Fireplay, Steve P. Vincent [best fiction books of all time txt] 📗
- Author: Steve P. Vincent
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He was happy that the images and the start of his story were safely stowed in his Dropbox account. Whatever was to come, they’d be waiting for him whenever he was freed. He was also confident that he’d covered his tracks with the computer and the SD card to a basic level. His efforts wouldn’t hold up to detailed forensic examination of his computer, but it would satisfy a passing glance.
The story was a bombshell and he was certain that neither Brinson nor the ANA had any idea what he’d managed to learn. Short of such an examination of his computer, or them torturing the information and the Dropbox login out of him, it was hidden like a dormant virus ready for him to trigger. He was excited by the potential and was sure that his editor would be as well.
Eventually, the steel door creaked open on its hinges. Jack turned his head in time for the door to hit the wall with a loud bang as two Afghani men in military uniforms walked into the room. A third man – a Westerner – followed them in, wearing civilian clothes and half-framed glasses. He was too small to be military, which meant he was either a diplomat or an intelligence officer.
Without a word, the two officers sat in the chairs directly opposite Jack, while the Westerner sat to Jack’s left. The two military men started to lay some papers out on the table. Jack leaned forward in his chair, ready for his eyes to feast on what was in front of him. He wanted to learn what they had and what they intended to hit him with. He was disappointed that he couldn’t read any of it.
“Mr Emery.” The officer on the left was all business. “I’m Major Gholem-Ali Jafari, Afghan National Army. My colleague is Lieutenant Doost Mohammad. We’re here to dissuade you from reporting on classified material.”
Jack said nothing. He wanted to figure out who was the good cop and who was the bad cop. The major spoke excellent English with an Oxford accent, probably the brother of a local warlord parachuted into a position of authority. The lieutenant kept his face expressionless. The Westerner was the real mystery. He had his arms crossed and his eyes locked on Jack. He was the threat.
Jafari continued. “You have no right to silence here. You’re facing serious charges and if you find yourself before a judge you’ll spend the rest of this decade in prison. I suggest you start talking, Mr Emery.”
They didn’t beat around the bush – accusations and the threat of long-term incarceration. Jack turned to the Westerner. “Who’re you?”
“My name is Sonny Vacaro.” The Westerner spoke with a southern drawl as he tapped his thumbs on the table. “I just – ”
“Where are you from, Sonny Vacaro?” Jack wasn’t sure interrupting was the best idea, but he had to get something of a handle on the situation.
“Alabama.”
Jack persisted. “And your professional home?”
“Classified.” Vacaro smiled like a shark.
“Right.” Jack sighed. ‘Your name isn’t Sonny Vacaro, either.’
“Classified.”
Jack snorted. “Right.”
“Look, Jack.” Vacaro uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. “We’re the only thing keeping you from an Afghan prison cell with a dirt floor and pit latrine.”
“Okay.” Jack swallowed hard, trying to resist the urge to press Vacaro’s buttons further. “I’ve done nothing wrong. Ask what you want.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Vacaro waved a hand lazily towards the documents on the table. “A number of Taliban and Al Qaeda prisoners have confessed that you recorded their lies and took photos of some of the injuries they suffered prior to capture. I’m concerned you have the wrong picture, Jack.”
Jack scoffed. The ANA officers and Vacaro were throwing around threats like candy and there were some documents he couldn’t read on the table. He’d had tougher shits than this and he’d heard more compelling narrative out of New York Standard interns. It was time to test what they knew, what they suspected, and what they had no idea about.
“Look, this feels a bit like amateur hour at the Comedy Club.” Jack reached up and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t have a story, so you’ll need to piece it together for me.”
Vacaro bit his lip as if lost in thought. After a moment he nodded and spoke again. “Did you record a conversation with Hewad Ghilzai when he was under guard by members of the 8th Marines?”
“Sure, the recording is on my computer, which you have.”
