THE CONTRACTOR

by R. SAINT HILAIRE

  Jim waved his magic fingers in the general direction of the front seat. “And how much trouble did you guys get into?”

  “Oh no, we’re good. We got a little ass-chewing for going on Goldman’s mission, but because we gathered a bunch of good intel, and saved you, and, umm…saved the world from World War Three, they were kinda cool about it.”

  Dave gave a big double “shaka” hang-loose hand gesture.

  Rusty piped in: “Yeah, but we were ordered back to DC for some retraining—whatever that means.”

  I knew what that meant. Yup, they were in trouble. Probably less trouble than if they hadn’t saved the world, but still in trouble.

  We headed south, back in the direction of the D300, so we could take the million-hour drive back to Istanbul. But about ten minutes into the drive, Rusty took a right onto Havaalani Girisi.

  I was inquisitive about his choice. “Dude, where are you taking us?”

  “To Ferit Melen airport. Did you think we were going to friggin’ drive back to Istanbul?” Rusty said with a big grin in the rear-view mirror.

  I looked at Jim. Jim looked at me. We both looked at Rusty.

  Rusty smiled in the mirror again, “Whaaat?”

  Dave chuckled, “Don’t worry—we have a private jet.”

  I hate everything right now.

  This is the part where you were expecting an action scene on the private jet like the last time. But no such luck. Everything went as smooth as a fitness model’s bottom. As a matter of fact, it was kinda awesome.

  Jim and I each took a whore bath in the lav, put on some deodorant, used the complementary disposable razors for a quick shave, and got a nice change of clothes. We were headed back to Istanbul. The mission was over. Nobody was in combat mode. We all chilled, had a scotch, read a magazine, and already began to exaggerate the stories of our latest adventures.

  Istanbul Airport isn’t close to the city; it is actually about an hour outside of downtown. So, after we landed, we were met by a DSS vehicle and driven back to city center. Jim and I were dropped off at our apartment first. We gave the boys big fist bumps, thanked them profusely for saving our lives, and they drove off into the sunset. Kinda felt like the end of a movie.

  It was nice to get back to our apartment. Jim and I were greeted as usual and escorted to our room. The bellman knocked on the door. Um, dude we are both right here with you, not in the room.

  Well, there was a reason for knocking: the door flung open, and Melissa literally jumped into my arms. She wrapped her legs around my waist, and I wasn’t sure if this was going to be a grappling session or a make-out session. Luckily it was the latter. In between kisses and trying to breathe, I spat out, “Okay, baby, okay.”

  I side-eyed Jim. He again had his face in his hand, trying not to laugh. The bellman had smartly stepped out of the way.

  Melissa finally let go with her thighs and slid her feet back to the floor.

  “Let’s go inside, honey,” I said, really appreciating the sudden burst of affection.

  We all went in, the bellman dropped our bags just inside the door, and Merlin scooted off to his bedroom. He knew that we needed a few minutes alone to catch up. He also knew I was in sooo much trouble.

  “Oh my God, I am so glad you are okay,” Melissa said as she sat down on the couch. “I was told about the crash.”

  “I know—it has been totally crazy. I am so sorry…things got way out of hand. But I am okay. I was told you had a situation with Erik. What the hell?”

  “First of all, come here,” she said, wagging her finger in a come-hither kind of way.

  Friends, this is not my first time at this rodeo. I knew exactly what was coming, and to tell the truth, I was looking forward to it. I needed a good smack in the face.

  “Ahhhh,” I screamed as she kicked me directly in the calf! I am pretty sure she was aiming at the shin, but did more of a low roundhouse kick, and the top of her foot caught my calf. Yes, the calf with the bullet hole in it. I really wish it had been a smack in the face.

  “That is for coming to Turkey, almost getting yourself killed, and almost getting me killed!” Miss said with a wry smile, watching me writhe in pain. “C’mon, don’t be such a pansy.”

  “I got shot literally right where you just kicked me.”

  “Oh no, oh no. I am so sorry. I had no idea. Sit down. Let me get ice,” she said as she rushed to the freezer and started putting ice cubes into a dish towel.

