It's different in the CIA; when something's personal, they let you run with it. Normal law enforcement agencies don't let you do that. They think you have too much emotion to do the job properly. Normal law enforcement likes tidy, pc results. The agency doesn't need pretty, doesn't need tidy, and therefore they see emotional investment as an asset most of the time. The agency doesn't care about revenge; they care about results. If revenge is a happy byproduct, then all the better. They see it for what it is: a motivation to get things done.
And this jackass… jackhole… will give her the dang surveillance tapes of the garage. Lena can feel Clarence next to her, knows he'd rather just offer a bribe and get this over with. But she hates the corruption that permeates the country and refuses to feed it. Maybe she should have asked to train as a field agent instead of becoming an analyst. Threatening people with a gun sounds pretty peachy right about now. Oh hell…heck…she doesn't feel mean and petty enough to resort to threats…yet. Anger is hard and it drains you and you never know who you'll need down the line. She should have let Clarence do the talking. He has a penis, and the person standing between them and the surveillance footage has a penis, so she should have stood back and stayed silent. But the man is a supposedly a cop. Lena had been pulled over once and ticketed for going a measly five miles per hour over the speed limit back in D.C. After the officer had gone on his way, she'd let out a stream of violent cursing that would have made a sailor blush. She would do anything to be dealing with that guy right now, rather than the greedy, stonewalling twat in front of her.
It goes back and forth a bit, Lena politely curious about the bogus 'rules' prohibiting the handing over of the security tapes and the 'cop' making increasingly less subtle hints about incentive, all torturously slow because the exchange is through an interpreter. Lena can speak Pashto, but her Dari is pretty rusty, and understanding the nuances of the exchange is a bit beyond her reach. Clarence, who speaks both flawlessly, remains silent. His phone pops and dings periodically with the sounds of some app game.
"He says he cannot give you the tapes without making copies first, and they have no blank tapes." Of course they don't. Their interpreter, Sadiq, far more wise to the quirks of Afghan bureaucracy, has infinite patience. With no stake in the outcome, he can afford to not care.
"Please tell him I don't need the copies now." It's time to compromise. "I'll be happy to watch them here, and he can get them to me when he has time."
Some rapid Dari from Sadiq and some ponderous Dari from the policeman. "He regrets to say that their TV is broken."
Now he's just being rude. The gun is sounding more and more satisfying by the moment. Lena is talking herself through the virtues and satisfaction of patience when her pocket vibrates.
Look bored and hassled and turn off all the sound and vibration on your phone. Keep your screen open.
It's from Clarence. She rolls her eyes heavenward. It's not hard to pretend.
Ask if there is someone else you can talk to about the tapes.
"Please ask him if there is anyone else who has time to get tapes and make me copies." Lena is proud the word 'please' keeps coming out of her mouth.
Sadiq asks, and the reply is expectedly unhelpful. "They are all busy men."
Ask him if you can also see the tapes from the Kabul Serena.
She is regretfully informed that those tapes also haven't been copied yet, but if she has a good reason to expedite the process, then perhaps he can be of service. She's never heard of any tapes from the Kabul Serena hotel.
Waste of time. Let's go.
No sh…kidding. She doesn't bother thanking the jackhole for his time since he wasted hers and leaves Sadiq to make their excuses if he even cares to.
Once outside, Lena frustrated, Saddiq indifferent, and Clarence apparently taking a smoke break, their security team – this time a group of contractors – waves them over. They don't like civilians bumbling around outside for gits and shiggles. She motions for them to wait.
Clarence turns to the interpreter, unlit cigarette in hand.
"Avez vous du feu?" Sadiq looks puzzled. Clarence waves the cigarette in his face. "Avez vous du feu?" Sadiq reaches uncertainly for the cigarette. He'd actually been asking for a light. Clarence lets it go, pulls out another, and lights them both. Satisfied the man doesn't speak French, he takes a puff and turns to Lena.
"Must you do that?" she gripes, unhappy with the cloud of toxicity he so enjoys.
Clarence ignores her. It's an old argument. "We need a different interpreter. This one doesn't like us. Next time we're bringing Ahmed."
"What are we out here for?"
"Try looking a little more bored please. Or annoyed by my incompetence."
"That'll be hard."
"I'm touched, but I'm sure you'll manage."
"Good Christ, why are we here?"
"That's the ticket."
"Clarence."
"Ten to one says he doesn't even have the damn tapes."
"Well, crap, now what? And who has them then?"
"Best guess? It's above his pay grade, which means someone's taking this personally. Someone at the hotel had to have handed them over so we can ask them."
"And if they don't want to tell us?"
"Then we'll pay them because, unlike you people, we're not on board with "enhanced interrogation,' and," he holds up a hand, "it will save me time and headache. Idealism is wonderful and all, but we don't have all day."
"Unless you count making people listen to lambchops on repeat, then I don't interrogate people that way. Besides, congress just told us we can't do that."
"Ha! That's never stopped anyone."
"Freedom baby."
