by Harold
Wilmont’s bleary eyes widened in recognition. “Big-picture considerations. Regional politics and foreign aid; that sort of thing.”
“Yadda, yadda,” Derringer rejoined. “And ditto ditto.”
* * * *
49
NORTHERN ISRAEL
Omar Mohammed and Bernard Langevin watched the IDF limousine depart Northern Command headquarters. They waited until it turned the corner before either spoke.
“Do you think he’ll get his full payment?” Mohammed asked.
“Well, he has so far. His nuke is the real deal. Without the documentation I can’t tell the remaining shelf life but it looked good enough to scare me out of my knickers. You know, it was smart to hide the bomb inside the blast zone. The ambient radiation would cover any trace of the weapon, assuming there was any, and not many people would spend much time looking there.”
Mohammed pivoted on a heel to return to the headquarters’ air-conditioned comfort. His Banana Republic attire was beginning to show unseemly perspiration stains. “Tell me, Bernard. Do you think he really killed his compatriots?”
“I don’t know. Not that it really matters. Either he’s a murderer or an opportunist. Maybe both. In any case, he prevented another nuclear detonation, and whatever else he’s done in his life, that’s a plus.” Langevin thought for a moment. “Omar, what do you think or the guy? Personally.”
“I believe he is who and what he says. Our Israeli friends may have a file on him, but in any case they will know the facts soon enough.
“So why’d he turn? I mean, he spent his whole life fighting. It looked like he had a clear shot at a worthwhile target on this side or the border. Presumably he could have set the timer and scooted for safety if he wasn’t into self-immolation. So why does somebody like that suddenly get greedy for money?”
Mohammed cocked his head and stroked his goatee. “Bernie, this is an interesting man. As a case study, that is.” The native Iranian pulled a notepad from his jacket. “Esmaili has a world of experience. Revolutionary guards, the Iraq war, special operations, cooperation with Hamas and the Palestinians, and the last two or three Lebanon conflicts.” He looked up. “He’s in his early forties and he’s been at war for almost thirty years. My reading is that he simply got sick and tired of the constant fighting. He seems to think that he has earned a rest.”
Langevin was unconvinced. “I’m not so sure, Omar. I mean, that could be true, but to what extent can we really know? After all, he could have simply set the timer and disappeared after the explosion.”
Mohammed placed a fraternal hand on Langevin’s shoulder. “My friend, I think that he did not want to be used anymore. Twice he told me that the imams and the hierarchy used up a generation of naive young patriots and religious zealots. But the old men who sent them out to die always remained safely behind. Always.” He shrugged. “As for the money—that was probably convenience, not entirely greed.”
“You think he could’ve got more than two million?”
“Almost certainly, based on his knowledge of Hezbollah operations alone. Of course, it required good faith on the part of the Israelis, but at this point in his life, I believe that our Mr. Esmaili decided he had nothing to lose by trusting his enemy.” Mohammed arched an eyebrow. “And he’s a shrewd businessman: two million is quite a bargain.”
Langevin looked around to ensure that no one overheard. “How long do you think he’ll last on the outside?”
Mohammad stroked his beard again. “Oh, eventually the facts will be known, by intention or by mistake. But wherever he goes, I would not wager his surviving long enough to spend his money.”
“Well, maybe his information will do some good before then.” Omar Mohammed indulged in a wry smile. “I would wager a goodly sum that if Imam Elham remains in Lebanon very long he will receive some unexpected visitors one night.”
Bernard Langevin, PhD, smiled in recollection. “As our young friend Breezy would say, ‘Hoo-ah the unexpected visitors.’”
* * * *
50
DULLES AIRPORT
“There they are.” Derringer caught sight of Delmore’s bald head towering above the crowd.
Most of the SSI staff was on hand to meet the team returning from Lebanon. Or at least the survivors, Derringer told himself. He just noticed Jack Peters. “Jack, why’d you come all the way out here?”
Peters shifted his feet. “Well, I feel a kind of obligation, Admiral. Frank and I recruited Pitney and now . . .” He shrugged beneath his raincoat. “He doesn’t really know anybody else from the office.”
Derringer watched his talent scout greet Pitney with a warm handshake.
“Robert, welcome back.”
The shooter was obviously surprised. “That’s good of you, Mr. Peters.” He scanned the reception committee. “I didn’t really expect a crowd like this.”
