Still Alive Pt. 02

"I still remember it even now. 'Booty Cooties' was Mark's favorite taunt," Shannon said with air quotes, then lightly jabbed Adam's ribs with an elbow. "'Shander Dander' was his."

"It took me a while to grow out of it," Adam said. "It was in high school when I kinda found Erin to be … interesting."

"Dork," she said with a giggle which made her husband smile warmly.

"Mark was Adam's best man at their wedding. I was going through a divorce at the time," Shannon continued. "Seeing Mark in his dress blues … well. Not important."

"It's interesting you brought that up," said Adam. "Mark and I actually talked about that when we were having lunch together at the JONATO base. The news about Farah … I wonder if he knows."

"I hope this doesn't come across as insensitive, but why would it be important to him?" Martel asked.

"He met Jassim Kahn when he took down two combatants in the slums of Doha when he was an NCO. He's known her since she was a child. Kahn and Wright developed a bit of a bond for some reason, and he watched Farah grow up, you know? Even though he refused to admit it, I think it had become more than platonic.

"He said she was about to graduate from Doha University with an electrical engineering degree. He told me he stayed with Kahn when he was on leave last month, that the man suggested Mark marry his daughter, and that Farah had shown … well, a certain willingness."

"Is that so?"

"Absolutely, ma'am. Mark has been reticent about the whole concept of marriage, or even dating for that matter, since a member of his unit was killed in the middle east. A woman named Brianna Michelson."

"When he earned his Purple Heart."

"Right. But what few people know, though, is the main reason behind it. It was because of that event. He was drawn to Michelson. He even confided in me at the time that he was looking to transfer out of unit to avoid the possibility of being brought up on charges of fraternization."

"I've heard the term, but don't know the rules. Can you explain what that means?"

"It's complicated, but I'll boil it down. Mark was a sergeant at the time. An E-5. She was a lance corporal which is two ranks lower. She was also under his authority. It's a clear violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, the UCMJ, to get romantically involved with someone who reports to you.

"When she was killed, it tore the man apart. It was another gut punch, and he'd had more than his share already. He became … I don't know … almost like a robot. He just … existed. Did his job, did it well, and … yeah. Existed."

"I remember that. He was so distant. He was that way for a while," Erin added. "Then, a few years later, he reached out to Adam and suggested they take leave and get together. It was before Adam and I married, but we met him in Molokai. Of course, he came stag, but he'd eased up. He was back to being the funny, rambunctious dude we knew from before."

Adam continued. "I even tried to play wingman when we'd go to bars, but he wasn't having it. If I pointed out any women who were paying attention to him, he'd change the subject as fast as a bat out of hell. That brings us back to Doha when he said he found himself thinking about marrying Farah. I was stunned shitless because his whole attitude had shifted.

"I remember being interrupted by the squadron's maintenance officer. Mark was sitting right across from me surfing Farah's Instagram feed. He was stopping at various pictures of her and would smile. I doubt he realized it, but I could tell. Not once in my life had I ever seen him fawn over a woman's pictures. I mean, yeah, she is … was an attractive woman, but still."

"Here. I found her picture on the university's website. Adam's not wrong," Shannon interjected before handing her phone to Ashley.

She studied the photograph and agreed with Shannon and Adam because the woman was quite pretty. The only pictures she'd seen of her to that point were not at all pleasant to look at, but she kept that information to herself. An intense instinct in her gut pushed Ashley to tap the "back" icon. On the page which refreshed were photographs of dozens of other scholarship recipients. She scrolled through them slowly.

She was relieved she was able to hold her expression steady and not yelp when another familiar face came into view. She stared at the name in the caption: Behnam Shirezi, a student two years ahead of Farah Salman. She committed its spelling to memory before returning the browser to the page Shannon had displayed.

She then withdrew her own phone from her breast pocket and quickly tapped the name into a document hosted on Wolfram's secure file server.

The colonel continued. "So, yeah. I'm hoping the news of Farah's murder doesn't return Mark to the state he went into after his corporal's."

Or learning that she might have been a co-conspirator in his capture , Ashley considered.

"This conversation has gone lopsided again," Adam observed.

She nodded. "What else would you like to know?"