"What's lambchops?"
"Kids' television show in America."
"You had me horrified at 'kids.' You cruel woman."
Unfortunately, they don't find anyone at the Safi Landmark to pay off or interrogate, with enhanced techniques or otherwise. The manager informs them that the guard who handed over the tapes quit with no notice. 'Does he have a phone number?' It's disconnected. 'Can you provide us with an address?'
An hour and a half later, cranky security detail in tow, they find a full apartment, empty only of people and a toothbrush.
"On the bright side, we're on the right track."
o.O.o
Tim finds Lena sitting against the wall, one arm curled around a bent knee, head tipped back against the concrete. She seems content rather than tired, and he lets himself notice the way a tight t-shirt flatters the all the parts he likes to look at. And because his brain needs to warn him of the hazards of having nice things, a different image of her pops into his mind. The abruptness of the intrusion brings him up short. This image is framed by a scope and the fear he's about to watch someone killed by a zealot in a bomb vest. A fucked up corner of his mind offers, 'Hey, at least that way it would've been fast.' Tim stays where he is for some moments, questioning his original purpose and waiting for the two voices in his head to finish arguing about caution and futility.
He tries to think about what happened in the words he'll use to tell the story two years from now. Hey remember that time a building blew up under us? Fuckin' wild man. He decides to say it to Lena, try it out. "Hey, remember that time a building blew up under us?"
Lena startles at his presence, but surprise morphs into a grin – not just a smile, but a genuine grin – with a speed that jerks his stomach a bit sideways. "Well luckily, I had the foresight not to be standing on top of it."
"I'm not the one with crutches and a nose job." Tim sits down next to her, careful to keep a good foot of cement visible between them, and folds his hands in his lap. He feels like a schoolboy.
"It's not that broken."
"You do know what you look like right now." She gives him a look, and Tim immediately wishes he could backtrack. He's too used to being around men, and the imperfection of a purple nose had made him too comfortable.
"And I'm so grateful you're here to remind me," she replies drily. "At least it's still straight." That last bit is mumbled, more to herself than him.
Tim wants to say that despite her swollen, technicolor nose she still looks pretty. But he knows better. Or maybe he's a coward. At this point it would sound disingenuous anyways. He pulls out the flask instead, a different peace offering.
Tim realizes real quick that she's shit at drinking.
"So is this the kind you sip or is it like a shot?"
"Jesus, you brought it to us. Do you even know what this is?"
"Well the label said bourbon, so I'm going to stick with that assumption." Lena sniffs dubiously at the open flask.
"It's treasure. Golden treasure."
"Not that I'm not happy you like it, but it looks more like burnt sour-juice to me." Her eyes crinkle with contrary, silent laughter. She has very expressive eyes. It's nice watching them as she talks.
"You've really never had this?" She shakes her head.
"Clarence said it was decent. Did it taste alright?"
"'Did it taste alright,' she asks. Jesus woman – I mean ma'am –"
"Lena."
"Lena," he amends, "Well now you definitely have to try this."
She takes a large mouthful – apparently deciding it's for shots – and her face immediately contorts in disgust. After swallowing – barely – followed by some hacking and sputtering, she declares, "This is awful." God, what a waste.
"I am deeply offended by that."
"I mean it's better than the last time I had whiskey, but it's still whiskey."
"But it's good whiskey."
"Well…More for you." He huffs in defeat. Who wouldn't want that.
Lena pulls out a stick of gum to get the taste out of her mouth, and Tim takes a swallow to make up for it.
"Where did you even get this stuff?"
"I can't tell you." She's got a shifty, sideways smile. Probably wouldn't tell him regardless.
"Holy shit, you robbed a general." He laughs at the idea.
"I did not rob a general."
He tips the bottle at her, eyes narrowed accusingly. "That's exactly the sort of thing someone who robbed a general would say."
"Well… crap, you got me."
"Price of my silence is more bourbon."
"What, you mean like Jim Bean?"
"It's Beam, and actually I like this stuff," he waves the flask, "just fine."
"Are you blackmailing me, Sergeant Gutterson?"
Tim puts on a serious face and gestures between them. "Oh this here's a negotiation."
She laughs, the silhouette of her shoulders shaking slightly. "And here I was afraid you wouldn't be funny without a concussion."
He ducks his eyes to the flask in his hand as a smile creeps its way onto his face. There are some of the female persuasion who have referred to him as juvenile, but she thinks he's funny. Tim watches her a moment, this little piece of serenity in the middle of Bagram. He takes a quick swallow for mental fortitude, and tries not to think about the fact that he needed it in the first place.
"So how'd you get here anyways?" she asks.
"I walked."
"I meant in the army."
"I liked the dental plan."
She giggles, head falling slightly to the side.
"Ma'am, are you drunk?"
"Leeennaaaa. Repeat after me. Leennaaa." Tim likes the way she gets annoyed when he calls her 'ma'am.'
He scoots himself around slightly to face her. "Lena," he says obligingly, "are you drunk?"
