gave it to a homeless woman I knew begged for change outside her building along with an extra $50 to wear it the next day. Natasha was not amused.”

I start giggling uncontrollably. “Oh my God,” I gasp. “I hope you took a tax deduction.”

Clay then starts laughing hysterically. “I REALLY wish I’d thought of that.”

Once the laughter died down, I said, “What she did was really unforgivable. Something like that vase had special meaning, especially to you, since you lost your father so young. I just don’t understand how people can be so selfish.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. I can hear him yawning, and I realize what time it is.

“It’s 0303,” I say. “We should get some sleep.”

“Good night, Sarah.”

“Good night, Clay.”

It takes me a little while to fall asleep. I feel much better, now that I’ve talked through the whole Mic and Harm situation with someone. And I don’t know who Natasha is, but I would string her up by her pedicured toenails for what she did. I know firsthand how obnoxious Clay can be, but I also have a feeling that he was pretty upfront with her about what life with him would be like. He pretends that he would stop at nothing to get what he wants, but he really is honorable.

When I wake up the next morning, Clay was getting dressed, and I got to see him with his shirt off again. He is really attractive. I think about it for a minute. I think I’m becoming REALLY attracted to Clayton Webb. It feels right, and I decide not to overanalyze the situation. I’m actually really glad that I can go with these feelings and allow things to develop, if Clay feels the same way, that is, far away from the prying eyes of the JAG office. I know everyone means well, but I have learned a lot about Clay on this operation, things no one else at the office knows. I would not tell Harm any of these things, because I know that he would be relentless in cutting Clay down regardless of what I say. Which is ridiculous, in light of some of the things Clay has done for Harm, and the trouble Harm has given Clay when Clay is trying to run an operation. I wonder why Clay continues to even call Harm, although they are friends, in a strange way. Now that I think about it, though, I guess Harm has bailed him out on more than one occasion, too. I guess I sort of spaced out while I was thinking about all of this, and I had been staring at Clay’s butt. Which is very nice. He had turned around, causing me to stare at his crotch. I was so lost in thought that I wasn’t really seeing anything at that point. Clay stood staring down at me, and then I saw a hand wave in front of my face, and looked up to see a very amused look on his face.

“Good morning, Sarah.”

I started. “Oh, sorry, I was really zoned out there. I haven’t had my coffee yet.” This seems to satisfy him, thankfully, and he says he is headed for coffee himself, and will see me there.

When I arrive at the mess, he is engrossed in a report, and I spend the rest of the time until my shift, helping a soldier whose father just passed away understand the intricacies of the probate process. I feel really bad for him, because he couldn’t make it home to the funeral. Although his father had been ill for a while, and apparently tried to divide up a lot of personal property prior to his death, a large family fight was apparently brewing. I asked him if he wanted me to talk to his CO about leave, but it seems that, for now, he’d rather stay out of it. He is smart enough, however, to want to know what’s going on.

Tonight, I hear two of the prisoners talking about how they hope that the “plans” are continuing to go forward. They said something about the Capitol, but I couldn’t hear what else they said, because other men started talking. They started speaking again about escape from this prison, and their eventual goal was Khost. They were still looking for a means of escape, and they talked about overpowering me. I knew they’d be a little surprised if they tried that, although I certainly couldn’t take all ten of them at once. But I don’t know where they thought they’d run to-they are far outnumbered in the camp. I would pass it along to the camp commander, of course. After lights out, they started in about sex again. I guess it’s true that men think about sex virtually every second of the day. They start talking about me again, and I am having kind of a hard time controlling myself. My replacement arrives a little early, thank goodness. I think he has a little crush on me, and normally I wouldn’t take advantage, but I have got to get away.

I take the long route back to the hootch, but I arrive on time. I pass along my information to Webb, and go to catch Captain Estes before he turns in, to give him the information I overheard, and then I return. Ari has had an uneventful day, for once, and is just finishing up. His debriefings usually take longer, because his prisoners are quite talkative. But he said that today they had all been grousing about the food, and the fact that they didn’t each have their own Korans. “Half of them can’t even read, so why they think they need their own Korans is beyond my understanding,” Ari said. “It’s just ridiculous. But I guess prisoners will be prisoners, no matter where they are. Guys in the U.S. complain about their macaroni and cheese, and they complain about the food here, too.” Too true.

After Ari leaves, I go to get cleaned up for bed. When I come back, I find Clay on the phone with Harm. All I hear is, “Rabb, that is none of your goddamn business.” I clear my throat, and Clay says nothing, and hands me the phone. Harm is actually calling me about a case.

“What was that all about, Harm?”

“Just making sure Webb is looking out for you, Mac. It sounds to me like he’s taking just a little too much interest.”

“Okay, Commander, that avenue of conversation is now closed. What do you need that is work-related?”

“Mac, I’m sorry, but...”

“Commander, RED LIGHT. It’s past midnight here. What do you need?”

Harm finally asks me some details about my trial strategy in the defense case of a petty officer accused of stealing merchandise from the commissary at Norfolk. Stealing offenses depend on the amount stolen, and the value of the merchandise taken in this case was unclear. Singer, who was prosecuting, had only charged her with theft of the higher amount. We discuss the case for about twenty minutes.

When I get off the phone, Clay is already laying down with his eyes closed. I can tell he’s not sleeping, but I turn off the light and lay down anyway. I was having a little trouble falling asleep, and was trying to name all of the state capitals in alphabetical order. Clay then scares the hell out of me by saying, “How the hell did he get so damn obnoxious?”

