The Shadow Patrol

whispered phone calls. But they’d left that conversation behind. They drove in silence. When they arrived, Heather waited on the front steps. Evan opened his door before the car had stopped. Wells sat in the car and watched him go. He’d lost his relationship with his only child without ever having one. Neat trick. After Evan disappeared, Wells stepped out of the car.

“Smart kid.”

“He is that.”

“Doesn’t like the war much. Or me.”

She turned up her hands.

“You could have warned me.”

“I wasn’t sure it would go that way and I didn’t want to jinx it. I’m sorry.”

“I like him, you know. Politically aware, intelligent — he’ll run for something one day. Something important. And win.”

“I hope so.”

“At least I don’t have to worry that he misses me. He made that clear.”

“Would you rather he did? He felt some terrible lack in his life?”

She shoots, she scores. “Maybe I’ll try again in a few years. Meantime, if you or he want to reach me—”

She stood, hugged him. “Good-bye, John.”

WELLS DROVE. He’d booked a hotel for two nights, but now he just wanted to roll on 90, let its long twin lanes carry him east. He’d grown up in Hamilton, south of Missoula, and he’d planned to visit the graveyard where his parents were buried. He’d have to wait for another trip to pay those respects.

He wasn’t angry with his son for questioning the necessity of war. Blind faith in your leaders will get you killed, Bruce Springsteen had said. But Wells could take only the coldest comfort in his pride. He’d lost any chance to connect with the boy. If Evan thought of him at all, it would be as a sperm donor, the man who’d contributed half his DNA and then disappeared.

Wells closed his eyes and counted silently to ten. When he opened them, the wide prairie on either side of the highway hadn’t changed. Time to face the truth, leave his son behind.

AND THEN HIS CELL RANG. A blocked number.

“John. You up in the woods, scaring the bears?” Ellis Shafer, his old boss at the agency. He was scheduled to retire in the spring. But Wells figured Shafer would work out a deal to stay. He claimed to have a happy life outside the agency, but he was in no hurry to get to it. Just like Wells. At this moment, Wells knew he’d buy whatever Shafer was selling.

“Montana. Visiting Evan.”

“Sojourning.”

“Is this call about the size of your vocabulary?”

“Master Duto has something for you. A mission, should you choose to accept it.”

Wells was silent.

“Before you say no—”

“I didn’t say no.”

“Must have gone badly out there.”

Wells didn’t answer.

“John?”

“I realize you enjoy demonstrating your cleverness at every opportunity, Ellis, but now is not a good time.”

“Duto wants you to go to Afghanistan.”

“He forget I don’t work for him anymore?”

“He thinks there’s a problem in Kabul, and I think he’s right.”

“What kind of problem?”

“The kind better discussed in person.”

Sure as night was dark, Duto had an angle here. Angles, more likely. “What’s my excuse?”

“Officially, you’ll be there on a morale mission. Also — and this will be shared privately with senior guys — you’ll be making an overall assessment of the war. Nothing in writing, just impressions that you’ll present when you get home. You go over, spend a couple days at Kabul station. Have dinner with COS”—an acronym that sounded like an old-school rapper but in reality stood for chief of station—“then visit a couple bases, meet the Joes. Talk to whoever you like.”

“Pretty good cover.”

“Yes. Come to Langley, and Duto and I will fill you in on the rest.”

Wells wondered what Evan would make of this offer. No doubt he’d dismiss it as macho crap, a pointless exercise.

“Great,” Wells said. “I’m in.”

3

HAMZA ALI, AFGHANISTAN

In the village, five minutes ticked by. The sun lost itself behind a cloud. Young pulled open a pouch on his Kevlar vest, extracted a pack of Newports.

“You have to smoke Newports, Coleman? I can almost see you on a billboard wearing one of those Day-Glo orange suits. Right above an ad with Billy Dee Williams sipping from a quart bottle.”

Young took a deep drag, blew the smoke in Fowler’s direction. “Menthol tastes good. Plus you people don’t smoke them, so I don’t have to share.”

“You people.”

“White people. You’re the one who went there.”

“Lemme try one.”

“A white person?”

“Come on.”

Young tucked away the pack. Fowler surveyed the empty village.

“What are they doing?”

“Don’t know. And not guessing.”

“Where’s B Team?”

“Lighting up, probably. And nothing menthol. Nothing that comes in a pack.”

Fowler was embarrassed he hadn’t realized. Of course. The three soldiers on the B fire team had turned into hash smokers the last couple months. Along with half the rest of the platoon.

“What are we doing here, Coleman?”

“You’re tripping over your own damn feet. I’m trying to stay alive. Get home.”

“No, what are we doing here? Right now.”

“Maybe Rodriguez found himself a kebab stand.”

“Kebabs.”

“Or tacos. I don’t know and I don’t care. You’re so curious, go check it out for yourself.”

Just that quick, Fowler decided he was tired of being scared. “You know what? I think I will.”

“You find any kebabs, let me know.”

THE STREET WAS FILLED with the random junk that was everywhere in Afghanistan, shreds of plastic and canvas, the stuff even the goats couldn’t eat. No metal, though. Metal was valuable. The Afghans salvaged it.

The village looked as dismal up close as it had from a distance. In richer areas, Afghans lived in compounds hidden by ten-foot mud-straw walls. Here the walls were barely waist-high, exposing the battered homes behind