  “It’s okay, I probably deserved that. Wait, what? What do you mean by almost got you killed?” I said as I hopped on one leg to the couch.

  “This is an insane story. I think both you and Merlin are going to want to hear this. Merlin, get your ass out here!”

  Jim popped into the room like Kramer entered a room on Seinfeld. “What’s happening?”

  “Grab us some beers,” I said, waving my hands in the direction of the fridge. “Melissa has a good story, apparently.”

  Jim grabbed three beers from the fridge, popped the caps, set two on the coffee table, and settled into the chair opposite the couch.

  “Thanks, Merlin,” Miss said, raising her bottle and nodding her head. “Now, both of you have to promise to listen to the whole story, and promise to not get pissed and grab guns and go hunting Erik.”

  We could absolutely promise that. That job was done already.

  If you have made it this far along my story of action, adventure, running, gunning, flying, crashing, humpin’, fighting, winning, and general badassery, then you already know my wife’s story.

  I told you this was out of order.

  So Miss regaled us with her tale of heroics. There was the copious clinking of bottles, shouts of sköl, and more beer. Then there was some scotch. My two favorite parts of the storytelling were first, when Jim and I would randomly call bullshit on something in her story and she would start hitting both of us, and second, when my wife begged us to tell our insane story.

  I insisted that we could only do so with cigars. She reminded me that we were in a no-smoking room. I reminder her that I didn’t give a shit—at all, and we all lit up.

  Melissa just shook her head in disbelief when we told her about the fight at nuclear materials corral, and about how Merlin plugged Erik straight in the back from a hundred meters while he himself was in a rain of bullets.

  “Damn, Nick,” Miss said with a forlorn look on her face. “I was really hoping I could witness you stomping his ass to death after you heard what he did to me. So why did Merlin do the honors?”

  “Because he fucking electrocuted me,” Jim said from behind a cloud of cigar smoke.

  I chuckled. “Man, that really pissed you off, eh?”

  Jim grimaced. “Yuh. He electrocuted me.”

  “We got that, Jim.”

  There was a knock at the door, which made me immediately grab my pistol off the coffee table. We all stared at the door. We were probably just in trouble for smoking cigars in the room.

  “Jim, can you get that?” I racked a round into the chamber.

  Jim looked out the peephole. “Looks like a skinny white guy dressed kinda weird.”

  “Just ask him what he wants. But step to the side in case he shoots through the door.”

  Jim looked at me like I was crazy. “Dude, you’ve been drinking too much. Chill.”

  Jim talked to the man through the door while covering his body with the refrigerator door. “Who is it? What do you need?”

  A somewhat muffled voice came from the other side of the door. “My name is Sven. I am here on behalf of Mr. Michael Goldman.”

  There was silence for a moment.

  Wait—I remember that name. Goldman was the CIA guy from Iraq who shot Corrino and saved my ass. What the hell? How, and why, did he track me down here?

  “Okay, let him in.”

  Jim moved from the protection of the refrigerator door, removed the security chain, and unlocked the door.

  Sven stepped into the room. He had attempted an outfit with
shorts this time, perhaps mistakenly. The three of us looked him up and down. White boat shoes, dark blue shorts, a white belt, a two-tone gray and white polo French tucked into his shorts, and, of course, dark blue sunglass frames to match the shorts. We all made the snap judgement that he wasn’t a security contractor.

  “Do you know this guy?” Melissa whispered.

  “I think I know a guy he knows.”

  “Hey there. Nick Branson.” I reached out with a hearty handshake.

  “Yes, I have seen your dossier,” Sven responded.

  Melissa looked at me questioningly, “You have a dossier?”

  I just smiled.

  “So what does Mr. Goldman want?”

  “He needs a meeting with you, at your earliest convenience, to discuss details concerning your activities within the borders of Iran.”

  “Oh, boy,” Merlin said, half under his breath, as he returned to the chair and put his cigar back between his teeth.

  “Iran, Nick? Really?” Melissa was looking unhappy again.