"Was Mark tortured?"

"His injuries were consistent. Three fingernails were pulled from his right hand."

"Oh, god," the two ladies whimpered in unison. Adam only shook his head slowly.

"In an effort to avoid being too graphic, I learned that maxillofacial and urological surgeons were flown to Qatar from Germany for specific injuries."

"Motherfuckers," Adam muttered with a grimace, then looked up at his wife apologetically. "Sorry, honey. I'm just pissed off."

Erin stroked her husband's back reassuringly.

"I'm not unappreciative of the fact that Wright was recovered alive, but when are you going to be able to tell me exactly what the hell the bigger picture is?"

"My apologies, ladies, but I need to speak with Adam in private for a few minutes," Ashley said, rising from the table.

He followed her through the partially drawn aluminum curtain doors.

"What the hell?" the man said.

"First, I need to remind you that, even though you're retired, you're still subject to rules regarding information classification and compartmentalization in accordance with the UCMJ. Consider this to be confidential."

"Wh⁠—what? Who the hell are you?"

"I'm only going to continue if you tell me you understa⁠—"

"I'm not an idiot. Yes , I understand."

"Good. I work for a privately owned company which specializes in providing tactical assistance in recovering people who've been taken. Typically, it's corporate executives, Hollywood types, those with more money than brains, and so on. At least fifteen or twenty times every year, someone like that is grabbed and held for ransom. The DoD requested our assistance in getting Mark out of harm's way."

"You never mentioned anything about ransom until now."

"Wright was an atypical assignment. He wasn't being held for money, at least as far as I ever heard. And, if it's any consolation, Wright's abductors didn't survive his recovery."

"Wait," Adam said, shaking his head vigorously. "Some others were involved?"

"I can't be absolutely certain. The website your sister-in-law showed me a few minutes ago included a picture of one of the men who was involved in his abduction, the one who was about to yank out another of Mark's fingernails. Given the context of that scholarship, it's quite likely Farah Salman knew at least one of the men. It's possible she was complicit."

"That'd wound Mark even deeper," Adam said. "Ms. Martel, I can't grasp any of this shit."

"I wish I could give you more," she responded. "I know I'm frustrating you, and I'm truly sorry."

"That's an understatement. If Mark wasn't a ransom thing, then … why?"

"I have some theories, but I can't get into that with you, either."

"Fair enough, but … I want to know how it worked."

"Wright's extraction was clean, precise, and very quickly and quietly done. We were only on the ground for a little more than twenty-four hours. I sent twelve men into the field, at the height of their circadian peak. Ten stormed the building Wright was being held in. Four took down the others. Fourteen rounds were expended. It ranks up there as one of the fastest extractions we've ever done.

"Kahn and Salman were already dead when my teams entered. We're presuming they were killed by one of those four men. Kahn's knee was blown out, and he was shot in the head. Salman's throat was cut. Neither exhibited defensive wounds other than what their bindings left behind. A former Army medic on the team thinks they might have been drugged or otherwise unconscious when their lives were taken from them."

"Good god," Coleman said. "Brutal. But … I don't understand how the three people are all interconnected."

"Nor do I, so I have work to do."

"Isn't your job done?"

"Technically, yes. Maybe I'm a touch obsessive-compulsive and despise leaving gaps or holes. I want to figure that out."

"I guess I can understand that."

"Now. I need to get moving. And please. I've already told you enough to land both of us in uncomfortably hot water if it gets around. I'm asking you to do me the favor of keeping it to yourself. I know you, your wife, and her sister are all close to Wright, but it's probably better if you don't share with them what I've told you. It does them no good."

"I agree, but if Erin asks me questions, I won't lie to her. She's my wife. She's five months pregnant with our first."

"I was wondering, but most women know better than to ask another woman if they are. Congratulations to you both."

Coleman returned Martel's smile with his own. "Thank you."

They went back to Erin and Shannon's table.

"Erin, Shannon, again, it was a pleasure to meet you. I appreciate all of you giving me a clearer picture of Major Wright. Doing this over the phone might have been possible, but meeting face to face is much more productive, and I thank you so much for your time."

"We'll walk you to the checkpoint," Shannon offered.

