The Last Refuge

by Ben Coes

  “They don’t talk very much. Just warning you.”

  “Gee, I never would’ve expected that,” she said sarcastically.

  “How can you possibly take a week off? You’re the national security advisor. You’re not supposed to take vacations.”

  “Watch and learn, Dewey.”

  “Who’s going to be in charge?”

  “Um, this guy named, wait, what’s his name? Oh yeah, Rob Allaire. He’s the, ah, president of the United States? You may have heard of him?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Josh Brubaker,” she had said, referring to her chief of staff. “I told him not to bother me unless it’s a national emergency. If there’s a problem, I told him to call Hector.”

  So far, four days in, no calls. The only visible evidence of her job was the FBI agent posted around the clock at the entrance to the farm.

  Dewey and Jessica began the run down the long dirt road to the Castine Golf Club, then went right on Wadsworth Cove Road. After a mile or so, they went left on Castine Road. The small, winding road went for several miles. They ran alongside each other, with Dewey on the inside, closest to the road and the traffic, but there was hardly any. When they passed something and Jessica asked what it was, who lived there, where does that road go, Dewey would patiently answer.

  At a sagging, moss-covered wood fence, they hopped over and went right. A path opened into a long, rectangular field overgrown with hay grass. The sun was out and it warmed them as they ran through the thick grass downhill toward the ocean, Dewey cutting a path, Jessica right behind him.

  At the end of the field, the sea filled a rocky cove with calm blue water and the smell of salt and seaweed. A small dirt path was etched just before the rocks, and they ran along it for several more miles, trees to the right, rocky coastline left. Finally, in the distance, a church steeple, the beginning of the town proper. They came to a low, old stone wall, behind which lay row upon row of tombstones.

  Dewey stopped, followed by Jessica. They were both drenched in sweat. Dewey leaned over to catch his breath.

  “So,” he said after several minutes. “How was that?”

  Jessica breathed heavily. Her face was bright red.

  “I let you win,” she said.

  Dewey stared at the ocean, then looked at Jessica.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “I like blueberry pancakes.”

  “I know a place,” he said.

  * * *

  In town, Dewey and Jessica went to a small diner near Maine Maritime Academy called Froggy’s. Jessica ordered blueberry pancakes and Dewey ordered eggs and bacon.

  “When do you go to Boston?” Jessica asked.

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  Dewey sipped from his water glass. He was interviewing for a job in Boston, an interview arranged by Jessica, running personal security for a wealthy hedge fund manager named Chip Bronkelman.

  “No,” said Dewey.

  “Do you want the job?”

  “Sure,” said Dewey unenthusiastically.

  “You’re the one who said you didn’t want to come back into government.”

  Dewey nodded. She was right. Calibrisi had offered him a job at Langley, and Harry Black, the secretary of defense, had done the same, asking Dewey to join his staff at the Pentagon. Black had also offered Dewey a job he came close to accepting, going back to Fort Bragg and becoming a Delta instructor. But Dewey wasn’t ready to make the commitment. He’d already sacrificed years of his life for his country, had already risked his life for America more times than he could count, and he knew that if he went back in it would consume him all over again. He didn’t want that.

  But with that decision made, he needed a job. Bronkelman, a forty-something billionaire, was a very private man who lived in Wellesley, outside of Boston, and had homes in Manhattan, Palm Beach, Paris, Montana, and Hong Kong. Dewey would be well paid and he’d get to travel. But, in the end, he’d be little more than a glorified bodyguard to Bronkelman and his family.

  “Do you want to come down to D.C. after your interview?” Jessica asked.

  “I’m going to New York City,” said Dewey.

  “What for?”

  “I’m meeting Kohl Meir,” said Dewey matter-of-factly, after the waitress brought him a cup of coffee.

  It had been nearly three months since the bloody night at Rafic Hariri Airport in Beirut, when Dewey nearly died following the coup in Pakistan. Dewey had been saved by a team of commandos from Shayetet 13, Israel’s equivalent to the U.S. Navy SEALs. Kohl Meir was the leader of that Shayetet team who saved Dewey from near-certain death. Six of the eight-man S’13 team died that night.