  “Yes, Miss. When I said over the border in my little action-adventure tale, exactly what border did you think I was referring to?”

  She returned to the couch and sat down dramatically.

  “Sven, tell Mr. Goldman I can meet him this afternoon. I have a couple things I have to wrap up here, and then we can meet. Will he send a car?”

  Merlin once again chuckled into his hand, half mumbling, “Wow…send a car…”

  Sven nodded. “Yes, we can send a car over. How about three o’clock? Can you be presentable by then? I mean, less boozy and cigar-y?”

  Wow, what a dick. Presentable? Did he think I was going to dress like him? Can I smack the Sally out of him right now?

  “That works. Thanks for stopping by,” I said with a completely fake smile while escorting him back out the door.

  No sooner had I closed the door behind him than Jim piped in: “Nice shorts.”

  I knew that everyone needed an explanation. It seemed like I was caught up in some secret world they knew nothing about, which was only partially true. Okay, mostly true, but I wanted to at least offer some context so that my wife and battle buddy wouldn’t think I was straight out lying to them.

  “So…remember I told you about my last assignment in Iraq, and how there was this little altercation in a mosque? And remember how I was all beat up when I came home, and that my balls hurt for two weeks?”

  “I am guessing you are talking to your wife right now?” smartass Jim asked.

  I continued. “Well, there was a CIA agent, or analyst or whatever, who helped me out of a really bad situation. He came in, all guns a-blazing, and dragged my sorry ass to safety. That was this guy Goldman that our little fashionista was talking about.”

  I put my cigar between my lips and took a long drag. I let the nicotine osmose through my cheeks and tongue, and then let a cloud of tobacco smoke swirl out of my mouth.

  “Anyhow, when the DSS giants rescued me, we went over the border into Iran—let me be clear, for whatever mission they were assigned to. I think Goldman wants some details because I am guessing the CIA was involved in some way…”

  Melissa and Jim sat silently. Jim was silent because he knew I was omitting details, and Melissa was silent because she also knew I was omitting details.

  “So let me just see what Goldman wants. It shouldn’t take too long.”

  Melissa tapped the couch cushion next to her, and I went and sat down as beckoned. She had the I-forgive-you face. Damn, I had missed her. Could I possibly get a domestic gig the next time?

  We spent the next couple of hours enjoying various shots of this and that and smoking our Arturo Fuentes Hemingways. I may have had two. I was really wishing for a romp in the hay with my girl, but time flew, and I had to shower, put on something respectable—apparently—and head to the lobby to catch the car to wherever Goldman was hiding out.

  The ride in the Mercedes S-350 was nice. Temperature was perfect. The driver had used a little air freshener before I got in. The black leather was comfortable and made the light wood trim pop.

  I have absolutely no idea where exactly in the city we went, but it was a short ride. So this is how the other half lives was all I could think when we pulled up to the Four Seasons at Sultanahmet.

  I inquired about Mr. Goldman at the reception desk. They told me he was in the St. Sophia Suite but at the moment was relaxing on the A’Ya Terrace and was, of course, expecting me.

  I headed up to the rooftop bar. The view was spectacular. The terrace was so close to the Hagia Sophia that it seemed almost a part of the same building. The minarets towered above the beautiful terrace with its classic looking Turkish folding chairs, long couches with colored pillows, and huge potted plants.

  There were only a handful of people sipping cocktails and taking in the view. I spied my quarry quickly. A slightly balding man in gray slacks, a white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up, black loafers, and a stainless-steel Rolex submariner watch. He turned and waived. A face I remembered. The last time I had seen it, it was at the other end of a firearm. He seemed much more pleasant in this setting.

  “Mr. Branson. Have a seat.”

  Goldman was drinking a dark Turkish coffee from a small blue cup with a white rim. There was a swirl of foam atop the dark brown brew.

  “Can I get you a cocktail, or perhaps a coffee?”

  You know, the coffee looks good as hell. I usually don’t say this, but I've had enough to drink today, so coffee sounds great.

  “I’ll go with the coffee. Any recommendations?”