As they walked to the TSA Pre line, the three continued to add color to the story of Mark Wright, all of which Martel found wonderfully fascinating.

Arlington, VA
Friday, September 18, 2015, 1:15 PM EDT

Martel's scattered days of research led her to the unsettling discovery of at least one relationship between Farah Salman, a first-semester second-year student, and Behnam Shirezi, a third-year student when their scholarships were awarded. It had only been a suspicion until Ashley found a research paper on which they'd collaborated along with two other students.

What drew the days into weeks were some assignments to clients which were simple enough she only needed to send, at most, three members of her team to the field. The third was so anticlimactic she felt she could have handled it herself. Wesson had no complaints as those engagements netted his company almost a half-million dollars and earned Martel and several others comfortable bonuses.

It also required some time to find accurate Arabic transcriptions of Salman and Shirezi in order to search for documents which had not been translated into English.

Then, she pondered the motivation behind Kahn's and Salman's executions.

Coleman said Wright had known Salman for a long time. Almost half her life. He said she'd drawn the man's interest; that he'd subconsciously considered the thought of marrying her. Why would he? What do three people … no,  four have in common?

"None of this makes any sense," she whispered to herself. "Why would Shirezi kill her if she outed Wright and was his accomplice? I'm missing something."

She minimized all her active windows to stare at the portrait displayed on her iMac. She reclined her seat back and focused on the man's hypnotic eyes for several minutes, her mind darting in multiple directions. "Talk to me, Wright."

A fleeting thought passed which caused her to mentally reach out and pull it back.

"How'd he know? How did Wright know about the plane? Was Kahn his source?"

She returned to an open spreadsheet and added yet another possible connection to it when her cellphone rang.

"Ms. Martel, this is Adam Coleman," she heard, answering it.

"Good afternoon. What can I do for you?"

"I thought you might like to know that Mark Wright called me yesterday⁠—"

"Oh? How … how is he?"

"It was the first time he felt up to using the telephone because, until Monday, his jaws were still wired shut. He was more upbeat than I expected him to sound. They discharged him from Walter Reed two weeks ago, so that might have a lot to do with it."

"Wait. He's … he's been here in the capital area this whole time?"

"Apparently. He asked me to pass along a message. He wants to talk to you."

Ashley froze in surprise. "How could he possibly know about me? You didn't tell him what I told you, did you?"

"Of course not. He said his CO explained the basics of what happened that night. I only told him I might be able to have you contact him."

"He hasn't called me. Did you give him my number?"

"Uh … no. You really think I would have done that? After learning what you do for a living, I know better than⁠—"

"Colonel, please forgive me. My mouth is moving faster than my brain. I apologize."

"You know, you don't need to address me by rank. Adam is fine. I didn't give him your number. He said you should call him if you're willing."

She had to fight her own emotions in an effort not to appear too zealous.

"Yeah. Okay, that's good. Same as Shannon did with you and me."

"I'll text his number to you."

Her cell dinged a few seconds later. "Got it. So, you said Mark was upbeat?"

"Part of me thinks he's faking it. At least a little. You seem skilled at evaluating people, so maybe you'll be able to tell better than I can if you talk to him."

"Thanks for your call, Adam."

"Yes, ma'am."

Ashley laughed. "I won't 'Colonel' you if you don't 'ma'am' me."

"Sorry. Habit. I even call Erin 'ma'am' sometimes."

"As well you should. Give her and her sister my regards, please?"

"I will."

The call disconnected, and Martel shrieked.

"What in the hell was that for?" Jeff Wesson, who had been walking down the corridor, asked.

"Wright might be here in the DC area," she said.

"And that excites you?"

"He asked me to call him."

Wesson shrugged. "Why are you obsessing over the guy?"

"I'm not obsessing , Jeff," she said in a mild mock. "I told you a while back that I wanted to see if I can get him to tell me what he knows."

"Careful, Martel. If he, indeed, is the man that brought that biz-jet down, imagine what else he could do if he perceives you as a threat."

"Believe me. I've considered that, but I don't think I need to worry about him."

"You're willing to bet your life on it?"

"Apparently, because I'm calling him right now. Stick around if you're curious," she said, re-opening the text thread that contained the number. "What area code is 314?"

