Epilogue #2
“Hiding in plain sight,” Stanton said. “They would still be getting away with it had you not ventured on the scene.”
“I brought you a gift,” Walker said, changing the subject. He reached into his bag and handed Stanton a box.
“A gift? With all the free dinners you have enjoyed under my roof this month, it’s about time,” he joked.
“Just open it.”
Stanton tore open the package, poorly wrapped in New Orleans Saints gift paper.
Inside was a wooden box.
“This isn’t going to explode, is it?”
“Not this one.”
Stanton lifted the lid to reveal what looked like an antique 1911 pistol pressed into the soft green satin lining. He looked at Walker, puzzled.
“Mine was lost in the van when it went in the drink. That one you have there was probably made before World War One.”
“Thank you, I guess?”
“I got it to replace the one I lost recently, but as I’ve been reading and reflecting, I realized I don’t need it anymore.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Just accept it. It’s more for me than for you. Represents a new lease on life.”
“Did you have an epiphany or something?”
“Of sorts.”
“Saint Paul on the road to Damascus–type thing?”
“You could say that.”
“Well, thank you. How about I hold on to it for you?”
“Good enough. Did you find anything else out about the Afghan?”
“Just that his name was Zarak Fazli and that he came here alone, no accompanying family members, in 2021 after the Afghanistan withdrawal. Like so many others, he was still waiting on his special immigrant visa.”
“Just like he said.”
“I reached out to Fisk at CIA. He didn’t give up much, just that he was not free to discuss what the Agency did or did not do to help Afghans settle in the United States who worked for them directly or indirectly during the war. He did not acknowledge the existence of Zero Units.”
“Typical. Fazli said we were in Afghanistan with the Zero Units at the same time, but I didn’t know him. It’s possible we crossed paths.”
“Are there more like him?” Stanton asked.
“Like Fisk?”
“The Afghan.”
“There must be. The betrayal, intentional or not, is real. He died with all the secrets.”
“You know,” Stanton said, taking another sip of iced tea. “Fisk never told me why you left the Agency.”
“He wouldn’t,” Walker responded. “They slapped it with a SAP classification.” He paused to gather his thoughts before continuing.
“It has to do with a man and his family, a man who helped us, who was being left behind. John Staub and I arranged to get him into Pakistan, to the U.S. Embassy in Islamabad where he could claim political asylum. Agency wanted him to remain in Afghanistan as a stay behind asset to keep feeding them information.”
“By ‘Agency’ you mean Fisk.”
“Yes, but the problem is bigger than just him. He’s more of a symptom.”
“What happened?”
“We got them into Pakistan, well, really into the FATA, the Federally Administered Tribal Areas. Before we could meet up with the element that had guaranteed their safe passage to Islamabad, we were ambushed. Staub and our asset were killed, as was our asset’s wife and daughter.”
Walker paused and looked out onto the street. The smell of rain was in the air.
“His other daughter was wounded. We escaped and I carried her farther into Pakistan. Held her for sixteen days.”
“Dear God.”
“We were eventually picked up by a tribe. I was in a delirium, dehydrated, probably on the verge of death. They pried the little girl from my arms.”
“Did she make it?”
“She’d been dead since I picked her up at the ambush site. I’d been carrying a dead child for over two weeks. My brain refused to accept that she was gone. Psychologically, my mind had made her the incarnate of John Staub, at least that’s what the doctors said who examined my head at Langley.”
“And they kicked you out for that?”
“For my head not being right and for what they said amounted to violating a ceasefire and invading a foreign country. They tend not to look kindly on those sorts of things.”
“I suspect not.”
“The official investigation found me responsible for John’s death. I was on the wrong side of a border, so it remains classified. They are right about all of it.”
Walker looked at the vintage Tudor Sub on his wrist and finished the last of his iced tea.
“I better get going. Thanks for the tea, and for my present.”
“You gave me the present, remember?” Stanton said, tapping the box that held the 1911. “And you saved my life. Thank you, Chris.”
The two men stood.
“You leaving town?”
“It’s time. I feel like I need to get moving.”
“How will you live? What are you going to do? You going to finish your doctorate?”
“That’s a lot of questions.”
“I am an FBI agent.”
“I have a medical retirement. It’s enough for gas money. And I’m in no rush on the doctorate.”
“I thought your car was at the bottom of the river?”
“I found a 1976 VW pop-top camper in need of a lot of work. I got a great deal on it. I’ll make upgrades and repairs as I go; a rolling restoration project, not unlike me.”
“Too much technology in those eighties vans?”
“Something like that.”
“How’s Paladin?”
“He’s doing better. Vet says nothing physical is wrong with him.”
“He’s dealing with trauma,” Stanton said.
“Aren’t we all?”
“What’s your first stop?”
“You want to warn the local field office?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m not really sure. Going to explore the country. My mom took me on a long road trip when I was a kid. I think I’m going to retrace the route, maybe get in touch with a few memories.”
“You take care of yourself, Chris.”
“You too, Jarrett,” Chris said, extending his hand. “And remember, if the wheels of justice start to move in reverse on Vargas, Matheson, or Lloyd, you know where to find me.” He held up a burner phone that he and Stanton had agreed would be their means of communication.
“Leaving today?”
“I have a stop to make first.”
“Not one that will require CSI in your wake, I trust.”
Walker shook his head.
“It’s not that kind of stop.”
The old seventies-era camper sputtered along the streets of New Orleans, passing the vibrant shops, cafés, restaurants, bars, art galleries, and homes with distinctive Spanish/French architecture unique to the Big Easy.
Over the past fifty years the vehicle’s original red had faded to a rust-colored orange that reminded Walker of fall, of cinnamon or clay.
He kept the windows down since the air-conditioning didn’t work.
He turned onto Kerlerec Street and pulled to a stop outside the weather-beaten Creole cottage he had started to think of as home. He turned off the vehicle, put it in first gear, and drew back on the parking brake.
He was going to miss it here.
He moved to the interior living space and removed a vintage 1954 Martin guitar from its case. He had picked it up at Todd’s Music Express in Metairie earlier that day and tuned it by ear in the back of his bus.
As he pulled back on the handle of the sliding door, he heard a familiar bark coming from just inside the home’s front door.
The door opened and Paladin ran down the steps. He sprinted toward the old Volkswagen and leaped into the van. Walker took a knee and let the dog lick him before stepping to the sidewalk, vintage guitar in hand.
“Come on, boy,” he said.
Paladin jumped to the curb and ran back up the driveway toward Belle, who stood in the doorway.
Walker smiled, shut the door to the van, and followed.
He had a song to play.