Chapter 20

Brandon found a new Marine waiting for him on the other side of the door. James assumed someone must have finally decided Sergeant Garcia deserved a few hours of sleep. He nodded to his new escort, but received none in return. The new guy was a Corporal, a lower rank than Garcia had been. James wondered if his threat level had been downgraded or he simply didn’t seem as important now. He doubted it was either. Marines tended not to dabble in nuance. This new corporal was probably just the poor bastard who drew the short straw.

“Right this way, sir.” The corporal skipped any introductions. James didn’t bother to try to spark up any conversation; he simply nodded and stepped off in the same direction. It was oddly comforting, to be back in a military environment, like visiting a place he used to live. The scenery was different, but the way of life was the same. Somewhere, deep inside, he even missed it, though not enough to switch outfits with his new tour guide.

“Where are we heading?” James wasn’t sure he’d get a straight answer.

“First, I’m to bring you to the head so you can get cleaned up. There’ll be clothes waiting for you there,” the Marine didn’t break stride or look back as he answered.

“And then?”

“Then I’ll take you to the command conference room.”

“I don’t suppose you can tell me what I’m heading there for, could you?” James assumed it was where he’d meet Deep Throat, but seeing as he didn’t actually know his name, it was a difficult question to ask.

“Mine is not to question why, mine is but to do and die, Sir.” The marine repeated the classic response without a lick of sarcasm. James took it to understand this corporal didn’t know any more than he did. It didn’t matter; James didn’t have anywhere else to be. He’d just walked away from his entire life. His schedule was pretty clear. Thinking back to the island filled him with dread. He couldn’t put his finger on what part hurt worse, the death and destruction he’d witnessed or leaving Eve behind. They were different types of awful that had simply compounded into a general longing for non-existence… for a hole to crawl into as the world passed him by. He wasn’t sure he had wanted that life anymore, but he’d give anything to go back to a time before he felt responsible for the death of so many people, to a time when his only concern was whether or not the cute girl across the bar caught him steeling glances at her.

“Here you are sir. It’s a private head, there’s a change of clothes on the counter. I’ll be right outside if you need anything.” James saw the same look on the corporal’s face he’d made himself so many times. This wasn’t what he’d enlisted for: how rarely reality meets up with expectation.

“Thank you Corporal.” He used the rank on his collar on purpose, indicating that he was familiar enough with his surroundings to recognize rank, though not that it served any purpose. James supposed it was just like the old men that used to approach him at funerals to mention that they too had once been in the Marine Corps. His mind clung to that as he walked into the bathroom and looked over the clothes that had been left for him. A pair of khaki pants that had recently been pressed with neat creases hung on a hanger from a small metal hook on the wall above a folded polo shirt. A pair black socks and some plaid boxer shorts that looked like they’d just been taken out of a package sat beside the shirt.

“I’m not stealing somebody’s underwear, am I corporal?” James called out through the closed door.

“The clothes are all new, Sir. We keep spares on hand in case of rescues at sea and the like.” James sighed a bit of relief. It would have been awkward to meet the man whose underwear he was wearing. The bathroom was extremely cramped and the shower stall was slightly smaller than the trunk of a Toyota Prius, but it was clean and the water was hot, James couldn’t ask for much more than that. He cleaned up quickly and got dressed, leaving his filthy pants and sweat stained shirt balled up on the floor with his socks and underwear. He opened the door to find the corporal leaning against the opposite wall.

“What should I do with my old crap?” He asked. The corporal stood up straight immediately.

“Leave it sir, I’ll have it cleaned and returned to you.”

“Just throw it overboard.” James didn’t have any reason to keep a ruined pair of dress pants and an old grey tee shirt. The corporal nodded and put his hand out, indicating that they would need to continue further down the same hallway. James ran his fingers through his hair, hoping to straighten it out a bit and followed suit.

The conference room was really just a large, dark room with a table in the middle of it; not that unlike the “debriefing” room James had spent so many hours in already. When James arrived, he was the only person in the room which came as a bit of a relief. It made sense. Whoever he would be meeting with in here probably didn’t want to spend all day waiting around for him to be finished debriefing, bathing and the like. He took a seat at the table gingerly, careful not to further exacerbate the pain in his ribs and took stock. He was starving and exhausted, the sleep in the helicopter must not have been particularly restful. When whatever he was here for was over, the first thing he’d ask would be where to find something to eat, then where to find somewhere to sleep. At this point, he’d take some cardboard and a shady spot on the deck of the ship. As he was beginning to consider laying his head down on the table to take a short nap, the sound of the door opening interrupted him.

“Agent Carter, I trust you’ve been enjoying your stay,” he didn’t have to look, it was Deep Throat.