  Jessica took a sip from her coffee cup and slowly put it down on the Formica table.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “He’s visiting the parents of Ezra Bohr,” said Dewey, referring to one of the fallen Israeli commandos. “He asked if I’d meet him.”

  Dewey’s face remained as blank as stone.

  “Why does he want to see you?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, Jess,” said Dewey.

  “Did he say anything?”

  Dewey looked across the table at Jessica.

  “He said he needs my help,” said Dewey.

  “What for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you ask him?”

  “Yeah,” said Dewey.

  The waitress brought over the plates of food and placed them down on the table in front of them.

  “And.…?”

  “He said he needed to talk about it in person.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “You don’t find that in the least bit unusual?” asked Jessica.

  Dewey smiled at Jessica, then shrugged his shoulders.

  She looked back at him, raising her eyebrows, smiling, expecting him to say something. But he stayed quiet.

  They finished breakfast. When Dewey asked for the check, the waitress shook her head, then nodded toward the counter. Behind the counter, a bald man with a University of Maine Black Bears baseball cap smiled, then shook his head.

  “Your money’s no good here, Andreas,” he said.

  “Thanks, Mr. Antonelli,” Dewey said, smiling.

  * * *

  As Dewey and Jessica walked up the grass-covered dirt driveway from the golf club to the farm, a faint noise caused Dewey to turn around. Jessica’s eyes followed his. Above the trees, from out over the ocean, a black object no bigger than a bird moved across the blue sky, followed, a few moments later, by the faint sound of whirring; the telltale rhythm of a chopper.

  “Why do I have a sinking feeling?” asked Jessica.

  3

  APARTMENT OF JONATHAN AND SYLVIE BOHR

  FOURTEENTH AVENUE AND FIFTY-EIGHTH STREET

  BORO PARK

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

  The swaying of the white lace curtain, pushed by a soft breeze from the open window, was the only movement in the apartment.

  Beneath the window was a small wooden dining table. On top of the table were two teacups, both filled, tiny clouds of steam rising up from the tea. Two plates; on top of one was a hard-boiled egg, cracked open, and a piece of rye toast, a bite missing. On the other plate lay a toasted onion bagel, cream cheese smeared on both sides, one of the pieces missing a few bites. Between the plates sat a bowl full of fresh-cut fruit—strawberries, pineapple, tangerine slices, blueberries. Two wooden chairs had been pulled out from the table.

  The only sound in the kitchen came from the open window. The low background noise of Boro Park, of Brooklyn, of New York City—car engines, an occasional distant horn, the voices of children outside playing on this warm, sunny spring day.

  The empty kitchen led to an open, arched doorway. Through the doorway was a dimly lit hallway. Across the hall stood another door, slightly ajar, that led to a small, plainly adorned bedroom. Above the simple wooden bed hung a small Star of David, mad
e out of wood. Next to it was a framed photograph of a thin adolescent boy with a long round nose, thick black hair in a jagged, uneven crew cut, and a gap-toothed smile on his freckled face.

  Outside the bedroom, the long hallway’s walls were covered with watercolor paintings, of various sizes, and photographs. Photos in simple frames; of people, family, engaged in different activities, standing in front of recognizable landmarks such as the Eiffel Tower, hiking on mountain passes, snow-covered peaks in the background, or just seated at tables filled with food and drink. Most showed the same people: a good-looking couple with their son, a large, striking-looking boy who always seemed to have a big, infectious smile on his face, the same boy as in the bedroom photo. The photos showed the progression of time, but what never changed was the sense of family connection, of love.

  Down the long, silent hallway was a living room, high ceilings crossed with thick mahogany beams, two big windows on the far wall partially covered in flowered curtains. The walls were lined floor-to-ceiling in bookshelves, every inch filled, and in the corner of the room was a simple desk, neat and orderly, a few piles of paper stacked in the middle, and a small light on. In the center of the room, two red sofas faced each other across a large, round glass coffee table. The living room, like the other rooms, sat in virtual silence, the only noise coming through the walls from the random clatter of the city.

