'I can get you on a plane to Travis tomorrow morning.'
'Done.'
Allstrong broke a smile. 'You know, Ron, I hate it when you take so long to make your decisions.'
'I know,' Nolan said. 'It's a flaw. I'm working on it.'
At his desk, Allstrong picked up a manila envelope and handed it across to Nolan. 'If what's in that doesn't answer all your questions, I'll brief you further in the morning. Now you'd better go do some packing.'
'I'm gone.'
Nolan executed a brisk salute and whirled around. His hand was on the doorknob when Allstrong spoke behind him.
'Aren't you forgetting something?'
Nolan straightened up and turned around as he pulled the packet of bills out from under his jacket. He was smiling. 'Oh, you mean this old thing?' He tossed it back to his boss. 'Just seeing if you're paying attention, Jack, keeping you on your toes.'
'Pretty much always,' Allstrong said.
'I can see that. Catch you in the morning.'
Dear Tara-
So today I got to walk through some of the mean streets of scenic Baghdad with this crazy guy, Ron Nolan, who didn't seem to know or care that we were in hostile territory. He's one of the security guys for Allstrong, which, you may remember from my last letter, if you're reading them, is the contracting firm that we've somehow gotten semipermanently attached to. I find it ironic, to say the least, that I'm supposed to be out protecting him. This guy needs protection like a duck needs a raincoat.
It was too surreal. He's there to collect the company's payroll for this month. So I'm thinking we're going to go in someplace like a bank and get a check from Bremer's people that Allstrong can then go deposit in their bank. Wrong. They've got barbed wire and cement blocks set up in the hallway in front of this door. Nolan shows his ID to the Marine sergeant on duty with his whole platoon. The place is a fortress.
Anyway, we pass the ID check-everybody knows Nolan-and they walk us into this tiny internal room-no windows out to the hall, even. Stucco is still all over the floors from when the building was bombed in April. No drywall either. After Saddam left town, the looters came in and took everything, and I mean everything. Rebar out of the walls. Internal wiring. You wouldn't believe it. There's not a desk in the whole ministry building- everybody uses folding tables like you get at Wal-Mart. I wouldn't be surprised if we bought ' em from Wal-Mart and had 'em shipped over.
Anyway, so we're in this small, dim, dirty room. Four lightbulbs. It's roughly a hundred and fifty degrees in there. And there's these two guys who take Nolan's papers, check 'em over, then disappear into what looks like a warehouse behind them. Ten minutes later, they're back with a shopping cart full of packages of hundred-dollar bills.
I'm standing there thinking, They're kidding me, right? But they count out these forty wrapped bags of fifty thousand dollars each and-you won't believe this-Nolan signs off on the amount and together, counting them a second time, we load 'em all up into his backpack!
Picture this. Nolan's got two million American dollars in cash in a backpack he's wearing, and we're walking out through this mob of not very friendly people in the lobby of the Republican Palace, and then we're back outside the Green Zone, strolling through the impoverished Baghdad streets that are crawling with citizens who make less than a hundred dollars a month and who really don't like us. Was I a little nervous? Is this guy out of his mind, or what? And I got the sense he was loving it.
Long story short, a couple of blocks along through this really really crowded marketplace and finally we hooked back up with my guys in the convoy and made it out of town and back to the base here, where Jack Allstrong has supposedly got a huge safe-flown in from America, of course-bolted into the cement foundation under his office.
Anyway, lots more to tell about some of the other insane elements of the economics of this place-all the cooks here at the base are Filipinos, and the actual guards out at the airport are from Nepal. We met a guy named Kuvan today who evidently supplies Allstrong with all these workers. Nolan tells me none of them make more than a hundred and fifty bucks a month, where he makes twenty thousand! He tells me that when I get done with my service here, I should volunteer to come back and work for Allstrong. Ex-American military guys make out like bandits here. You'd love it if I went that way, huh?
Okay, enough about this place. You hear about Iraq enough anyway, I'm sure. What I'd really like to know is if you're reading any of these, if I'm at least communicating with you a little. It's hard you not answering, Tara. If you've gotten this far on this letter, and you don't want me to write to you anymore, just tell me somehow and I promise I'll stop. If you've made up your mind and it's completely over. But some part of me holds on to the hope that you might be willing to give us another try when I come home.
I know, as you said a hundred times, IF I get home. Well, here's the deal. I'm coming home.
I'm just having a hard time accepting that our slightly different politics have really broken us up. It's true that I think sometimes it's okay to fight for something, either because you believe in the cause or because you've signed on to fight. You've given your word. It's as simple as that. Maybe you don't think that, and we can argue about it more someday, I hope.
If you could just write me back, one way or the other, Tara, I'd love to hear from you. I love you. Still.
'Hey! Evan.'
He looked up to see Ron Nolan standing in the doorway that led back to the dormitory where his men slept. He had written his letter sitting in muted light at a table in the otherwise empty mess hall. Now he'd just finished addressing his envelope and put his pen down, nodding in acknowledgment. 'Sir.'
Nolan stepped into the room. 'Hey, haven't we already been over this? You're Evan, I'm Ron. What are you, twenty-five?'
'Twenty-seven.'
'Well, I'm thirty-eight. Give me a break. You call me 'sir,' I feel old. I feel old, I get mean. I get mean, I kill people. Then you'd be to blame. It's a vicious circle and it would all be your fault.'
The last words he'd written to Tara still with him, Evan had to force his face into a tolerant smile. 'You'd just kill somebody at random?'
Nolan was up to the table by now, grinning. 'It's been known to happen. It's not pretty. You want a beer?'
Evan had a nagging feeling that this recreational drinking could become a slippery slope. It would make the second time he'd had alcohol since his arrival over here. But then really, he thought, what the fuck. With everything else that was going on over here, who really cared? Nevertheless, he took a half-swing at reluctance. 'We're not supposed to drink,' he said.
'Oh, right, I forgot.' Nolan cocked his head. 'Are you fucking kidding me? Somebody here gonna bust you? You're in charge here, dude.'
'I know. I'm thinking about my men.'
'What's that, like a mantra with you? You see that in a movie or something? I don't see any of your guys around who are going to be scandalized. They won't even see. Don't be a dweeb. I'll get you a beer.'
'One.' Evan was talking to his back as he turned.
'Okay. For starters.' Nolan walked back into the kitchen, opened an enormous double-doored refrigerator, and returned carrying two bottles of Budweiser. Twisting off the top of one, he slid it down the length of the table to where Evan stopped it and brought it to his lips. When he finished his first sip, Nolan was sitting across from him. 'There's e-mail out here, you know.' He pointed at the envelope. 'Mom or girlfriend?'
'Ex-girlfriend. I e-mailed her all during training and she never answered. It's too goddamn easy to hit Delete. Or change your address. So now I write letters.' He shrugged. 'Stupid, but maybe some kind of physical connection.'
'If she's your ex-girlfriend, why are you writing her?'
'I don't know. It's probably a waste of time. I'm an idiot.' He took another pull at his beer. 'I'd just like to know if she's even getting these damn letters.'
