The Night Letter

Chapter 39

Chapter 39

There was a knock at his door and Ward came in. He knew Ward wasn't there to cheer him up with distractions. It was worse than he thought; Ward said he had just called home and found out his father had died. He would start making arrangements immediately to leave country.

"Of course, of course," Phenisee said. "If there's anything we can do..." Phenisee didn't even know the guy was sick. He didn't tell anyone; didn't show any emotion. "Oiling the administrative machine," he thought.

After Ward left, Phenisee rocked back in his chair and the squeal of it made him aware of how quiet it was, despite the ceaselessly laboring generators just beyond the walls, keeping them cool inside when the thin mountain air outside burned with unchecked fury of summer. No, if something were to bring him down he suspected it would come from somewhere much closer. He was beginning to have doubts about his own people. Ward was a flake; he knew that. In the operational environment of Afghanistan drugs were pervasive. On the bases, even the FOBs, there was a wall separating the Westerners from the reality of a nation in chaos but you could never really hold the local influence completely in abeyance and the reality seeped in or, as it was threatening to do now, broke through. He had long thought there was too little accountability of the people who served here. Drugs were coming onto the FOB every day. The marijuana fields were visible from his own office. The sources carried it in their pockets along with opium, hashish or even heroin and forced to disgorge it before they went into the review rooms to be inventoried and cataloged and returned. But there was no oversight of the process and the contents of those little bags could be easily removed or concealed with no redress for the original owner who would probably just attribute the loss to the same corruption that attended all power structures with which they came in contact, whether Western or Eastern, and would not make too much of a fuss about it. Yet everyone in headquarters continued to get tested but here, where drugs were arguably more easily available, testing was almost unknown. For some reason that even Phenisee could not identify, he thought Ward lacked discipline to resist that kind of temptation. Now Ward's father was dead and his defenses were probably down. Phenisee had no other reason to suspect Ward but he was young, he was undisciplined, and he could not be trusted.

He even had doubts about Ted, his own boy or at least that was what people called him. Before him was the dark triptych of his computer screens and he clicked them awake. He opened the spreadsheet for the national source registry and scrolled through it again. It was already familiar enough to him that the source numbers recalled immediately to mind the names and faces of each asset to which they referred. Phenisee knew that Ted hadn't had a reliable source for awhile so he relied on the one time sources. Some of them were effective, had given them actionable intelligence and Ted had nominated them for cash awards and gotten them. Phenisee had signed the paperwork himself. But now looking at the registry he couldn't balance the books. There was either too much money or not enough sources or really, not enough information. He opened the contact reports and noticed that some of the information seemed repeated. It could be circular reporting. He hadn't asked him about it yet, perhaps because he feared he would not have an adequate response, although Ted was seldom at a loss for responses. Maybe give him some more time to develop one or maybe repent and blame it on sloppy accounting. Before that, he decided he would read every one of Ted's contact reports. He didn't think Ted would be stupid enough to get caught at such an old game. If a man thought his family situation called for it he might be tempted to any desperate measure.

Phenisee's list of concerns continued to scroll through his head. He simply couldn't trust Vanderpoel. There was an arrogance about him. He, a man who had never accomplished anything but simply hopped from job to job like a frog afraid to get its ass wet looking for a stable lily pad, somehow thought he was above it all, above everything they were doing here, and whenever anyone disagreed with him he gloated over it as the very proof of his superiority and kept his mouth shut, waiting for you to fail just to claim his redemption. Here was a man who was so afraid anyone would get their hooks into him he had no wife, no children, and no mortgage. A true free agent. You didn't know if that meant he was as innocent as a baby or corrupt as a con man. No, you just couldn't trust someone like. he didn't know Vanderpoel very well, no one did, but he thought that summarized his character fairly well. Now it was just a question of what Vanderpoel would say or do to jeopardize his authority. Someone like that would welcome an interview with the IG's office under initial confidentiality.

He wanted to trust his people but he wished he didn't have to see them so clearly. As if compelled by the hope of seeing them in a better, softer light, he pitched forward out of his groaning chair and went into the hallway and then the office. The hallway was empty and in the office was Cindy alone, her face lit by the glow of her computer screen. She glanced up like a faithful dog before a warm hearth when it hears its master's step and Phenisee knew a moment of remorse for neglecting his Cordelia. He wandered into the day room. The strike force didn't have a mission last night so they occupied the chairs and couches like negative space and played video games.

"Who won the last game?" Phenisee asked

"It's the same game. It just keeps going," came the reply. Phenisee didn't think it necessary to remark the likeness with their present reality. He hadn't found what he was looking for. His own people were hidden away somewhere, perhaps getting themselves or him into some kind of trouble.