"St. Louis, I think."

"Ah. Makes sense," she said, tapping the hyperlinked digits.

As soon as ringing tones were heard, Wesson stepped out, saying, "I'll skip on the eavesdropping. I don't want to get sucked into any mess you create. That guy has gone through enough already."

"This is Mark," answered the person on the other end of the call.

Ashley's eyelashes fluttered briefly in hearing a deep, baritone voice.

"Hello?" the man said.

"Oh … oh. Hi. My name is Ashley Martel. I was given your number by a Colonel Coleman. He told me you wanted me to contact you. About the thing that happened near Doha a month ago."

"Indeed. Thanks for reaching out."

"Adam said you were released from the hospital two weeks ago. Are you, by any chance, still in the DC area? If so, I'd really like meeting you in person."

"I am. I have to stay until the Navy docs clear me to rejoin my unit. There's a coffee shop near where I'm staying. Would you allow me to buy you a cup?"

"Is it busy?"

"Not later in the day. I go there when I need Wi-Fi."

"Sounds good," said Martel.

"It's called Sunny's, spelled with a U. It's on the corner of P Street and Seventh."

She consulted the map app. "That's about twenty minutes away."

"Seventeen hund⁠—five o'clock work?"

"Perfect."

The call disconnected.

Martel felt her heart racing a little.

"Calm down, girl. He's only a dude who's killed who knows how many people," she whispered to herself.

She occupied the intervening hours making sure she had all her "facts" as straight as she could before she locked her iMac and grabbed her belongings.

She secured her office, made her way to the underground parking levels of the building, and plugged her iPhone into the USB jack to view the map app on the in-dash screen. She arrived at the coffee house almost fifteen minutes early, giving her ample time to think about her approach. She ordered an iced vanilla latte and sat at a table facing the windows.

Oh my god, is that him? she thought to herself when she saw a man wearing shorts and a snug t-shirt running along the sidewalk toward the parking lot at exactly one minute before five.

Mark was slightly winded after jogging the two miles between his temporary lodging and the shopping center. He looked at a device on his wrist, subtly nodded, and smiled at whatever he'd seen on its display. As he walked along, she saw him stop at her car, study it, and smile again.

He entered the building and scanned his surroundings, glancing briefly at Martel and the few others seated at various tables with their faces buried in phones, tablets, or notebooks. He returned his attention to Martel, the only person who wasn't occupied. He smiled and gave a friendly, single nod before he looked again at his smart watch, then placed an order with the employee at the counter.

He returned to the storefront windows, scanning the parking lot and streets. He collected his beverage when the barista called his name and tapped on his phone's screen. Ashley's rung.

She picked up her vibrating cell from the table, answered it, and said, "Turn around."

He did, and Ashley showed him the screen of her phone which held his name on it.

"Oh god, I feel like an idiot," he sheepishly said as he disconnected and walked toward her table. "I saw you, but you didn't … never mind. It's nice meeting you, ma'am. Please don't hold my blunder against me. After all, I'm a dumbass jarhead."

She chuckled, shook her head and smiled. "I know that's not true. I get it. A woman with this face⁠—" she gestured a circle around it with a finger "⁠—a Midwestern accent, and a decidedly non-Asian-sounding name throws a lot of people off."

He nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Thanks for meeting me here, Ms. Martel."

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, too, Major Wright," she said, shaking the hand he offered.

Once they took their seats opposite each other, she found herself staring. His eyes, one green and one blue, were even more striking in person.

"It's called heterochromia," he said, catching the evidence of her curiosity.

"Jeez. I didn't mean to be so obvious. I noticed it in a photograph I found of you online. It's, well, literally eye-catching. I intend that as a compliment, so please forgive the pun."

"I'll take it, because, in some cultures, it's considered a sign of being cursed. I'm beginning to wonder if it might be true."

Martel made a mental note of his comment, but didn't explore it. She shifted instead to the prior subject.

"My parents lived in Osaka where my dad worked for NTT, a big telecommunications company. They immigrated to Kansas City where he went to work with the American equivalent. I was born there. The easiest way to explain my name is by asking you to spell it."