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Harper sucked in air and nodded, preparing himself for something he never expected nor wanted to see.
“This was taken by one of the aid workers. There was a trial in Benin, and this was offered into evidence that Okubo was the perpetrator. Except it was determined that it wasn’t him.”
The admiral handed Harper the top photograph, holding several others on his lap.
“You can clearly see this gentleman standing over a woman’s body. Is this Lydia?”
Harper held the picture. Lydia’s chest was red with blood, a stain nearly as wide as her tiny body. Otherwise, the grainy photograph revealed very little. He was sure it was her. The man standing nearby was not Okubo.
His voice broke as he uttered, “That’s not the shooter I nailed. This guy is smaller. That’s not Okubo.”
“This is Lydia then?”
“Yes, Admiral.” Harper felt wetness well up in his eyes. His stomach growled, and briefly, he thought he was going to be sick all over the back seat. He box breathed several rotations, and the dark spots in his eyes faded while the sickness in his stomach subsided.
Admiral Patterson handed over another three pictures, taken at intervals, showing the shooter bending over Lydia, picking her lifeless body up—her head rolling back, arms and legs dangling—and putting her in the back of a truck bed with several other bodies.
The admiral whispered, “We understand all the bodies were taken to a burn pit and destroyed. That’s why the DNA was so messed up. We couldn’t find everybody, and initially, her DNA was not obtained. Later, it showed up. I’m so sorry.”
Harper’s eyes were red and hot, without the tears he knew he’d shed tonight in the shower. He was hoping that was the end of the photographs, but no, the admiral still had a wad of them left.
“Who is this guy, then?” Harper asked. “You have more pictures there?”
“Not of him. These are some of the others. I brought them in case you wanted to see. Those are the only ones of Lydia. I’m so sorry, Son.”
“I never got any of this information before we went over. So I killed a bad guy, just not the bad guy I thought I was getting. That’s what you’re saying, right? And now you want me to go in and complete this job? Am I saying this right?”
“Yes. Until he surfaced in Italy, we were not going to make this information available to anybody. It was a new, separate piece of intel about him. It came up during the trial of some of Okubo’s surviving militia. Until then, we had no idea he even existed. We assumed the Africans did it. But clearly this guy isn’t one of them.”
Son of a bitch, Harper thought to himself. Just like military. Not denying information, yet camouflaging mistakes and nefarious activities. Covering up things to sanitize them. It was why he didn’t even like hanging around any of the senior officers, anyone from the head shed. He’d been told one tale too many over the years. A bunch of amateurs. He knew it was common to get rid of bad operators by promoting them up when they deserved to be kicked out.
“I’m in awe of your background and service to this country, Harper. I’ve read your file. You’ve passed up advancements, stopped even trying to get promoted. Is there a reason why?”
“I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to lead. I want to follow.”
“And why is that? Wouldn’t you have more control if you were in charge?”
He was right, of course. All the things he hated about the military involved having to work for somebody he didn’t respect or didn’t trust. And there had been a lot of bad information, intel that cost lives. That’s why he was on Kyle’s team. He was the most respected LPO on the West Coast Teams, to his own peril. Kyle really went out of his way to protect his guys. Anyone on SEAL Team 3 felt themselves lucky to be under his charge.
“It’s a long story, Sir. I just try to stick to what I’m good at. I like long-term relationships with my military leaders. I like working with people I trust. I’m not sure how I would feel taking orders from somebody I’ve never met, orders over a phone in the middle of some kind of an insurrection, coup, or militia takeover. I just don’t like the set up.”
“Independent, aren’t you?” asked Patterson.
“Nah, I’d say stupidly stubborn. But that isn’t going to change, Sir. I hope you’re not counting on that.”
Patterson nodded. “I completely understand.”
“Who was this guy in the photograph?”
“Jakob Lipori. He’s an Italian national and, as far as we know, never went back to Africa, but he definitely was there. He worked with Okubo for a few weeks.”
They were ushered around the back side of the White House, where he was stopped and registered, given a visitor badge, and required to surrender his sidearm. They picked up an escort and were brought to the second floor, waiting in a small foyer as aides and White House staff zoomed by quickly, in and out of doorways, carrying paperwork, whispering plans or agendas. None of these people paid them any attention.
The two waited approximately an hour, and finally, a young staffer showed them into another anteroom leading to the Oval Office.
Now Harper’s hands began to sweat. “You have any tips for me?” he asked the admiral.
“You’re right to feel nervous. President Collins is a fine man. He’s not afraid. Sometimes, I think his combat experience is missing from his life now that he’s stuck behind a desk. He was an early UDT guy, you know.”
