by Ben Coes
He made eye contact with Jenna, who was seated on one of the two sofas, a laptop in front of her, on her knees. She smiled at Dewey, then went back to typing.
He didn’t recognize any of the other staffers, five in all, two male, three female.
Dewey looked at Calibrisi, who was behind his desk. Dewey walked behind the desk, out of earshot of the others.
“You look good,” said Calibrisi, scanning Dewey.
Dewey’s arm had a long, thin bandage on it. He didn’t respond.
“How many stitches?” said Calibrisi, attempting to make conversation.
Dewey looked at Calibrisi with a blank expression. He thought it would be him, Calibrisi, Polk, and Jenna.
“How you doing?” said Calibrisi, taking a step closer.
“Is this really necessary?” said Dewey quietly.
Calibrisi stared at Dewey, saying nothing. Low conversation permeated the other side of the office. No one could hear them.
“Even if they were after me, so fucking what?” said Dewey, barely above a whisper. “It’s no secret that my files are out there.”
“What’s your point?” said Calibrisi.
“Is all this necessary?” said Dewey, nodding toward the gathered CIA hierarchy. “Isn’t it pretty goddam obvious what the hell happened?”
“You have no idea what just happened,” said Calibrisi. “We need to know if this was simply a revenge hit on you—or the exploitation of a vulnerability in our last-line infrastructure.”
Calibrisi nodded to his assistant, Lindsay, outside the office.
“What the hell does that mean?” said Dewey.
“This most likely was a revenge hit by Iran, but we don’t know yet.”
Dewey turned just as Lindsay entered with a bottle of Poland Spring water and three Advil, handing them to Dewey.
“Thanks,” said Dewey. He unscrewed the cap and took a gulp, then threw down the Advil. He drank the rest of the bottle. Lindsay took it from him.
“You need to go on vacation,” said Calibrisi. “We’ll pay for it. Do whatever the hell you want. Everest. Tahiti. Maybe not Iran though. I want you to disappear for a few months.”
Dewey walked to the big window, which showed a massive sweep of trees, leaves of red, orange, and yellow.
Calibrisi stepped into the middle of the office and sat down.
“Hit it,” he said, nodding to Jenna.
The lights dimmed and a large LCD screen descended from the ceiling just in front of the windows. The screen was blank for a moment, and then, as Jenna typed, three photos dominoed across the screen. All three were male, Arab, and young. One showed a man in a military uniform, the next man was caught from afar in a surveillance photo, and the third man was cut from a black-and-white photo from The New York Times, where he was in the background—part of a security team—for Ali Suleiman, the Supreme Leader of Iran.
Names appeared beneath each photo.
HUSSAIN, Assaf
MOHAMMED, Pierre
NUSSUF, Jean
“Assaf Hussein, Pierre Mohammed, Jean Nussuf,” said Jenna. “Three Hezbollah operators.”
She paused. Several people looked at Dewey—who was standing near the door.
“Their target was Dewey,” continued Jenna. “Alta Strada in Georgetown, which I’m guessing you frequent?”
“Yeah,” said Dewey.
A photo of the outside of the establishment flashed, then a photo of the carnage after the attack.
“Well, in any event, you settled into a pattern and Iran locked it in,” said Polk. “They sent in a kill team.”
“Hussein is a Vienna Level Seven weapons expert, Mohammed has been in Gaza since the age of sixteen,” said Jenna. “Nussuf is well known inside QUDS, a respected operative.” Jenna paused. “The question is, why?” she said. “Why send in this level of firepower?”
“Revenge,” said Mack Perry, the deputy director of SOG, in charge of running teams of CIA paramilitary, and spies, across the globe. Perry pointed at Dewey. “Dewey humiliated them. Stole a nuclear weapon. Their first nuclear weapon. They’re pissed off.”
“I would also mention the fact that Dewey killed Abu Paria,” said Thorndike, one of Perry’s deputies. “That’s equally significant.”
Jenna nodded. She looked around the room.
“I agree,” said Angie Poole, another high-ranking CIA deputy director. She was in charge of the Middle East inside Special Activities Division. “It would be just like Suleiman or VEVAK to strike back.”
“Why the timing?” said Calibrisi.
“Maybe it was the first time they were able to infiltrate all three men simultaneously,” said Perry.
“Or the first time they had solid informatics on Dewey,” said Jenna.
“Why the overwhelming force?” asked Calibrisi.
The room went silent.
Dewey was now sitting on the front of Calibrisi’s large desk. He had a blank expression on his face.
“Obviously, they knew who they were dealing with,” said Polk. “What’s your opinion, Jenna?”
There was a long pause. Everyone looked at Jenna.
“Jenna?” said Calibrisi.
Jenna felt her phone vibrating. It was a text from Igor.
You may be right
Jenna quickly typed back:
$800k *missing* re GID HZBOLAH?
“I don’t know enough yet,” Jenna said, putting her phone down. “Obviously it looks like revenge, but the foundation of a successful operation is subterfuge. The Iranians have developed innovative approaches to field work.”
“What are you suggesting?” said Polk.
“Imagine that this is not about revenge,” said Jenna. “That they moved on a priority target just before embarking on a larger attack. Perhaps this was an insurance policy, removing an important American agent. Dewey’s papers are all over dark zones and he is considered a Tier One target. It might not be revenge. It could be a tactical move. This could be the first rung on a ladder.”
All eyes were on her.