  Goldman smiled, took a sip of his coffee, and said, “Oh, you are going to be sorry you asked.”

  He then went into a long historical perspective on Turkish coffee.

  “I am going to recommend the Kurukahveci Mehmet Efendi,” he finally said.

  He waived to the waiter. “Kahve verebilir misin?”

  The waiter asked, “Hangi Kahveyi seversin?”

  “Kurukahveci Mehmet Efendi.”

  Goldman asked me if I wanted sugar. I did not. He told the waiter, “Sade Kahve.”

  I was straight up guessing he just ordered me black coffee with no sugar, so that was cool.

  Goldman turned back to me. “Anyhow, where was I? Oh yes—coffee. Well, coffee as we know it come to Istanbul in 1534, when the Ottoman Governor of Yemen returned to the city and brought coffee with him. Typically, the bean is ground very fine, then added with water and sugar to a Cezve. It is brought to a boil and becomes frothy. It is removed from the heat, then it is brought back to a boil a few times to increase the froth. Most Turks like a moderate amount of sugar, but you are going old school, Nick, straight black. That’s going to keep you going all night.”

  “I’ll warn my wife,” I told him.

  The coffee came, and it was all that I thought it would be. Very dark, very rich. There was a tinge of bitterness and a hint of smoke, but both were truly dominated by the dark fruit flavors. It made me reevaluate how much of a coffee guru I thought I was.

  “I’m gonna need to bring some of this home with me.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” Goldman said.

  “So…why exactly did you want to see me?”

  Goldman took another sip. “Well, first I wanted to see how you are doing. The last time we met you were in pretty rough shape.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I probably should have thanked you for that right off. Much appreciated. You wouldn’t think by looking at you that you are such a badass warrior.”

  Goldman laughed. “Sometimes you just do what you have to in the moment.”

  “Okay, I think you might be understating that.”

  “Thanks,” Goldman said, enjoying the appreciation.

  I was impatient. There was a super-hot wife back at the apartment, if you know what I mean.

  Goldman sat back in his chair, took a moment to look at the giant mosque, and emptied his coffee cup.

  “So let’s talk abo
ut Iran.”

  Right to the point. I knew I liked this guy.

  “Did you have any idea what was going on in that little valley?

  “I sorta found out on the way there. My buddy Jim and I were on an unplanned jaunt through the desert, and luckily two Diplomatic Security Services agents plucked us from the clutches of sunburn and dehydration. We had already been working with them, and they came along just at the right moment. However, they were on a mission that we were unaware of until it was too late, and by then we were in the thick of it.”

  “Okay, so they didn’t explain the whole situation?”

  Hmmm. So, how to respond to Goldman? Should I tell him everything I know about Erik and the nuclear materials? No. I am going to wait for him to bring that up.

  “Not really. Jim and I were essentially told where to shoot. We did, and then we hightailed it out of there.”

  “Nick, I am going to have a scotch. Do you mind? Can I get you one?”

  I completely realize I just said I wasn’t going to drink more today, because I already had beers and scotch and cigars back at the room. But I was once told that everything you say after the word “but” is complete bullshit. So, I am not going to say anything else, except I will say yes.

  When the drinks came, we raised a glass, surprisingly both of us said Sköl, and took a sip. It was cool and smoky.

  “So, Nick, let’s talk about Erik Olsen.”

  “Yes, my old hand-to-hand combat teacher from New Hampshire. He came here with my wife to surprise me. He was going to a famous wrestling tournament near here.”

  Goldman smiled a closed-lip smile. “We know all that.”

  “I suppose you do, knowing who you work for.”

  “So again, tell me what you know about what Erik was really doing here in Turkey.”

  “Mr. Goldman, save me some time if you already know what I know.”

  “Nick, I just wanted your perspective, nothing more.”

  I downed my coffee. “Erik is an asshole. He pretended he was my friend, but in the end, it was only money that mattered to him. He kidnapped my wife, did the same to me, and left me for dead in the desert. And he was double-dipping, taking money from Iran and apparently from the U.S. as well for the whole other thing. I don’t want to say what it was out loud…”