“I could use a bite to eat and a place to crash.” James replied rubbing his eyes. Deep Throat walked casually around him and to a chair on the opposite side of the table. “Will anyone else be joining us?” James looked around at the empty seats.

“No, but the conference rooms are about the only place a guy can get any privacy on one of these ships,” the office chairs they sat in reclined and the older man took advantage of it as he produced a pack of Marlboro Reds from his jacket pocket. James made a note of his friend’s unusually casual demeanor. He’d been taught in training that interactions like this were wrought with meaning and sub-meaning, that nothing, even something unintentional, was meaningless. Deep Throat’s casual demeanor was just such a something.

“There’s no smoking in here,” James knew Deep Throat wouldn’t care, but was testing the waters of the conversation. The older man looked behind him and over his shoulder at the small placard on the wall. It seemed unnecessary, as there was no smoking in doors permitted anywhere on the ship (or any military anything for that matter) and James smiled to himself at the realization that the sign had probably been solely for his colleague’s benefit. Deep Throat turned his head back toward James as he brought his lighter up to the cigarette.

“So you feel responsible for what happened back in Roatan. Why?” He continued to lean back in the chair and took a small drag. Now James got it. He was still being debriefed, but he wasn’t supposed to realize it.

“Wouldn’t you feel responsible if it had happened in your backyard?” James replied with a question, which was more than a simple misdirection. He was still testing the man across from him, wondering just how serious this “informal” debriefing was to be.

Deep Throat took a long drag this time, as if to buy him time to choose his words, “It’s got nothing to do with the girl?”

“Nothing’s got anything to do with the girl.” James eyes closed slightly and he set his jaw. He leaned forward onto his elbows, reducing the distance between the two men and ensuring the older gentleman understood he meant what he said.

“Just a nobody then.” The old man exhaled another puff, clearly unconcerned by James’ attempt at intimidation.

“A nobody.” James repeated, actively trying to keep his emotions from bubbling to the surface.

“And Ramon Esposa? Any thoughts on what we should do with him?” He wasn’t even looking at James now.

“Does my opinion matter?”

“There’s no trial for this sort of thing, James. No jury to convince. Shit, there isn’t even someone that I have to report to about the disposition of Mr. Esposa. Are you starting to understand how things work out here in the real world yet?” He leaned in now too, glaring into James’ eyes with an intensity that caught him off guard. James forced himself not to look away.

“The evidence is there?” James held the stare.

“The evidence is circumstantial. If it wasn’t, we’d have left him to the international courts.” He broke off the stare and returned his attention to the smoking cigarette. James wondered if Juan Carlos would ever see again.

“Kill him.”

“That simple, is it?” The older man replied. James’ stomach growled, his side ached and he had passed the point where he felt tired, replaced instead with nausea and a general misery.

“I’m getting pretty tired of playing a game I don’t know the rules to.” James spoke through gritted teeth.

“That’s just it, Agent Carter. You still think there are any.” Deep Throat put his cigarette out on the bare wood of the table. James chuckled and the older man returned to glaring at him. It was the first honest response of the conversation.

“This isn’t a movie. There are always rules and I’m too tired and hungry to be intimidated. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? Do you think I was involved in this?”

“We know you weren’t.”

“Then what’s this all about?”

“We’re not the bad guys, James. I watched you run through every James Bond movie you’d ever seen when you got ready to meet me on the pier that night, but the man with ties to a drug cartel that served you coffee every morning somehow flew under your radar? You’ve got your priorities confused, Agent Carter. I’m just trying to help you realign them.”

“You’re disappointed that I don’t trust you,” James realized out loud.

“I’m disappointed that you haven’t figured out what side you’re on,” the older man’s tone reminded James of a father imparting a lesson on a child, “life is a funny thing, Agent Carter, it’s got a weight to it and the weight doesn’t go away with death.”

“I’m not sure I follow…” James said he wasn’t sure, but he knew he didn’t follow.

“Those people that died back there, each one of them were burdened by the weight of their own lives. Things like potential and responsibility are like rocks we all carry on our backs. Expectations, Agent Carter. We each carry the weight of expectation.” He slid his pack of Marlboros back out of his pocket and produced another cigarette.

“And now that expectation is gone,” James attempted to surmise.

“No, James. The weight of all that potential isn’t gone. Those stones they used to carry, all that potential… the weight just shifts to someone else. That’s what you’re feeling now. That dread, the weight on your shoulders… that’s the weight of lost potential. That’s the weight of human life.” Suddenly, it made perfect sense to James. It was an apt analogy, he’d give him that.

“I suppose I deserve to carry it.” James said to himself more than the man across from him.