Vacaro nodded, shared a look with the ANA officers, and then continued. “Good. Now, did that conversation lead you to Camp Navitas where, after a tour from Major Bradley Brinson, you arranged to stay the night on a thin pretext?”
“I’d dispute that – ”
Jafari cut in. “You then snuck around the camp and spoke to nine dangerous criminals and terrorists. They fed you lies and you also took photographs.”
Vacaro didn’t seem thrilled with the interruption. He glared at Jafari and then turned to Jack. “I think what my colleague here is trying to say is that, in a vacuum, whatever you heard there may sound damning. But you need to be careful here, Jack.”
Jack smiled. “I’d dispute that too. The only thing you’ll find in my possession is a recording of my discussion with Ghilzai. I have no testimony from any prisoners and I have no photos.”
Vacaro sighed. “You’re not an American, Jack. If you were you’d have more protection in this room. I don’t care if you trespassed. I don’t care if you spoke to some Afghans. I do care if you’re going to parlay those facts into damaging lies.”
Jack inched forward in his seat and placed his hands, palms down, on the table. He glanced in the direction of each man for a few seconds, using the time to collect his thoughts. This was the crossroads: he could deny everything or come clean and promise to keep quiet. Both options had risks, but despite his unease there was only one choice for him to make. He was a news man.
He smiled. “No comment.”
“Are you sure you want to walk down this path?”
Jack shrugged, despite the tinge of doubt he felt. “I’m a pretty well-known reporter who works for the largest media conglomerate on the planet. Are you sure?”
“Very well. We’ll see if a few days in that prison I mentioned changes your mind. I don’t care about you, Jack, but I can’t have you reporting falsehoods.”
Jack sat back as Vacaro nodded at the lieutenant, who appeared to be little more than a prop. The junior officer stood, walked towards the door, and bashed on it twice with his fist. The heavy sound rang out like the death knell on Jack’s freedom. He was fearful of what was to come, but he couldn’t abandon this story so easily, especially after the interest Vacaro had shown in burying it.
The door swung open and two uniformed ANA soldiers stepped in, joined by a pair of marines. Jack’s eyes widened. It was a surprise to see the two militaries working so closely together to bust this story out of him. As they walked closer, stood him up, and cuffed him, he felt like he was floating above his body. His mind started to recalibrate. This was more than Brinson and some dodgy marines.
This was big.
Jack’s throat felt as if it was tearing open as he screamed out in agony. He tried to pull his hand back, to protect it, but the restraints kept it where it was – flat on the table and palm up, an easy target for the rod that had just come down on it hard and sent fire burning up his arm. He bucked against the chair, trying to free himself and screaming insults at his captors.
His nostrils flared and his eyes blinked quickly as the pain receded. His hair was soaked with sweat and stuck to his forehead. Rivulets of sweat rolled down his face, stung his eyes, and filled his mouth with salty moisture that seemed to mock his thirst. He wanted to see them, but a hood covered his head. They waited for the answer. Sure as death they’d ask it again in a minute, he wouldn’t answer, they’d hit him and ask again.
Best he could tell, he’d been in their custody for nearly two days, and the attention they’d given him was a painful exclamation point on the interview with Vacaro and the ANA officers. Their treatment had been harsh and had left him in no doubt that they wanted him to give them everything he knew. He was determined not to tell them about the Dropbox dump.
It had been easy to handle at first – no food and little sleep. Every time he’d started to doze off, they’d beam the lights down on him. That had graduated to not being able to use the bathroom and, when that had failed to garner answers from him, they’d started to hurt him. Fists and boots, followed by the rod. He’d had enough already and it had barely started. He wondered how any of the Afghan prisoners took much more than this.
An American voice punctuated his thoughts and his pain. “Tell us how to access the photographs you took and this all ends, Jack.”
His head slumped. He didn’t want to tell them about the photos, but he couldn’t endure this. He hadn’t filed the story and
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