Tillman gave Verhoven a long, hard look. “The reason I moved up here was to be left alone.”

“I would, too,” Verhoven said, “if I’d been as wronged by the United States of America as you’ve been.”

Tillman let the comment pass.

“I don’t know if you know it,” Verhoven continued, “but to people like me, people who believe in the true America, the pure and unspoiled America that our founders envisioned, the name Tillman Davis epitomizes true heroism.”

“Kind of you to say,” Tillman said. “But whatever I did or didn’t do for the United States, it’s in my past. I’m just trying to get on with my life.”

This was not a pose. Tillman knew that he had become a sort of Rorschach blot during his trial. Those on the far left of the political spectrum saw him as a rogue military adventurer, while those on the far right claimed him as a kind of folk hero, a scapegoat for a failed foreign policy. For a while after he’d gotten out of prison, he’d been assailed by self-serving people who’d wanted him to speak or to write or appear on television or otherwise serve their oned my wn ends by either making him into a whipping boy, or by holding him up as the victim of a tyrannical government. Neither had been a role he was willing to play. So one day he’d simply thrown his cell phone in a ditch and driven him up here, where he could live unmolested.

“Would you be interested in mounting this fine specimen?” Verhoven asked, indicating the boar’s massive head.

“Wouldn’t have any use for it.”

“Shame for it to go to waste. A hog like this, I’d mount it here in the shop as a conversation piece.”

“It’s yours for the mounting.”

“Much obliged. I’ll give you my services for free in exchange.”

Tillman nodded. He could feel Verhoven working his way around to something. But he wasn’t quite sure what it was. Maybe it was just an invitation to come up and play soldier with his militia group. But Tillman had a feeling that there was something more in the wind than just that.

Verhoven caped the boar silently, his movements slow and methodical as he cut the delicate skin of the head free from the skull. Occasionally he stopped to sharpen one of the small knives, shaving off little patches of hair on his arm to test the keenness of the edge.

“You have to be especially careful around the eyes,” Verhoven said finally. “One slip, and the entire effort is wasted. I’m not bad at this, but I’m just a butcher compared to my wife. You’ll have to meet her sometime. She’s an extraordinary woman.”

Tillman folded his arms, leaned against the concrete wall.

“Would I be prying if I inquired as to how you make a living?” Verhoven said. “I only ask because I read that you were robbed of your military pension.”

Tillman didn’t speak for a while. “I live pretty simple. Hunt, fish, grow a little corn, some tomatoes, some beans.”

Verhoven continued scraping the skin free of the pig’s eyes.

“Now and again, though,” Tillman continued. “Now and again, I’ll take an assignment for somebody I trust. Or maybe put one person I trust in touch with another person I trust.”

Verhoven didn’t look up from his work, his face a mask of concentration. “I only mention it because I’ve recently come into a rather pressing need for several unusual items. Items that one can’t just buy off eBay.”

“And, what—you think I might be the kind of guy who could help you get them?”

Verhoven pulled the cape free of the boar, covered the interior surfaces with a heavy coating of salt, then set it carefully inside a large plastic bin. He began butchering the hog in earnest now.

“There’s a good deal of markup when one sells things that the federal government finds objectionable,” Verhoven said. “I only mention this in the context of what seems to be the unfairness of your circumstances.”

“It gets better by the day, too,” Tillman said bitterly. “I recently had my righght f st to get treated at the VA hospital taken away from me. Got a form letter in the mail. Fifteen years honorable service in the US Army, then another ten with a certain agency that shall go nameless, and the federal government just . . .” He rubbed his palms together like he was washing his hands.

Verhoven’s face grew pinched and angry. “Goddamn traitorous bastards,” he said. Then his face relaxed again. “I’m sorry, but it angers me.”

Tillman felt briefly as though something very cold had been permitted to melt inside him. He realized how lonely it had been, how hard it had been to stand up straight every day when he’d been accused of betraying the trust of the very country he risked his life to serve. For a moment he felt terribly grateful to Verhoven.

The moment passed, though. He was here for a purpose, and he knew he needed to stay focused on that. He had promised Gideon.

“You get to where you have a hard time trusting anybody,” Tillman said. “I want to trust people. I do. And yet I can’t afford the luxury.”

Verhoven shook his head sadly. “That is a very, very keen insight, sir,” he said. “I feel much the same way myself.” He sliced a long section of backstrap free of the big beast, set it on a package. “It seems to me to be the central tragedy of our nation. We need to trust each other. We need to feel a sense of brotherhood. We have such a hunger for it. And yet, we are surrounded by enemies in our midst.” He chopped the ribs free with a small hatchet. When he was finished chopping, he added, “I sense a bond between us, sir. And so I’m going to take a leap and trust you. The items I spoke of . . . I need them quite soon. A gentleman promised me these items and then welshed on the deal. It’s put me in a very, very uncomfortable position.”

Tillman said nothing.

Verhoven took the last bones off the hook, tossed them in the garbage, and then began hosing down the concrete floor. “If I were to give you a list of items I needed, would you be able to get them for me? Would you extend me that trust?”

Gideon's War and Hard Target

Tillman watched the bloody water circle the drain. “You got...

Verhoven pulled a piece of butcher paper off a roll, scrawled something on it, and handed it to Tillman.

Tillman read the list.

Det cord

.50 caliber BMG—armor piercing incendiary

Blasting caps

C4 breaching charges

“Sounds like you’re throwing quite a party,” Tillman said drily.

“All I can say is that something historic is about to happen. If you were to help me with this, you would be contributing to an event of great importance.”

“Why would I want to do that,” Tillman said, “after all I’ve been through?”

“We all have to decide where we stand, don’t we? I can’t answer that question for you.”

Tillman paused, put a thoughtful look on his face. He’d set the hook perfectly. Now was the time to begin reeling him in.

“I could make some phone calls,” Tillman said finally.

Verhoven finished spraying off the floor. “Why don’t you join me for dinner this evening and we can discuss the details?” he said as he hung the sprayer on a hook. “My wife, I know, would consider it a privilege to meet you.”

“I’d like that,” Tillman said. “I’d like that very much.”

13

POCATELLO, IDAHO

It’s over! We’re going home!”

It took Amalie a moment to get her bearings. She woke feeling groggy, slightly nauseated, and with a pounding headache. The sound of the other women laughing and exclaiming was like knives piercing her head. She sat up and looked around, still feeling disoriented. She had been lying in her bed in the windowless dormitory where she and the other Congolese women had been housed.

“Sleeping beauty rises,” said Estelle Olagun, the oldest woman, looking at Amalie with her lips pursed in her usual attitude of disapproval.

The other women laughed. All the women from the factory were in the dormitory, a palpable air of jubilance about them.