“No man can carry that weight and survive, James.” Deep Throat seemed like he might actually care about James, which was something James found uncomfortable.

“Then what do you suggest? I forget about it?” James sounded more antagonistic than he intended, but the point was still there.

“You use it,” the man replied, “You use that weight to crush the men and women that are really responsible.”

“It’s that easy, is it?”

“Don’t mistake this meeting for a conversation among friends, James. I’m here to find out if you can be valuable to us moving forward.”

“And if I’m not?” James felt a sudden twinge of fear in the pit of his stomach. He was a bit surprised to find he still cared about dying.

“Then you’ll be back in Connecticut for breakfast tomorrow with a two year gap in your work history and a pretty good story you won’t ever be able to tell.” Well, it was a relief to know throwing him overboard wasn’t on the table, “but I think you took this job for a reason. The same reason you kept requesting a combat deployment during your time in the Marine Corps.”

“I wanted to serve my country,” James nodded his head.

“You wanted to fight,” the man across the table snapped at him, “don’t try to impress me with noble intentions, Agent Carter. I’ve killed entire families for my country. We’re not Knights of the Round Table and we don’t act in the best interest of all that is good and pure. America isn’t a Utopia; it’s full of murderers, thieves, idiots, politicians, and nineteen year old girls that wanna grow up to be Kim Kardashian. We protect the interests of our nation because it’s ours but we’re no better than the men and women we kill. We’re tools, Agent Carter, that’s all. No better or worse than the tools Russia, Iraq or whichever group of freedom fighters that blows up a church this week uses. Don’t mistake yourself for a hero, son. You’re a hammer. That’s all, and you can’t teach a hammer to love nails.” James sat there silently for a moment, trying to think of an intelligent response.

“America isn’t like that,” was all he could muster.

“America is an ideal, son. We don’t fight for what it is; we fight for what it could be one day. We’re not out here with our lives on the line to defend a nation’s right to watch Honey Booboo and jerk off. We’re here because we believe that the best future of this world, the brightest one, is one with America leading the pack. It’s a black and white world out there and it’s a lot simpler than you think.”

“If it’s so simple, how does shit like this happen?” The man’s words felt true, but James didn’t like the simplification of a concept he held so dear. Was it possible that America was just like every other country in the world? That as an American he hadn’t simply been born with the moral right to succeed? It was logical, it was unpatriotic, and James found it offensive.

“What happened on the island yesterday was a question, James.” He replied in a matter of fact tone, “we’re the answer.” He took James pistol out from his pocket and placed it on the table. It hadn’t even occurred to James that he had woken up without it.

“What do you need me to do?” He slid his hand over the pistol and wrapped his fingers around the hand grip.

“We’re sending you to Barcelona. It’s where we think you’ll find Zareek Lal. There are already a number of assets in place and you won’t be taking lead on this, but you’ve got more experience with one of his agents than anyone else we’ve got. We’re hoping that helps. Right now, all we’ve really got are hopes.”

“I’ll need some clothes,” James looked down at his ill-fitting khakis.

“You’ll take a chopper to Miami this afternoon. You’ll be given a new set of IDs, a credit card and bank accounts, and a plane ticket to Spain. You’ll have time to do some shopping before your flight.” Deep Throat stood up as he spoke, indicating the conversation had ended. The fact that he recited his last sentence like a laundry list led James to believe that those orders had been the real point to this meeting.

“They won’t let me fly with this.” James held the pistol up in an open hand, his thumb alone wrapped around it.

“You’re no longer a cultural analyst now, James. You’re an asset.” He looked into James’ eyes as he spoke, his own greying eyes exuding the weight of the statement. James nodded and turned back toward the table in his chair, placing the pistol down in front of him. He heard the door close behind him and he stared at it. An asset. The black paint around the slide had worn to bare metal in a few places, the product of repeated disassembly for cleaning rather than frequent use. He thought about Eve for a moment, wondered where she was and if he’d ever see her again, then his memories shifted once more to the faces of the people he’s pulled onto his boat, some still clinging to life, others with plenty of life left in them, and some without any at all. He wrapped his fingers around the grip of the pistol and picked it up off the table. Maybe he had been looking for a fight all this time and maybe his country wasn’t the lone voice of sanity in a world gone mad. Deep Throat wasn’t right, but he wasn’t wrong either. Maybe his country was just like him… resolute in protecting what it cared about, willing to make sacrifices… and a little more scared than it was willing to let on. Maybe James Carter was exactly the kind of man America needed with a gun in his hand. He slid the slide back and released it, racking a round into the chamber then used his thumb to toggle the lever to “safe.” It was about time he started looking for a fight again.