They buried him alive in a box. The box is what broke him. Afterward, just seeing his captors approaching his cage, he would scuttle into a corner and fetal up and start making the sound. It was some Pavlovian thing. No one thought he was acting. No actor could make that sound.
And the Pavlovian thing worked in reverse, too. Just seeing Bugs scuttle off and hear him start making the sound… it was like someone pressing the nausea button in Larison's brain. He'd come to hate Bugs for the way he felt about himself. As though Larison's own agony had been Bugs's fault. And Jesus, what he'd done to the guy as a result. Jesus.
He'd tried to rationalize it all by telling himself it was to save lives, prevent attacks. But they never got anything useful. And so much of what they were being tasked with wasn't even about attacks. It was about whether there'd been a link between Saddam Hussein and al Qaeda. He remembered the first time they'd issued him a list of Saddam-AQ questions. He'd done it. It wasn't as though he'd been in the habit of thinking much then, it was easier to just do what he was told. But afterward he wondered what the hell he'd just done. He'd just endured the sound again, and for what… to provide someone political cover? That was his job now? That's what he was being used for?
And if they would use him for that, what else would they use him for? And what would they do when they were done using him?
Despite his fearful secret, somehow he'd always believed the military would do right by him. He'd given the army everything, endured horrible things, the kind of things you could never utter, not even to other men who had done them, too. Things that made him wonder whether there was a God, that made him fear some inevitable reckoning he sensed but couldn't name. He needed to believe the military would reciprocate, that in return for his sacrifice they would support and protect him.
Then Abu Ghraib happened. He saw the way the brass and the politicians closed ranks to blame the enlisted personnel. He remembered reading an article by a guy named Jonathan Turley, about how the rank and file always got scapegoated, about the abdication of command responsibility. He started to think about what he was doing, and about what the politicians would do if it leaked. Graner, England… how was he any different? He'd be the perfect fall guy, especially for the Caspers.
He didn't want to accept it. He wanted to believe what he was doing was different, that he was different, and that anyway it would never leak, it was too closely held. But he knew that was all bullshit. Nothing was more important in combat than avoiding denial and engaging reality, and the habit of combat helped open his eyes to political reality, too. Eventually it would all come out. They'd need a fall guy then. The fall guy would be him.
Once he realized it, he could see it clearly. They'd talk about his temper, which ironically was why they'd had him working the Caspers in the first place. They'd call him a steroid freak. They'd dig for other dirt. If they discovered his secret, they'd crucify him with it. Rogue. Sadist. Nutcase. Homo. They'd say he volunteered for this detail so he could be alone with detainees, so he could work out his twisted fantasies on naked, helpless men. And then, to prevent him from talking, to prevent him from revealing what he knew about the Caspers and taking everyone else down with him, one morning he'd be found hanging in his cell.
Yeah, that's the way it would happen. If he let them.
So he found a way to not let them. A way to protect himself, bring down the hypocrites who were going to set him up, and create a new life for himself-and for Nico-all at the same time.
His heart rate had returned to normal. He turned off the light and lay back down on the mattress. He kept the Glock in his hand.
All he had to do now was stick to the plan. After that, Costa Rica. Costa Rica was where the dreams would stop.
He just had to get there.
14
Projection At some point during the flight, Ben nodded off. He was still recovering from three near-sleepless nights in the Manila city jail and a lot of time zone shifts after, and he was glad for the chance to get a little shut- eye.
When he woke, Paula was looking at him the way he'd been at her earlier. 'What?' he said, scrunching up his face and blinking. 'Was I drooling?'
She cocked an eyebrow and gave him a bored look. 'Not that I noticed.'
He saw she was holding an iPhone, like his. 'You like it?' he asked, gesturing with his head.
'Love it. Does just about everything but shoot bullets.'
He laughed. 'iBullets. Maybe one day.'
He looked out the window. The sun was low in the sky. He checked his watch. Damn, he'd been asleep for almost an hour. They didn't have far to go.
'So how'd you get into this line of work?' he asked, sitting up and cracking his neck.
'What, you mean a nice girl like me?'
'I don't think you're nice.'
'Oh, but I am.'
'All right, a nice girl like you, then.'
She looked at him for a long moment. He couldn't tell what she was thinking, and he thought maybe she wasn't going to answer. But then she said, 'Nine-eleven happened during my senior year of college. I was planning to go to grad school for an M.A. in psychology-psychology was my undergraduate major-but I decided to do something to make a difference, instead.'
'How's that working out for you?'
'Making a difference?'
'Yeah.'
'It's hard, sometimes. Getting anything done in this bureaucracy is like trying to swim in molasses. But I've found ways.'
'You work in the D.C. headquarters building?'
'I do. Do you know it?'
'Visited on a school field trip when I was a kid.'
'You grew up in the area?'
'For a while. Among other places.'
'But you know Washington.'
He remembered a family excursion to the city when Alex had still been in a stroller. The five of them had stayed in a single room in a cheap hotel off Dupont Circle. Alex wanted to start at the zoo. Katie wanted the ballet. Ben wanted the war memorials. Their dad wanted the Smithsonian. Their mom had tried to negotiate the resulting hairball. It had rained the entire weekend and even Katie couldn't stop the fights. Ben had been back maybe a half dozen times since then, never staying for longer than he had to.
'I know it well enough to know I'd rather be somewhere else,' he said.
'And where is that?'
'Why, you thinking about visiting me?'
'Just making conversation.'
Her questions were innocuous enough, but they were making him uncomfortable. He didn't want to tell her too much. Harmless details could sometimes be assembled into a meaningful mosaic.
'How about you?' he said. 'Why the FBI? Why not CIA, or the military?'
'Because I believe in law and order. Plus I don't like violence. Law enforcement's about breaking the cycle of violence.'
He briefly wished someone had told that to the Manila cops who'd exhausted themselves beating the crap out of him. With every passing hour, the memory of those four days felt increasingly bizarre and improbable. But still, every time he thought of it, the cops cuffing him and later whaling on him, the heat and stink of the prison, the feeling of being swallowed up by some huge, insentient beast, cut off from anyone who knew him, anyone who cared 'And you?' she said.