  At one end of the sofas sat a pair of leather club chairs, behind which hung a large, mesmerizing photograph. Slightly faded, it was an aerial photo of Tel Aviv. At the bottom of the big photograph, like paint thrown from a child, a spray of dark red liquid coated the glass; it shimmered, still wet.

  In one of the leather chairs, the one on the right, a man sat, motionless. It was the man from the photos. He was, perhaps, seventy years old, his once thick hair had receded and what remained of it was mostly white. He had a thick gray and black mustache that hung down at the edges. He wore brown-framed Coke-bottle-thick eyeglasses. They were slightly askew. Behind the lenses, the man’s brown eyes stared out across the room.

  On the chair next to him was an older woman whose beauty was still obvious despite her years. Her long black hair was streaked in white; her simple, aquiline nose appeared as if it had been sculpted. She, too, was as still as a statue.

  In the middle of the man’s forehead, just above the bridge of the nose, an inch-wide bullet hole had been neatly blasted through his skull. Beneath it, a rivulet of blood oozed down the nose, then dripped in a slow but steady stream into the folds of his shirt.

  The woman’s skull was perforated in the identical spot.

  The bullets had been fired from the same gun: a suppressed Beretta 93, clutched in the same leather-gloved hand by the same woman, who now stood, calmly, silently, as still as stone, against the far wall, near the front door.

  The woman had long blond hair. It was a wig, and it covered short black locks that were slightly visible just above her ears. She was no more than twenty-five, simple-looking, a small, plain nose. The brown hue of her skin was accentuated and framed by the blond wig, and it made her look exotic. She wore a long-sleeve black Nike running shirt and matching running pants that looked as if they’d been painted on her hard, muscled body. She held the silenced .45 caliber weapon in her right hand, at her side. She stood patiently, motionless, waiting near the front door.

  Next to her, on the wall, was the intercom, a black box with a pair of red buttons. Every few seconds, the young killer’s eyes blinked in anticipation. It was the only movement in the room.

  Outside the door, on the landing, was a brown mat with the word welcome in Hebrew. The landing sat empty and quiet. To the left, carpeted stairs ran up to the fourth and fifth floors of the brownstone. To the right, the stairs descended toward the ground floor.

  Three floors below was a lobby. A large, antique chandelier dangled in the middle of the chamber, gold leafs wrapped around dozens of slender gold tubes with tiny lightbulbs at the ends; a gaudy, ornate, somewhat incongruous central point to the otherwise unadorned lobby. A stainless steel block of mailboxes hung on the wall across from a large glass and wood door. A tan curtain was drawn across the glass.

  In the corner, behind the door, against the wall, stood a man. He was dressed in a similar outfit as the woman stationed in the apartment: black running shirt and pants, Adidas running shoes. A thin, black cotton ski mask was pulled over his head down to his neckline. Only the man’s eyes were visible, two black embers smoldering, waiting. In his gloved left hand, the man held an M-26 Taser.

  * * *

  It was Sunday afternoon and the streets were busy. The sidewalks were filled with people. The weather was picture-perfect, a warm day, one of the first warm days of spring. Every resident of the neighborhood of brownstone apartments was out, sitting on stoops, talking with neighbors, walking young children, enjoying life.

  At the corner, a yellow taxicab pulled over and a young man climbed out. He was big and athletic. His brown hair was slightly long and his face was tan. He wore khakis and a blue button-down shirt. He shut the back door then reached into the front window and handed the cabbie some cash.

  He walked down the sidewalk with a slight limp. It didn’t slow him down, but it was noticeable. His face had a hint of sadness to it. His brown eyes, however, told a different story. Their deep, blank pools scanned the street with trained suspicion.

  But here, in Boro Park, he was among family. He was greeted by smiles from strangers, who recognized somehow his bloodline, his heritage. He returned the smiles with blank stares. He was here for a reason. A visit to the parents of one of his fallen colleagues.

