“So’s the lion.”
“You have another way, I’m listening. But the hour’s getting short, John. Duto leaves in less than a week. Anyway, it’s Young’s call, not yours, right?”
“All right. I’ll ask him. Meantime you’ll send me what I need?”
“I’ll FedEx it tonight to the KBR office at KAF. Project manager there named Alan Sussman owes me a favor.” The breadth of Shafer’s connections always surprised Wells. But then Shafer had been in the game a very long time.
“Sussman.”
“Yeah. He’ll hold it for you, and that way it doesn’t have your name on it, just in case somebody’s looking for you. Meantime I’m going to see if I can trace Francesca up the chain, figure out who in Kabul he might know.”
“Facebook again.”
“I wish. But based on everything we’ve seen, our mole’s more careful than that. And speaking of careful. Watch out for this guy, okay?”
“Don’t worry about me, Ellis.” Wells sounded almost personally offended at the suggestion that this Delta operative might pose a challenge to him.
“I’m just saying—”
“I know what you’re saying. I’ve never liked snipers. Takes a special kind of nasty.”
23
Besides its brigade aid station, FOB Jackson had a combat stress clinic where a psychiatrist and a social worker talked to soldiers. Guys mostly came voluntarily, though sometimes commanders ordered them in. As Colonel Brown had told Wells, troubles at home were the biggest source of strain. Nearly every base had a Morale, Welfare, and Recreation center offering free Internet access. Many guys e-mailed their wives and families every day. But the constant contact didn’t always help. Deployment didn’t change relationships. Soldiers who’d had strong marriages in the United States had strong marriages in Afghanistan. For others, being in touch was more curse than blessing. Guys fought with their wives about child care, or freaked out after seeing pictures on Facebook of their girlfriends hanging out with other men. Military shrinks called the problems MWR syndrome.
The stress clinic at FOB Jackson was a simple one-story plywood building topped with sandbags and protected by a twelve-foot blast wall. Soldiers who didn’t want to be seen going in the main entrance could sneak through a gap in the rear wall that opened to a motor pool parking lot. Wells took that route, jogging up three wooden steps to an unlocked door. Inside, he found himself in the clinic’s break room, which held a coffeemaker and a shelf of paperback books and pamphlets about alcoholism, drug abuse, and family violence. An old-fashioned office clock ticked slowly, and vaguely depressing motivational posters covered the walls: “Fear Is Nothing to Fear,” “Six Ways to De-stress Yourself.”
“Hello?”
But no one answered. The clinic had officially closed for lunch at noon, a half hour before. Wells walked to the first door on the left, stepped inside. The room was windowless, six by six. Young sat on a plastic chair, leafing through a pamphlet with a light blue cover: “Signs Your Drinking May Be Getting the Better of You.”
“Coleman.”
“Mr. Wells, sir.”
“Call me John. Please.”
“I’m more comfortable using your last name.”
Wells had gotten that answer from enlisted men before. “Your choice. Sorry I’m late.”
“No problem, sir. Catching up on my reading.”
“Worried about your drinking?”
“No, sir. I don't drink. Been thinking what I ought to do when my contract’s up and I’m wondering about social work. Dealing with Oak Cliff kids like me. I’d have to get my B.A. first.”
“You’re not going to re-up.”
Young shrugged as if the question didn’t merit an answer.
“You been okay the last few days? No problems with Weston or Rodriguez?”
Another shrug.
“For what it’s worth I’m guessing you’d make a good social worker, Coleman.”
“How’s that?”
“You listen more than you talk. Probably the key to success.”
“In social work.”
“And life in general.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wells laid six pieces of paper on the desk, each with a headshot from the North Carolina Department of Motor Vehicles. Six men stared up, their lips curled into forced smiles.
“It’s one of these men, sir?”
“That’s for you to answer. Take your time. Even if you’re sure right away.”
Young examined the shots one by one. Methodical and cautious. Wells looked away. He didn’t want to tip Young. Finally, Young nodded and picked up Francesca’s picture. “This guy.”
“Definitely?”
“Yes. First I wasn’t sure, but them big elephant ears gave it away.” For the first time since Wells had met him, Young smiled. “He thinks he’s some bad, too. I can see it even in this.” Young tapped the DMV photograph. “Staring at the camera like he’s got better places to be. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re not. His name’s Daniel Lorenzo Francesca. He’s buddies with Tyler Weston’s older brother, guy named Jake. He’s a warrant officer based at KAF. A bug-eater.” Regular soldiers called Special Forces operators
“A Delta?”
“Yes and no.”
“What’s that mean?”
“He’s part of a separate unit inside Delta. Called D71. Ever heard of it?”
Young shook his head. “What’s that about?”
“He’s gotten special language training, that’s about all I can tell you. Speaks Pashtun. One more thing I have to tell you. He was a sniper in Iraq before he joined Delta.”
Young wasn’t smiling anymore. “So he’s a sniper. Tier One. Speaks the language. And he’s got some mysterious job that even the CIA can’t figure.”
“That’s about right.”
“Sir. Question. What part of this is supposed to make me feel good?”
“I guess the fact that we found him.”
“So now what? You grab him?”
“Did you ever see him carrying drugs? Or even Weston or Rodriguez?”
“You know the answer’s no.”
“Hear him talking about the deal? Or what happened to Ricky Fowler? Or anything illegal at all.”
“The closest I got to this guy was maybe a hundred feet. I never heard anything. Maybe if I had ears like him.” Young shook his head. “Don’t tell me you can’t do this. You’re not some MP, sir. You’re CIA.”
“Even the CIA can’t grab a Delta operator for no reason.”
“You believe me? About the drugs and what happened to Fowler and everything?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Mr. Wells, sir. You run the guy down and sneak back here and bring me these pictures and I say it’s true,
