“How long after you returned to civilian life were you contacted by Mr. Walsh?” Halpin asks in his down-home Missouri accent. His reading glasses rest halfway down his prominent nose.
“About two years,” says Polermo.
“You were adjusting well at that time?” asks Halpin.
“I had some bumps,” says Polermo, “but I guess I was doing about as well as could be expected.”
I suspect that Polermo is sugarcoating the past. Like a lot of vets, he probably doesn’t want to talk in public about the nightmares or the flashbacks. I’m pretty sure he has them. Most of us do, whether we admit it or not.
“You saw a lot of action during your deployments,” says Halpin.
“Yeah. I did.”
“And when did you first meet Tom Walsh?”
“Not until after the airlift in August 2021.”
“And where did you meet?”
“We were assigned to the same unit in Pakistan.”
“The secret base in Guldara Baghicha.”
Polermo looks at his lawyer, who gives him a slight nod. “That’s correct,” says Polermo, turning back to Halpin.
“Did you expect to hear from Mr. Walsh again after you left Pakistan?”
“No. I had no interest in hearing from him again. I thought we were done. I figured what was in the past was in the past.”
“What did Mr. Walsh say to you when he contacted you?”
“He said we had unfinished business to take care of. For both of our sakes.”
“Did you understand what he meant by that?”
I see Polermo stiffen in his chair. “I did.”
“And what did he mean?”
“He meant that the Pakistan operation had to be locked down once and for all. Nobody could ever know that he’d supplied military intelligence to the Taliban.”
“And were there others who knew that secret?”
“Yes. There were three others who knew, not counting myself.”
A clerk puts an image up on the large screen at the front of the room. It shows the piece of paper Phillips had been about to hand to Perkins—the one I’d stuffed into my pocket after he was shot.
The paper is wrinkled and spattered with dark brown spots. On it are three handwritten names. Beside the image of the paper on the screen are three photos. Two men, one woman. All in their early twenties. All posed in their official military portraits, in dress uniform, in front of the American flag, looking proud and determined. Ready to take on the world.
The same way I looked right after basic.
“Are you familiar with these individuals, Mr. Polermo?”
“I am. I served with all of them.”
“Right,” says Halpin. “And then you killed them.”
Polermo sets his jaw and stares straight ahead. “Yes.”
