“I’m sure you succeeded.”
The old man smiled. “You’d have to ask my father.”
“He’s still alive?”
Wazir nodded. “He lives about an hour from here by car. He must be the oldest man in the village there.”
“Well, I’m sure he’s proud of you now. I was not a very good son. And by the time I learned what a fool I’d been, it was too late. My father died from cancer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. All we wanted to be were good sons, yes?”
“It’s never that simple.”
Moore’s eyes began to burn — because he knew the old man was going to press him again. He did.
“The hardest thing?”
Moore glanced away. “I’m sorry. I can’t look in there.”
The old man sat quietly, sipping on his tea, letting the silence reclaim the room, while Moore forced his thoughts onto deep, dark waves of nothing. And then he looked up. “I guess if I don’t tell you, you won’t help me.”
“If you told me too quickly, I wouldn’t believe you. I understand that the pain is so great that you can’t talk. I know this pain. And I
“I just …I once made a decision that to this day I’m not sure was the right one. Every time I think about it, I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
Wazir’s eyes widened. “Then put it behind you! That was some of my best stew you’ve eaten!”
Moore grinned over the joke.
“Now, the two men in the photograph. I will find out who they are, but I think they’re unimportant. It’s the men they work for that you have to stop.”
“Do you have names?”
“You’ve seen my office. I have more than that.” Wazir took them back to his computers, where he showed Moore photographs of two men he identified as Mullah Abdul Samad and Mullah Omar Rahmani. Samad was the younger of the two, in his forties, while Rahmani was pushing sixty.
“Are these guys Taliban leaders? I…I can’t believe I haven’t heard of them.”
Wazir grinned. “They don’t want you to know who they are. The best way to explain it is that there are Taliban within Taliban, the more public figures you are familiar with, and a special group that works as secretively as possible. Rahmani is the leader of that group here. And Samad is his fist. They are the men responsible for killing your friends, for killing the colonel who wanted to help you.”
Moore threw a wary glance at Rana, who had told the old man much more than he should have. Rana shrugged. “I needed to tell him what was happening — in order to get his help.”
Moore made a face. “Okay.” He regarded Wazir. “Now this man is missing.” He handed Wazir a picture of Agent Gallagher, with his long, gunmetal-gray hair and scraggly beard. Gallagher’s parents had emigrated from Syria to the United States, where he was born. His real name was Bashir Wassouf, but he went by Bobby Gallagher and had his name legally changed when he was a teenager. He’d told Moore about all the discrimination he’d suffered as a kid growing up in Northern California.
“Leave me a copy of this,” said Wazir.
“Thank you. Do you know anything about the other man? The Hispanic guy?”
“He’s a Mexican, and they’re buying a lot more opium than they used to. They were never very good customers, but their business has increased tenfold in recent years, and as you discovered, the Army has been helping them move their product through Pakistan and out of the country, to Mexico, to the United States …”
“Do you know where these men are? I mean right now.”
“I think so.”
“Wazir, I want to thank you for the tea, for the stew …for everything. I mean it.”
“I know you do. And when you’re ready to talk, come back to me. I want to hear your story. I’m an old man. I’m a good listener.”
During the drive back, Moore thought a lot about “his story” and the darker waters he could have tread … Fairview High School, Boulder, Colorado (home of the Knights), was where Moore met a kid named Walter Schmidt during their freshman year. Schmidt was a year older than everyone else because he’d flunked out his first time around. He’d been proud of that fact. He boasted of cutting classes, mouthing off to teachers, and smoking pot on school grounds. He repeatedly tried to get Moore involved, and while the temptation had been great, the thoughts of escaping from the turmoil of his parents’ divorce incredibly enticing, Moore had stood firm. Even so, Moore was no scholar himself, barely passing his classes, and watching with some envy as Walter grew more popular, attracted girls who would actually have sex with him, and seemed to wriggle his brows at Moore, as if to say,
Finally, near the end of the school year, Moore’s defenses had weakened. He’d decided to attend a party thrown by Schmidt. He would try pot for the first time because a girl he liked would be there, and he already knew she smoked. As he rode his bike down the street toward Schmidt’s house, the flashing lights of police cars quickened his pace, and when he drew closer, he caught a glimpse of Schmidt being shoved out of the house like a rabid dog by two officers. Schmidt battled against the handcuffs, cursed, and even spat in one cop’s face.
Moore stood there, breathless, as the rest of the partygoers were arrested and taken away — including the girl he liked.
He shook his head. He’d been that close to getting arrested himself. No, that wasn’t a life. Not his life. He wasn’t going to waste it like these jerks. He’d turn it all around. His father, a nerd who worked for IBM, was always browbeating him about having no direction, no future.
But that night Moore made a decision. He would finally listen to someone else who’d been trying to inspire and encourage him: his high school gym teacher, Mr. Loengard, a man who recognized in him something no one else had witnessed or discovered, a man who made him realize that his life was worth something and that he could make contributions to this world that were immeasurable. He could rise to the call and become a very special breed of warrior: a U.S. Navy SEAL.
Moore’s father had told him that the Navy was for drunks and idiots. Well, he was going to prove the old man wrong. He kept himself on the straight and narrow, graduated high school, and by the end of that summer was up in Great Lakes, Illinois, at the Navy Recruitment Training Command for eight weeks of basic training. Moore had to get through the “confidence course” twice, ship training, weapons training, shipboard damage control, and the memorable “confidence chamber,” where he’d had to recite his full name and Social Security number while a tear- gas tablet hissed at his feet.
Upon graduation, Moore slid on his U.S. Navy ball cap and was sent to the Navy Law Enforcement Academy in San Antonio to complete the LE/MA (Law Enforcement/Master-at-Arms) six-week course. He’d found this interesting and exciting because he’d gotten to play with guns. While he was there, his instructors noted his marksmanship, and finally, after much pleading, he received that highly coveted recommendation. Upon graduation, Moore was promoted to Seaman (E-3) and sent off to Coronado, California, home of the U.S. Navy SEALs.
Blood, sweat, and tears awaited him.
5 FATHER FIGURE
More than two hundred guests had gathered at the oceanfront estate in the gated community of the Four Seasons golf course resort. At over twenty thousand square feet, including four master suites, two children’s bunk rooms, and a detached villa, the home had easily become the most famous residence in the entire community. From the massive, hand-carved front doors to the extensive stonemasonry and marble work that made the foyer seem more like that of a European cathedral than a private residence, Casa de Rojas took your breath away from the moment you entered. Unsurprisingly, Miguel’s girlfriend, Sonia Batista, gasped as he led her past the great stone