“Jesus, Clay, you scared me! But to answer your question, I would have to say years of practice. Although, I’m sure he’s asked the same question about you at some point in the past.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But, to be honest, a lot of my attitude is in the name of self-preservation.” There is a long pause. “He can just be so sanctimonious sometimes! We were making pleasant small talk, waiting for you to get back, when he noticed me calling you ‘Sarah.’ He totally went off the deep end. I mean, it’s your name, for Chrissake.”

“Argh.” It’s about the only thing I can say. “Is that about the time I came back?”

“Yeah, thank goodness. No one really has the power to push my buttons like he does. I was just laying here, thinking of potential ways to torture him when we get back. When I started to manufacture a reason to run an op in Siberia, I realized I had probably gone off the deep end.”

I just start laughing. Clay is so damn funny. He doesn’t always try to be, and his sense of humor is pretty dry and subtle. “Well, as nice as that might be, I’m not sure Harm is really worth all that effort.”

“I think you must be right. But, honestly, I don’t know how you work with him day after day.”

“There are times when I can only talk to him about work. Tonight being a good example. He has this annoying habit of psychoanalyzing my life, then coming back like 30 seconds later to apologize. He can be incredibly difficult to work with, because he just bulldozes ahead, without thinking about who else is he running over. But, listen, I REALLY don’t want to talk about Harm.”

“Me, neither.”

There is silence. I start thinking more about Clay, and I’m not sure that this is the best course of action. I need to stay focused. So I begin to calculate the amount of leave time I have building up so that I can take a vacation. When I’m almost asleep, I think I hear a really soft, “Sarah?” I’m not sure if I really heard it, and my brain felt so fuzzy that I just let myself drift off.

The next day, something finally broke loose. My prisoners were bickering amongst themselves, and being just generally annoying. The mail had come that day, and the three guys who got girlie magazines, wouldn’t share. When you’re locked up and cooped up, every little thing takes on a significance that it probably wouldn’t have, otherwise. I wanted to smack all of them into silence. They were acting like a bunch of petulant three year olds, except for the sex obsessions, of course. Ari’s prisoners, on the other hand, suddenly started talking about a network of friendlies from Khandhar, through the interior into Iran. The man who started talking, Mustafa Aziz Mohammad, had received mail that day. It was inspected, and nothing significant was noticed, but something was apparently in code. Because it was suspected that al-Qaeda was sending coded messages via the Internet, all mail was photocopied. Magazines weren’t, although personnel went through every page, looking for alterations.

Ari and Clay spent most of the night trying to decipher the letter sent to Mohammad. Clay and I had decided that I would take a crack at the Iranians in the meantime, with the information we had. I started with the smallest man in the cell, the one who was sort of the low man on the totem pole, who everyone pushed around. He was so shocked when I started speaking to him in his native tongue, it was almost comical. I threatened to tell the other prisoners that I scared him so badly that he wet himself, and he spilled his guts almost immediately. I almost felt sorry for him. The only things he knew about was really the cave complex in Tora Bora, and the location of various caches of weapons and supplies that one might need to make it across into Pakistan. I wrote down what he said in case some of the caches hadn’t been uncovered.

I sort of went in order of the men I thought would be easiest to crack. The second drew me a picture of some graffiti that they were told meant that the house, cave, or whatever was “friendly,” or for use by al-Qaeda or former Taliban. He spoke about rendezvous points across the border into Pakistan, including the names of specific towns. I got similar bits and pieces from the next four men. The interviews went pretty quickly, actually, and after I finished with each man, he was put back in with the rest of the prison population. It was getting close to four in the morning, but I decided to continue.

I pulled in the guy who was sort of the “second in command.” He cracked as quickly as the first, much to my surprise, when I threatened to turn him loose in the camp, and tell all the Americans he was related to Mohammed Atta. This guy’s last name was also Atta. I couldn’t believe he fell for it. He also had only bits and pieces of information, but talked about rumors of friendlies back in Iran, and talked about some sort of network running along the Iranian/Afghan/Pakistani border down to the Gulf of Oman. It seemed to be a loose coalition, and not really State-sponsored. But it was something. It sounded to me like maybe the local tribes or local governments might be behind this network, at least to some degree. I was done with Atta by 0430. I was tempted to go to bed, but I was really wired at the same time. I decided to finish up.

The last man, the ironically named Najib Talabani, was, as I had anticipated, the hardest nut to crack. He had gravitated to the top, as it were, and had sort of been in charge within their cell. He had plenty to say to me, and was highly pissed off that he had been tricked by a mere woman. Like, all I did was stand there and listen. It wasn’t like I was pulling some sort of con game on them. I cut off his rant, though, because I realized that, if he got upset enough, things might start to slip out. So I started pushing his buttons. I talked about how great America was, all the things I had, my Corvette, which I loved driving, etc., etc. True to form, Talabani starting talking about how sorry “we all” would be, in January of the next year. There would be an explosion like we’d never seen, and we wouldn’t be able to recover that easily. They were going to cut our legs out from under us. He went on like this for about 10 minutes, and it clicked that they were probably plotting to blow up the Capitol building during the State of the Union address.

Unfortunately, when I figured it out, my concentration slipped for about a split second, and I found myself laid out on the floor, with this asshole looming over me, pulling at my uniform blouse.

Continue to Part II