"You're awfully judgmental for a man with a contraband flask in his jacket." The beatific grin hides nothing. "Wonder what the general would say if he found you with it." Her eyes widen theatrically.
"Are you blackmailing me?"
"I am merely wondering aloud." She holds out her hand. "Here, let me try that again. I want to see if it tastes better now that I'm inebriated." She sticks the gum on the tip of her finger and takes a sip.
The second time around goes much as the first did. Lena swipes her sleeve across her mouth, laughing. "Nope, still awful."
"The general will be sad to hear that."
"Eh," she squints up in thought, smile sagging, "he's got bigger problems."
That's one way to put it.
"So," she says conversationally, "you were in Korengal."
Tim is not prepared for the change in subject and wills himself to stay put, keep still. He wonders if the abruptness is strategic or a result of her tipsy state.
"Yes. You been readin' about me?" He doesn't want to walk this path, but she's still holding the flask. Her fingers tighten around it as if she's read his thoughts, and with her next question he realizes it is indeed a calculated move.
"Yeah." Lena tilts her head to the side, unhurried, casual. "Nice part about working for the State Department: I get the unredacted versions of everything." He'd have thought a statement like that would be smug, but it's not, just truth. "Way more interesting that way."
Tim hunches up his shoulders, uncomfortable knowing she's read about him, all the facts but still missing half the story. He wonders which chapters she's read.
"You almost died." Her previously animated features have become studiously bland. The gnarled patch on the left side of his rib cage itches at a memory he does his damnedest think of in words instead of feelings and color.
"Yes."
"You didn't." Lena's speaking to the space ahead of her now, gathering pieces of an idea.
Her head bobs a degree too low to the side before swinging back to him. Despite being tipsy, her eyes are clear and focused. There's too much determination there for idle curiosity.
"You remember a kid named Meyer? Tall, looks like an awkward twelve year old? Private then." He doesn't need the physical description. The scar on his side still itches.
"You read the report, what do you think." Tim wishes she'd get to the point.
She has the air of one in the presence of a skittish animal, and he takes her caution as a challenge. He resents when people feel the need to tiptoe, resents himself because he knows why they do. "He's a corporal now."
That part's a surprise.
"How well did you know him? Did you ever speak to him after?"
Tim doesn't answer at first, still puzzling out her purpose. The truth is not very well. Some dumbass captain on his first rotation had decided he'd needed to make his mark and that they needed to take another chunk of that goddamned, god-forsaken piece of shit valley. If he remembers correctly, they'd gotten a whole square half mile in the end. Meyer had been a complete boot from an infantry unit they were teamed with, and worse, he'd gone full on deer-in-the-headlights in his first gun battle. Just stood there. Happened to some guys that way. They either got themselves or someone else killed. Meyer had almost been part of the latter group. The bullet went through Tim's lung instead of the kid's, cut his second deployment by three months. All Meyer had was a bruise where Tim had knocked him onto the ground. He bets they both wished they could have traded places. "Only met him the once."
"He said you apologized to him. Why?"
Tim squints upward then back down at the flask she still holds hostage, shrugs. "No point in berating him." Squads tended to handle that sort of problem on their own.
"Heh," Lena raises her eyebrows knowingly, "he told me that too." She passes Tim his flask and with it, his freedom. He counts to fifteen before taking a drink, and something clicks.
"When did you meet him?"
"During my first visit. He's a good guy you know." Lena pulls her other leg up, drawing in. "He was in that convoy in Tagab, pulled three people out. Nearly got himself killed doing it too." She smiles ruefully, one shoulder coming up in a shrug. "Thought you should know."
So not a total newbie tourist. "He back in the States now?"
"Yeah." That sideways smile is back. "He's applying for Ranger school."
"Oh god." Tim huffs, wondering whether he should be happy for Meyer or whether this change stems from a darker shade of idealism.
"Well," Lena rubs her hands over her knees, "I didn't mean to keep you." She'd intentionally done just that by holding the whiskey hostage, so it's his signal to leave. Sure enough, Lena grabs the crutches to pull herself up, but despite the difficulty and the wincing she waves off his hand when he offers it, so maybe it's a bit of an apology too. Tim knows enough about masochism to recognize when it's standing in front of him.
He thinks it must be witchcraft the way she manages to look clean even after a stint sitting on the dusty ground. The only concession she's made to the environment are jeans and reasonable shoes, although he suspects that the shoes are more a result of the twisted ankle rather than the locale. Something else strikes him.
"You shouldn't be out here alone, especially after dark."
Another head tip. "We're in the middle of the base. I didn't think mortars came this far in."
Tim frowns. That's not what he meant, but he also doesn't want to be the one to explain it to her.
"Didn't anyone ever tell you your face is gonna stick like that?" Her finger points at the space just between his eyebrows, and there's a careless smirk on her mouth. "It's fine; one of the captains lent me her car."
"Aren't you drunk?"
"Well that's why you're driving." He catches the keys she tosses at his chest.