Read Online The Good Lieutenant by Whitney Terrell - Free Book Online

against his chest, and when she did, Crawford’s gold glasses tumbled out from beneath his armpit. She carried them over and fit them silently onto Crawford’s upturned face, and he immediately curled up on an empty rack, knees against his chest. Then she sat on another. They were a good platoon. It was a sentimental thought, since the main thing she was thankful for was that no one had asked where she’d been, or why she’d spent the morning in a shed in the back corner of the patrol base.
    There wasn’t any way she could ask their advice, though, and so, after she’d writhed around on her bunk for some twenty minutes, she crossed the gravel infield, entered the farmhouse that served as the patrol base’s TOC, and followed Masterson’s directions down an airless, stuffy hall to find Faisal Amar’s replacement. She drew back a shower curtain that had been hung across an alcove and found a fat, middle-aged man lying there, reading. “I am sorry, can I help you?” he said.
    The room was no more than a closet, squalid, hot, and the man lay on his side atop a black foam sleeping pad, a small stack of Arabic paperbacks and an electric light beside his head. She wondered if these had been Faisal’s things.
    â€œIt’s all right, it’s okay,” Fowler said, reading the embarrassment on the man’s face. She averted her eyes until he’d buttoned his shirt. “I was just wondering if you could give something a quick look-see for me?”
    â€œAt your service,” the fat man said brightly. But when he donned his glasses, he clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Hello, yes, you are the lady who lost the soldier. I’m sorry to hear about you. You are here to kill my friend today?”
    â€œFaisal?” she said. “Is he still your friend?”
    The man’s face fell at her tone. “No, not anymore.”
    â€œGood,” she said. “Then translate this.”
    She left the ’terp with the note and walked back down the hall and logged into the base’s single public access computer to check her email, see if her camera request had gone through. Her SOS to Pulowski. The room was hot and stuffy, filled with the scent of food and tobacco spit. She sat for a moment before the computer’s shifting screen, her forehead furrowed. She didn’t have to tell Pulowski what she was doing, so why worry about it? By then the green bar at the bottom of her browser had loaded, and she opened up her in-box, found an email from Pulowski’s CO, Major McKutcheon, saying the camera system wasn’t ready yet. Then, a few lines down, she found one from Pulowski himself, with his contradictory response to McKutchon’s email attached.
    Hey LT , Pulowski’s email said. The cameras are ready (see below). You were right about these assholes. Or I was right and you were wrong, then you were right and I was wrong. So at least we covered all the bases. Cheers. I’ll be waiting.
    She stood and walked into the back room. The translator had disappeared, leaving behind the note and his translation, written in pencil on a legal pad.
    I am Ayad al-Tayyib from Bini Ziad. I am 23. I have a friend who is a translator with the 27th Infantry. His name is Faisal Amar. If I help you, can you guarantee his safety?
    The note proved that Faisal had lied about knowing the Iraqi. But it didn’t prove he knew anything about Beale. It wouldn’t be enough to detain him if she followed protocol and took him back to Camp Tolerance. So she had a choice. Either she allowed Faisal to be questioned by Masterson, which was probably the same as killing him. Or she reported Masterson and risked letting Faisal walk free. Which might mean never finding Beale. She crouched in the alcove where Faisal Amar had slept, her boots waffling patterns in the sleeping pad. The worst part about listening to Masterson evade responsibility for Faisal Amar was that