“Well, we just want you guys to know how much we appreciate what you did. All of you.”
Pitney absorbed the meaning without comment.
“How are you? Really.”
“Oh, tired but okay.” Robert Pitney paused for a moment. “I thought I knew more or less what to expect, but I didn’t. Not really. Chris tried to tell me that in his own way.” He glanced at Nissen, exchanging handshakes and hugs. “I guess I’m glad that I went, because I learned something.”
Peters cocked his head. “Yes?”
“I learned that the price you pay for seeing the show is steeper than you think.” He stared at a travel poster, then said, “I guess I’ll spend a lot of time wondering if it was worth the price of admission.”
Amid the greetings—heartfelt and pro forma—Sandy Carmichael sought out Brezyinski.
“Breezy! Welcome back, guy.” She gave the door-kicker a warm hug that took him by surprise. He squeezed her in return.
“Thanks, Colonel Sandy.” He sucked in some air. “It’s so . . . good ... to be home.”
She patted his arm. “Mark, when you’ve had time to settle in, come see me. Matt Finch and I will be reshuffling the go-to roster and we’d like to discuss some options with you.”
“Well, thanks. A lot. I mean, I really do appreciate it. But I’m not sure what I want to do after . . . what’s happened.”
“Breezy, you can do just about anything you want. Like J. J. Johnson. He’s on our full-time training roster so he doesn’t deploy to field operations unless he asks to.” She studied Brezyinski’s face closely. He’s tired and hurting. This isn’t the time to make a decision. “Why don’t you go see him in Idaho?”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinkin’ about that. I mean, I want to see Bosco’s family in Washington State. I could see the Double Jay on the way back.”
Derringer and Wilmont gathered the ten operators around Chris Nissen. SSI’s founder knew it would be a few days before the full team was assembled again. “Gentlemen, welcome back. Welcome back.” He shook his head. “You did an extraordinary job.” He raised a fist to his mouth and gave an unnecessary cough. “Ah, we’re planning a memorial service for Frank . . . ahem . . . and the others. It’ll be at Arlington next month. Check with the office and we’ll have the details.”
Green ventured a question. “Admiral, what about Jacobs and Malten? Last we heard they were still in Beirut.”
“No, they came home day before yesterday. The doctors finally released Malten to travel.”
Barrkman leaned toward Furr. “Damn, they missed all the fun.”
“Yeah, unless Malten calls taking a round through the guts some kind of fun.”
Wilmont recognized that Derringer did not want to say much more, and imposed his bulk between the admiral and the operators. “Fellows, we have some vans waiting as soon as your luggage is ready. This way, please.”
As the crew proceeded to the baggage carousel, Carmichael eased up to Derringer.
“They look bushed, Admiral. And I don’t mean the travel.”
“Well, some of them have been through an ordeal. I saw you talking t
o Brezyinski.”
“He’s still dealing with Boscombe’s death. I think he will be for quite a while.” She looked up at her boss. “Maybe for the rest of his life.”
Derringer took Carmichael’s arm and turned away from the crowd. “Sandy, I don’t want to appear an opportunist. I think you know me better than that. But after this mission, SSI’s future is assured. It didn’t look good a couple of months ago, but handling the backpack nuke is a major coup for us.”
The Alabaman furrowed her forehead. “Admiral, how can we publicize that? The Israelis must rate it beyond top secret.”
“Well, I talked with General Varlowe today on that very matter. You know how Beltway insiders love to be—inside. The word will get around, even if it’s not quite the full story. Insiders will hear that we saved Israel from taking a nuke.”
“So we’re some kind of deniable heroes.”
Derringer merely gave her a small grin, slightly cynical around the edges.
After an awkward pause, Carmichael spoke her mind. “Mike, I’m certainly glad the company will survive. I mean, I’m not ready to retire, and I still enjoy the work. But, you know . . .” Her southern accent trailed off.
“Well. . .”
“Tell me. Please,” she prompted.
“Well, we turned a corner in Lebanon. It’s not going to be the same without Frank and Steve, is it?”
“No, it’s not.” Her voice was soft amid the background babble.
“You mentioned you’re not ready to retire. But I’m not so sure about me.”
Sandra Carmichael could think of nothing to say.
* * * *
51
HORSETHIEF RESERVOIR, IDAHO
“You know, Bosco came here to see me before the African gig.”
