"Tim," Lena stands fully and gestures to the man beside her, mouth quirking up in a wry smile, "meet Dr. Sayeed al'Faheen.
"What the fuck?" Tim blurts out. There are a few things going through his head, none of which will settle in one place long enough to examine.
Art looks from Tim to Lena, an expression of curiosity liberally tempered by annoyed resignation settling over his face. He looks like a parent about to find out from the principal that his child cherry-bombed a whole bathroom.
"Alright, let's start at the beginning," he says, clearly bracing for something unpleasant.
"He," Tim points at Faheen, glaring, "is supposed to be in Guantanamo." The man in question remains impassive, as if the argument doesn't concern him, and that rankles.
"Not that that doesn't make my evening much more interesting, but it still sounds like the middle," says Art. "Remember when they made you write essays in school? Introduction, middle, and then a conclusion? Try that."
"If I may –" interjects Lena.
Tim says, "No." at the same time that Art holds out an inviting hand and says, "Please." Because Art is the boss Tim loses and Lena is allowed to continue.
"He's not going to Guantanamo. I need him as a witness."
"A witness for what?" Tim ignores the shut up look Art throws him. "Didn't he try to kill you?" Art turns to Lena, his shut up look transforming into a what the fuck look. "What happened to all that?"
Lena twists the ring on her left middle finger. "It wasn't him," she says patiently.
"Really? You sure about that? You seemed pretty sure two years ago." Twelve hours after Tim had first heard the name al'Faheen a building had blown up under him. 'It wasn't him' doesn't quite reach the parts of his mind that remember being blown up and shot at in the name of that hunt.
"Well if you would just let me, I'll explain," Lena replies, a touch less patient.
"Oh I'm all ears." Tim stays in the doorway, tight-lipped, eyebrows raised in invitation.
"Do you know what Afghanistan's biggest cash crop is?"
Tim remains still, but Art shakes his head.
"It's opium. It's an industry that isn't going to be shut down, leastways not any time soon. Most people recognize the futility of fighting that battle, just look the other way, but there are also some who have adopted a sort of 'if you can't beat 'em, join 'em' attitude. Unfortunately, there was a group of contractors who were part of the latter group."
"Which ones?"
"GenCorp." Tim and Pascal had played flag football with a couple of GenCorp guys. They'd seemed alright.
"How come you didn't bring this to the commander? They'd have been arrested and sent back." How come you just up and left and never told me?
"Tim." She's using the voice, that careful, kind voice, the voice that begs for a calm that she's about to upset. It's a voice that tells him instantly that the information which she's about to impart will be personally unpleasant. "It wasn't just the contractors."
"What do you mean –" He knows exactly what she means.
"Parwan has no contractors. Do you remember Parwan?"
Art looks back to Tim, who stays silent, trying to choke it all down.
"Who do you think let them in to kill us?" she asks, gentle yet firm.
"What's your proof?" He looks at al'Faheen. "Don't tell me he's all you have."
Lena's face hardens. "I wouldn't be here if that were the case."
"Then?"
"We have a lot of things – bank account information, emails, phone calls. We also have this." Lena pulls out a phone, and after a few quick taps with her red-glitter nails, slides it across the table towards him.
Tim grabs it and takes a seat next to Art. The phone case is a plain, shiny white plastic, and now that it's up close he can see there's not a single scratch or smudge of dirt, and it irritates him.
There's a video file loaded on the screen. Tim makes sure the volume is turned up and hits play.
It's short, only about two minutes. The device that had recorded the video appears to have been resting on a table or chair for the duration of the recording; everyone in the frame is at an odd angle, and the picture doesn't shake even once. An Afghan man in his mid-thirties, who Tim recognizes as al'Faheen, stands in the middle of a room. A teenage boy shifts in and out of the edge of the picture next to him. Both look tense, posture stiff in unsuccessfully concealed nervousness. Facing him are four soldiers. Three of them are American; Tim can make out the flag on the closest one's sleeve, as well as the double bars of a captain. The fourth is an ANA interpreter. Because of the angle the name patches aren't visible. Even though there's an interpreter present most of the talking starts out in English, though towards the end al'Faheen drifts fully into increasingly nervous Pashto, but it's all simple enough. They want to know where the 'American woman' is headed and who she's seeing.
When the video is ended Lena addresses Art, "This was taken a day before the Taliban attacked a convoy of U. S. troops. None of the soldiers in that video were cleared to know anything about that mission. That last line, as you heard, was one of them telling the interpreter to pass on the information to Abdullah Jafar, a local warlord friendly with the Taliban. As a result of that ambush seven soldiers were killed."
"Who are they?" Tim asks.
"One was Captain Mark Brown, the other a Private Lashon Welling. I'm not sure who the third one is yet. I'm also not sure who else besides them was in on it. Brown and Welling are in custody. Their court-martials start next month. So far both have refused plea bargains to reveal their co-conspirators."
"You'd think they'd jump at that, considering the death penalty must be on the table." Considering they were perfectly happy to aid in the murder of fellow soldiers, it's not like it can possibly be about honor or loyalty.
