It was a relief to hear, because the alternative was that Sanchez and his people cruelly blew off a bunch of claymores at the backs of a retreating enemy. If he was telling the truth about this, then he’d at least negated one element that took this beyond a simple fight and onto the precarious grounds of a shocking atrocity.
“Were there any survivors?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they were still shooting when we left.”
“Was the return fire heavy or light?”
“Not heavy, but there was enough of it.”
“How many survivors would you say there were?”
“There were probably four or five who were still firing. And there had to be a fair number of wounded.”
“You know the Serbs are claiming there were no survivors?”
“That’s a lie!” he shouted with evident outrage. “There were men still alive on that road when we left.”
“I’ve examined the corpses,” I said. “Thirty-five of them.”
At that point our eyes met and we just sat and stared at each other for a moment. Sometimes, when you’re being bombarded with lies, a tiny morsel that sounds like the bald truth works its way into the conversation. Your ears almost tingle from the fresh sensation. And this was one of those moments.
I finally asked, “What did you do next?”
“We continued our E amp;E. I figured that once the Serbs found their column, that would slow them up for a while. So I began leading the team southward again. We were about fifty clicks from the border. I figured we could make it that night if we moved fast.”
“Were you still being followed?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t set any more flares, so there was no way to tell.”
“Why didn’t you set any more flares?”
“I think we were out of them.”
“You think?”
“I didn’t ask for a count, but I remember thinking we’d used our last one in the ambush.”
“Did you report to headquarters?” I asked, knowing damn well he had, because his report was noted in the communications log.
“Yes.”
“Did you report the ambush?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t want anyone second-guessing me.”
“I’m sorry, could you explain that?”
“I guess I knew they weren’t gonna be too happy about what we’d done. I just didn’t have time to get into all of that with them.”
“So what did you report?”
“That we were extricating.”
“Did you explain that you were being followed, that Serb columns were on the roads around you, that you felt your team was at risk?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I thought I had things under control. I figured the ambush bought us enough time to get out of there.”
“And you still didn’t report the ambush after you returned. Why was that?”
“Look, I made a mistake there,” he said, looking suddenly repentant. “I admit that. I figured that no harm had been done, and I really didn’t see any reason to have to report it.”
I turned to Delbert and Morrow, both of whom were sitting with their chins resting on their hands, listening raptly to Sanchez’s tale. The underlying concept of the cover story was damned good. You could split hairs over what constituted self-defense, but the notion of a desperate team trapped behind enemy lines, surrounded by bloodthirsty Serbs-the same fellas who’d ambushed and shot down Scott O’Grady, who’d snatched three American peacekeepers in Macedonia-that was likely to elicit a sympathetic response from anyone.
“Do either of you have any questions?” I asked Delbert and Morrow.
They both shook their heads. Like me, they could spend hours interrogating Sanchez, but that would come later. First we needed to interview some other team members, look for incongruities, and then we’d come back.
Sanchez was still sitting with his hands folded in front of his mouth. His fingers were squeezed tightly together, desperately tight, like if he didn’t press them together they might fly off and start doing funny things on their own. I guessed he was feeling some tremendous anxiety over how his performance had gone over with us. I stared back expressionlessly.
“Thank you for your time, Captain Sanchez,” I said, turning off the tape recorder and putting some papers back in my oversize legal case.
He stood up and pushed his chair back into the table. He waited there, looking awkward, almost helpless. “Hey, Major,” he finally said.
“What?” I answered, standing and preparing to leave.
“We didn’t murder those Serbs. I swear we didn’t. When we left, there were still some of them alive.”
I nodded. It wasn’t a nod of agreement, just acknowledgment.
Chapter 9
An envelope had been slid beneath the door to my room when we returned to the hotel, and that irritating little red message light was blinking on the phone. I opened the envelope as I dialed the number for my messages, which was no easy thing with only two hands.
The envelope contained a fax that had been forwarded by Imelda. She had appended her own little note, which read, “Bastard!!” I couldn’t tell if that was directed at me or mankind in general, so I read on.
The fax was a copy of a Washington Herald story from the day before. It was written by none other than Jeremy Berkowitz, the same fella I’d hung up on, and it exposed the shocking revelation that the Army had turned over the investigation of perhaps the most serious criminal case in its history to a lowly Army major and two captains. The implication was that if the Army genuinely wanted to get to the bottom of this case, it would have appointed some heftier, more qualified officials to handle the investigating. My name was even mentioned a few times in the story-spelled wrong, which struck me as adding insult to injury.
Now I could’ve decided that Jeremy Berkowitz was a vindictive prick who was trying to get even with me for hanging up on him, but that would’ve implied a disturbing lack of professionalism on the part of a very famous journalist. And as it was, the story was pretty weak. I mean, really, who cared if the Army appointed a major to head up this investigation? If that’s the best Berkowitz could do, then bring him on.
There were three phone messages. One was from the same pushy, antsy special assistant to the President I met before I left Washington, and the second was from General Clapper, the chief of the JAG Corps. I was not about to call the White House operative. The way those guys are, you call them once and they never get off your back. Like a bad date that just won’t go away.
I asked the operator to connect me to General Clapper’s number immediately. I didn’t really want to talk with him, either, but if I didn’t I was likely to get another of his late-night, cheery calls.
His dry-voiced, ever-efficient secretary answered on the first ring, and a moment later I heard his voice.
“How’s it feel to be famous?” He chuckled, which was easy for him, because nobody had bent him over and let him have it on the front page of a national newspaper that morning.
“I liked it better yesterday, when nobody ever heard of me.”
“What did you do to piss Berkowitz off?” he asked in an impressive display of worldliness.
“Does hanging up on him count?”
