Gone Tomorrow

operates.”
    “It would hurt Reagan’s memory.”
    “Who cares? Most Americans don’t even remember him. Most Americans think Reagan is an airport in Washington.”
    “I think you’re underestimating.”
    “And I think you’re overestimating. You’re too close to the process.”
    “I think that photograph would hurt.”
    “But who would it hurt? What does the government think?”
    “You know that the Defense Department is trying like crazy to get it back.”
    “Is it? Then why did they give the job to their B-team?”
    “You think those guys were their B-team?”
    “I sincerely hope so. If that was their A-team, we should all move to Canada.”
    Sansom didn’t answer.
    I said, “The picture might do you some local damage in North Carolina. But apparently that’s all. We’re not seeing any kind of maximum effort from the DoD. Because there’s no real national downside.”
    “That’s not an accurate read.”
    “OK, it’s bad for us. It’s evidence of a strategic error. It’s awkward, it’s embarrassing, and it’s going to put egg on our face. But that’s all. It’s not the end of the world. We’re not going to fall apart.”
    “So Al Qaeda’s expectations are too high? You’re saying they’re wrong too? They don’t understand the American people the way you do?”
    “No, I’m saying this whole thing is a little lopsided. It’s slightly asymmetric. Al Qaeda fielded an A-team and we fielded a B-team. Therefore their desire to grab that photograph is just a little bit stronger than our desire to hold on to it.”
    Sansom said nothing.
    “And we have to ask, why wasn’t Susan Mark just told to copy it? If their aim was to embarrass us, then copying it would have been a better idea. Because when it came to light, and skeptics claimed it had been faked, which they would, then the original would still be on file, and we couldn’t have denied it with a straight face.”
    “OK.”
    “But Susan Mark wasn’t told to copy it. She was told to steal it, effectively. To take it away from us. With no trace left behind. Which added considerable risk and visibility.”
    “Which means what?”
    “Which means they want to have it, and equally they want us not to have it.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “You need to cast your mind back. You need to figure out exactly what that camera saw. Because Al Qaeda doesn’t want to publicize that photograph. They stole it because they want to suppress it.”
    “Why would they?”
    “Because however bad it is for you, there’s something in it that’s even worse for Osama bin Laden.”

Chapter 69
    Sansom and Springfield went quiet, like I knew they would. They were casting their minds back a quarter of a century, to a dim tent above the Korengal Valley floor. They were stiffening and straightening, subconsciously repeating their formal poses. One on the left, one on the right, with their host between them. The camera lens, trained on them, aimed, zoomed, adjusted, focused. The strobe, charging, then popping, bathing the scene with light.
    What exactly did the camera see?
    Sansom said, “I don’t remember.”
    “Maybe it was us,” Springfield said. “Simple as that. Maybe meeting with Americans looks like bad karma now.”
    “No,” I said. “That’s good PR. It makes bin Laden look powerful and triumphant, and it makes us look like patsies. It has to be something else.”
    “It was a zoo in there. Chaos and mayhem.”
    “It has to be something fatally inappropriate. Little boys, little girls, animals.”
    Sansom said, “I don’t know what they would regard as inappropriate. They have a thousand rules over there. Could be something he was eating, even.”
    “Or smoking.”
    “Or drinking.”
    “There was no alcohol there,” Springfield said. “I remember that.”
    “Women?” I asked.
    “No women, either.”
    “Has to be something. Were there other visitors there?”
    “Only tribal.”
    “No foreigners?”
    “Only us.”
    “It has to be something that makes him look compromised, or weak, or deviant. Was he healthy?”
    “He seemed to be.”
    “So what else?”
    “Deviant from their laws or deviant like we mean it?”
    “Al Qaeda HQ,” I said. “Where the men are men and the goats are scared.”
    “I don’t remember. It was a long time ago. We were tired. We had just walked a hundred miles through the front lines.”
    Sansom had gone quiet. Like I knew he would. Eventually he said, “This is a real bitch.”
    I