  Except for one, he had visited all the families of the S’13 who had died that day at Rafic Hariri Airport. He wasn’t required to do so, but it was the way he chose to lead. To fly half a world away in order to sit down with a dead comrade’s parents and explain to them that their son died fighting for something important, something he had believed in.

  He walked up the wide steps of a pretty brownstone. He nodded to a pair of teenage girls who sat on the steps, both of whom blushed, then giggled back at him.

  Next to the door was a strip of doorbells. He read the names. He reached out and pressed the button of the bottom name: BOHR.

  After a few seconds, the intercom clicked.

  “Yes,” said a woman over the intercom.

  “Hello, Mrs. Bohr, it’s Kohl Meir.”

  * * *

  At precisely the same moment, less than ten miles away, on the fifteenth floor of a nondescript office building on Second Avenue near the United Nations, a red, white, and green flag, with a strange emblem in the middle, stood near a mahogany door. Next to the door, the words were simple, engraved in a shiny gold plaque:

  Permanent Mission of the Islamic Republic of Iran to the United Nations

  In a windowless, locked, highly secure room near the kitchen of the mission, two men stared at a large, flat plasma screen.

  One of the men wore a black three-piece suit, a tan shirt, a gold-and-green-striped tie. His black hair was slicked back. He had a bushy mustache, dark skin, a thin, gaunt face. The other man was stocky and had on a simple, denim button-down and khakis. The stocky man sat behind the desk, typing every few seconds into a keyboard in front of him. The man in the suit leaned over the desk, a cigarette in his hand. Both men studied the screen intently.

  “It’s him?” asked the suited one, Amit Bhutta, Iran’s ambassador to the United Nations. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, yes,” said the stocky Iranian. “Crystal fucking sure.”

  On the screen, in fuzzy black-and-white, they watched as Kohl Meir climbed out of the cab, then walked down the sidewalk.

  “And it’s all ready?”

  “Yes, Mr. Ambassador. It could not be any more precisely arranged.”

  On the plasma screen, they watched as Meir walked down the crowded sidewalk, limping slightly. Halfway down the block, he started to climb the steps of a brownstone. He moved past two girls
on the steps, then put his hand out to ring a doorbell.

  “Just think,” said the stocky man. “The great-grandson of Golda Meir herself. We could not inflict any more damage on the Jew if we dropped a nuclear bomb on downtown Tel Aviv.”

  On the screen, the door to the brownstone opened, and Meir stepped through. Then he disappeared from the screen.

  “Imagine,” whispered Bhutta, “when we do both.”

  4

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The chopper ride to Bangor International Airport took fifteen minutes. Jessica stepped off the Black Hawk and walked to a waiting Citation X, which flew her to Andrews Air Force Base. En route, she called Josh Brubaker, her deputy at NSC, to find out why she was being brought back early. Brubaker didn’t have a clue. She called Calibrisi, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency and her closest friend in government.

  “I haven’t been told,” said Calibrisi.

  “You haven’t?”

  “No,” he said. “Look, it’s probably nothing.”

  “What have I missed?”

  “I’ve read the dailies twice. ECHELON scans. Daily status call with Kratovil,” Calibrisi said, referring to the director of the FBI. “Everything is quiet.”

  “What about Iran?” asked Jessica. “The negotiations?”

  “That’s all on course, Jess,” said Calibrisi. “Would the president call you back to discuss that? Isn’t that a phone call?”

  “I’ve tried calling him twice,” said Jessica. “Control says he’s unavailable.”

  “The daily briefing was canceled this morning,” said Calibrisi. “Then again, it was canceled twice last week so he could play golf.”

  “Have you been summoned to a meeting?” she asked.

  “No,” said Calibrisi.

  “Hector, be honest,” Jessica said. “Do you think he’s firing me?”

  Calibrisi’s laughter echoed over the phone.

  “Are you kidding? You’re the daughter Allaire never had. I’m guessing he’s just lonely without you.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so.”