“IED,” she said. “Afghanistan.”
She meant Improvised Explosive Device. It was a term I objected to. It had become prevalent during the second Gulf War. Probably coined by some government PR guy to make the insurgents’ weapons sound low-tech. Unsophisticated. Like they were nothing to worry about. To conjure the image of them being cobbled together by unskilled rubes in caves and cellars. Whereas the truth was the opposite. I knew. I was in a compound in Beirut, years ago, when a dump truck loaded with twelve thousand pounds of explosives burst through the barracks’ gates. Two hundred forty-one US Marines and sailors died that day. Fifty-eight French paratroopers were killed in another attack nearby. And since then things have only gotten worse. The bomb makers now have access to complex electronics. Remote detonators. Infrared triggers. Proximity sensors. They’ve become experts in positioning. Concealment. And they’ve become even nastier. More ruthless. As well as nails and metal fragments designed to tear human flesh they routinely load their devices with bacterial agents and anticoagulants. Then even if their victims survive the initial blast they’re still likely to bleed out or die of some hideous disease.
I pushed those thoughts aside and asked her, “Army?”
She nodded. “Sixty-sixth Military Intelligence Group. Out of Wiesbaden, Germany. But this didn’t happen while I was in uniform. There was no Purple Heart for me.”
“You joined a private contractor?”
She shook her head. “Not me. I have no time for those guys. Call me crazy but I don’t think wars should be fought for profit.”
“What, then? Not many civilians go to Afghanistan.”
“I did. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you some other time. Meanwhile, what about you? What brings you from the Military Police to this particular place? On foot? Of all the roads in all the towns…”
“Also a long story.”
“Touché. So I’m going to come straight out and ask you. Are you on the run? Are you some kind of fugitive?”
I thought about her question for a moment. About the last town I’d been to. It was in Texas. I’d left the previous morning. In a hurry. I ran into a little trouble there. It had resulted in a fire. A destroyed building. And three dead bodies. But no major risk of blowback. Nothing she needed to know about.
I said, “No. I’m not a fugitive.”
“Because if you are, no judgment. Not after what you saw me do today. But stopping Dendoncker is important to me. It’s all I have right now. And if we’re going to do it, there are going to be risks. We have to trust each other. So I have to know. Why are you here?”
“No special reason. I’m on my way out west. A guy was giving me a ride. He had to turn around and go back east, so I got out.”
“Got out? Or got kicked out?”
“Got out.”
“In such a hurry you forgot to grab your luggage? Come on. What really happened?”
“I don’t have any luggage. And I could have carried on riding with the guy. He asked me to. But I don’t like turning around. I like to keep moving forward. So I got out.”
“OK. First things first. No luggage? Really?”
“Why would I need luggage? What would I put in it?”
“I’m going to take a wild shot in the dark here and say, I don’t know, you’re on a cross-country road trip, so…clothes? Nightwear? Toiletries? Personal items?”
“I’m wearing my clothes. They have toiletries at hotels. And my personal items are in my pocket.”
“You have one set of clothes?”
“How many does a person need?”
“I don’t know. More than one. What do you do when they need to be washed?”
“Throw them away and buy more.”
“Isn’t that wasteful? And impractical?”
“No.”
“Why not take them home? Clean them? Re-use them?”
“Laundry’s not my thing. Nor are laundry rooms. Or houses.”
“So you’re homeless, in other words?”
“Call it what you like. The reality is, I have no use for a home. Not at the moment. Maybe I’ll get one, someday. Maybe I’ll get a dog. Maybe I’ll settle down. But not yet. Not for a long time.”
“So you do what? Just roam around the country?”
“That’s the general idea.”
“How? Do you even have a car?”
“Never felt the need.”
“You prefer hitching rides?”