Lena lets out a breath. "Yeah…they're holding off on that for now in hopes we can still convince them. Another thing – if anyone other than John Sloane from State Department or special agent McCoy from the FBI comes looking for us, tell them you were contacted about relocating a possible witness away from Washington D. C. but you never heard anything further."
"And which one do you work for?" asks Art, eyes narrowing slightly.
"I'm currently working with the FBI." Lena's eyes remain steadfastly on Art, ignoring Tim. She didn't say 'State Department,' and he notes the precise use of 'with' instead of 'for'. "If that last condition is something you don't feel comfortable with, Chief Deptuty, I'd prefer you say so now."
Art frowns, clearly wanting to ask more questions. He tables them for now, instead replying, "No, I think we can accommodate that."
"Good. Now," she continues quickly, still avoiding looking at Tim, "I believe you mentioned a mountain of paperwork we have to get through first."
"I sure did," says Art, sitting forward. "Can I offer you something to drink?" and before she can reply, "Tim, would you mind getting us some coffee?"
The last thing Tim wants is to be Coffee Bitch in front of Lena, but he goes back out the door, telling himself that he needed to throw his gear in a locker anyways.
When he comes out of the locker room it's to find that the coffee's already been started. Art's waiting for him in the kitchen, feet set apart, hands casually resting in his pockets. Tim knows better than to believe he means anything but business.
"Tim," Art begins, taking one hand out of his pocket, waving it towards the figures sitting on the other side of the glass, "how do you know her?"
o.O.o
This is the longest, most uncomfortable elevator ride Lena has ever taken. Chief Deputy Mullen had sent Faheen ahead to the safe house with Deputy Brooks, and now she's stuck alone with Tim.
Kelsey had mentioned her friend in the Kentucky Marshal's office was an ex-ranger ("Don't worry. He's not some dipshit sheriff from the hills who doesn't know which way to hold a gun.), but this is surreal. It's weird seeing him in normal clothes. And with longer hair.
She periodically steals glances at Tim while pretending to look at her phone. He stares straight ahead at the wood paneling, jaw rigid and brows drawn in.
"So who do you work for? And don't say State or the FBI because we both know that's a load of bullshit."
"I did used to work at the State Department," she says, off-guard and defensive.
"Oh yeah?" he snarls, "When?"
Lena almost lies, but he's staring at her like he knows she wants to, so she can't. "Like, eight years ago." She almost adds 'sorry', but that feels like defeat.
A derisive snort and they lapse back to tense, uncomfortable silence.
Gosh dammit – dang it. Lena taps the Candy Crush icon on her phone and tries to ignore reality, but her phone is being slow and uncooperative, so she gives up and tosses it back in her purse.
The day had started off so well. The preliminary report was finished, and John had finally gotten them a hearing date with the Senate Armed Services subcommittee. And now her mood has been shot to hell – heck. Lena stares blackly at the elevator door, willing the damn – dang – contraption to move faster.
You are not in middle school. Just spit it out and he can take it or leave it. "Look," she begins, forcing herself to look at him instead of the panel of buttons near his hip, "I'm sorry I left without saying anything. Faheen had to be in the gates and on a plane without anyone knowing. And," now that she's saying it, it sounds incredibly presumptuous, "if anyone asked you about me you needed to be able to say that I left without telling you anything at all."
Tim stares at her in that still, closed way he has that Lena hates because she can't tell what he's thinking. There's a ding and the doors slide open, but neither of them moves to exit. "You could have just told me not to say anything." The pessimist in her says his words are merely a sensible suggestion, but Lena hopes the indifferent tone is just a front.
"I don't know what sort of liar you are," she says honestly, hoping she can make him understand, "and unless you're really good anyone who asked would be fairly likely to know if you were hiding something."
"Well, it's not like it matters, does it?" he says after a moment and steps out the door, walking ahead of her towards the back lot. It feels like a slap.
Lena has to take a few extra-quick steps to catch up. Tim unlocks a black Suburban and climbs in without a backward glance. Hot-faced and annoyed, Lena knocks on the window and steps back when he opens the door again.
"I'm parked around front. You want to give me the address or should I just follow you?"
"Follow me. I'll be at the west exit," he says and snaps the door shut. Lena rolls her eyes. It's a new town and Lena doesn't know which way is west, but there are only going to be so many black Suburbans waiting for her to follow them, so she doesn't ask for clarification.
Sure enough, there's only one SUV waiting at the far end of the lot, and Lena pulls up behind it.
Instead of turning into the street, Tim hops back out of the car, leaving the engine running, and knocks on her window.
"Are you fucking serious?" he asks when she rolls it down.
"Excuse me?"
"No one drives those here. You may as well put a sign in the front yard that you guys are from out of town."
Lena resists the urge to yell, and takes a breath before responding, "Does the safe house have a garage?"
"Yes."
"Then I don't see the problem," she says evenly.
"Fine."
When he's back in his own car, Lena lets her head fall forward against the steering wheel.
Fudge.