J. J. Johnson made another cast and landed his fly within eight inches of his aim point. Dissatisfied, he whipped the graphite rod backward, flexed it twice more, and tried again. The Woolly Bugger alit three inches from the floating leaf.
Brezyinski nodded. “Yeah, he told me about that. Said he convinced you to come along.”
Johnson laughed aloud. “That turkey! I already decided to go. Just wanted to have some downtime with him so I played him like . . .” He grinned. “A fish on the line.”
Breezy regarded the erstwhile Foreign Legionnaire. “I guess you guys became pretty good buds, too.”
Johnson shrugged. “Well, you know how it was. Hell, you were everywhere I was: Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Chad. Yeah, the B Man was some kind of operator.”
Breezy made his own amateurish effort at casting. Clearly his heart was not in it, even as an accuracy game when the fish weren’t biting. At length, Johnson asked, “How’d it go with Bosco’s family in Ellensburg?”
“Oh, okay I guess. His old man wasn’t around much but I talked to his sister. They wanted to know . . . well, you know.”
“What it was like when he checked out.”
Breezy nodded, still staring at the lake.
Jeremy Johnson was a worldly young man, not quite thirty. He allowed his fly to drift for a moment, reading Breezy’s mind. “What’d you tell them, Breeze?”
“Ah, the usual stuff.”
“Like, it was instantaneous. He never felt a thing.”
Breezy shot his colleague a sidelong glare, then relaxed. “Yeah, never felt a thing.” He bit his lip in concentration. “Maybe it’s even true. He was dead when I saw him.”
Before Johnson could respond, Breezy added, “I’m seeing a counselor.”
“No, I didn’t know. But that’s good, Breeze. It helped me, after . . . you know.”
Brezyinski gave a knowing nod. After the ragheads flayed you like a salmon with that strip of belted tire. He had seen the scars on Johnson’s back and legs. He felt guilty because he talked under torture. Anybody would’ve talked.
Breezy felt better about sharing his thoughts. “I tried the VA but they’re always overworked. So SSI got me a private shrink. I see her twice a month. It really helps, you know?”
“Sure do.” Johnson cast again, picking a different spot. “What’ve you learned so far?”
“Well, I said that I couldn’t understand why I was so shook when Frank was killed but I hardly slowed down for . . . Bosco. I mean, I had a lot of respect for Frank but we weren’t close or anything. He usually rode us about our laid-back attitude, you know.”
Johnson laughed. “Tell me about it!”
“Anyway, Ms. Cottin—Michelle—says that I empathized with Frank because I was trying to save him and watched him die. I mean, I heard his last breath and I saw the light go out of his eyes. But with Bosco it was almost like, ‘Bye, guy.’ I just looked at him and then Steve Lee pulled me away. Michelle says that I had a subconscious resentment toward Bosco, because he was such a good bud and checked out without saying good-bye. How weird is that? I mean, it’s not like he had a choice!”
“What about Lee? You tried to save him, too.”
“Well, that’s different, I guess.” He paused to gather his thoughts. “Ah, hell, J. J., I dunno. I didn’t know him real well, either. I’ve talked about it with Michelle and I think there’s not so much grief there because it was his choice. At the time I thought he was just looking for an easy way out, and I couldn’t carry him or anything, so I gave him the needle. But now I know that he was really looking to give me an out—saving the radio and whatnot. So no, I don’t have as much heartburn about him.”
“This Michelle sounds like a cool lady.”
“Hoo-yeah.”
Johnson turned to regard Breezy. “What’s that mean?”
“Well, she’s almost a babe.”
“Oh, c’mon, Brezyinski! You’re not hitting on your shrink, are you?”
Breezy laughed again. “No, of course not! It’s just that. . .”
“Just what?”
“Well, sometimes I wonder what she looks like undressed.”
Johnson suppressed his own laugh. “Brezyinski, you are one sick puppy.”
“Well, of course I am!” He was smiling in the afternoon sun.
“Lemme guess. She’s a good ten-fifteen years older, married to a millionaire investment broker with six kids.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much in the zone. Her husband’s a surgeon. Based on her diploma I think she’s eleven or twelve years older. Three kids.”
“Pardner, I think Ms. Cottin is doing you a ton of good.”
Breezy made another cast, better than before. “So do I, J-Man. So do I.”