“That’s absurd,” said Angie Poole. “The Iranians don’t have the capability to develop a matrix-pattern architecture like the one you’re suggesting. The thought that they would try to sideline Dewey as part of a larger op is ridiculous. They were trying to kill him because they don’t like him, period. If they’re attacking the U.S. sovereign, they’re not going to focus in on one individual. Iran came here to kill Dewey; it’s a discrete operation. This was what it looks like: a kill hit on Dewey, a revenge hit.”
“I agree with Angie,” said Perry.
“Me, too,” said Polk. “This was a revenge hit.”
Calibrisi looked at Jenna.
“What are the odds that you’re wrong?” said Calibrisi.
“Well, in my opinion, close to nil,” said Jenna confidently, looking around the room. “But there is a first for everything.”
* * *
As the office emptied out, Calibrisi got Dewey’s attention and indicated he wanted him to remain behind the group. When everyone was gone Calibrisi closed the door.
He turned to Dewey.
“I want you to go away for a few weeks or maybe a few months,” said Calibrisi. “Regardless of whether Jenna is right or wrong, the bottom line is you need to lie low. Go somewhere.”
“No, thanks, Chief,” said Dewey.
“It wasn’t a suggestion.”
Dewey shot Calibrisi a hard stare.
“It’s an order?” Dewey said, half-grinning in disbelief.
“Yes,” said Calibrisi.
“What if Jenna is right?” said Dewey. “What if an attack is under way?”
“She might be, but there are plenty of people who aren’t being targeted by Hezbollah who can handle it,” said Calibrisi. “They studied you and sent a team in once they found you. This is not the first time. It’s just like Australia and … Argentina. I want you to leave town, right now, and get out of the country. That’s outside the U.S., and also no UK or
Europe. I need you dark for a few months. I already sent a NET team to your house. They’re locking it down and I want you to go there, pack a bag, and buy a one-way ticket somewhere. Stay in the most expensive hotels in the world, charter a sailboat in Pago Pago, sit on a fucking beach, I don’t care. Just get the hell out while we figure this one out.”
“I’ll take it under advisement,” said Dewey.
Calibrisi caught Dewey’s sarcasm.
“I’m not suggesting it,” seethed Calibrisi, leaning in.
“Sounded like a suggestion,” said Dewey, looking down at his shoulder, then meeting Calibrisi’s glare.
“Go home, pack a bag, and disappear. That’s an order.”
Dewey looked at Calibrisi without emotion.
“I’m not leaving,” said Dewey. He reached for the door and looked back at Calibrisi. “Get the NET team out of my house, or I’ll get ’em out for you. I don’t need a bunch of fucking babysitters.”
* * *
Dewey walked down the hallway, ticked off, even a little irate, though he didn’t show it. He was pissed off Hector would send an agency security squad to protect him, but also because of the pain in his arm. It ached.
He knew he shouldn’t be pissed off at Hector but he nevertheless was. Sometimes he felt trapped inside the CIA’s web of tentacles. He didn’t want this life, not anymore. But as hard as he tried to get out of it, the more he felt himself being drawn back in.
As he walked by Jenna’s office, he slowed, then stopped and looked in. Jenna’s office was empty.
He leaned in and looked around. There wasn’t much there, just a long, sleek crystal glass rectangle atop bronze stanchions—her desk—with a laptop on it, and a small green leather love seat in front of the desk. The love seat looked old and comfortable, light green leather with creases and dark spots, worn soft over decades, and was shaped in sloping curves. Dewey stared at it for a moment and then could smell the scent of perfume, a very faint wisp. Dewey’s mind flashed to a grassy field—a sunny day in Argentina, beneath an ancient overhanging branch of a tree in the middle of nowhere. Just above the bend of a slow-moving, teal blue stream. The day Jessica Tanzer was killed by a bullet intended for him.
Don’t let anyone in.
Dewey turned for the elevators, embarrassed that he’d even stopped—but then he felt a hand on his back.
“Dewey?”
He heard Jenna’s soft British accent.
“Is everything all right?”
Jenna stepped past him into her office. She was half a foot shorter than him. She looked up at Dewey with a quizzical expression.
Dewey stood just inside the door as people from the meeting shuffled by.
“Yeah.”
Jenna, leaning closer, asked, “Are you okay? You’ve been through what I imagine was a very traumatic experience.” She placed a hand on Dewey’s hand. “Will you sit down?” She pulled his hand, tugging him gently in.
Dewey stepped into Jenna’s office and sat down on the leather sofa. It was as comfortable as he imagined. Jenna shut the door to her office.
She moved to the chair behind the desk and then stopped. She paused for a brief moment and then turned. She walked back and sat down on the love seat next to Dewey. There were several inches between them but they were close.
People walked by and could see in.
Dewey looked at Jenna.
“Oh, who bloody well cares what anyone thinks?” she said in a crisp English accent. “You asked me how I like living in the U.S.? I have no friends whatsoever, Dewey.”
“You’re working,” said Dewey. “Hector said you’re on loan from London. It’s probably not the best time to make friends.”
“Yes, but everyone is human.”
“Not in this world,” said Dewey.
“Yes, even in this world,” said Jenna.
Dewey averted his eyes. He didn’t say anything, but he glanced in her direction. Her bangs were cut in a straight line above her face. His eyes met hers for a brief moment.
“So where should I go?” said Dewey.
“Is that what Hector was saying?” said Jenna. “Leave the country?”
“Yeah.”
“He cares about you,” said Jenna. “Obviously someone is trying to kill you. He’s just trying to save your life.”
“You said this wasn’t about revenge,” said Dewey. “You think there’s something else going on?”
Jenna looked at him. A frustrated look appeared on her face.
“What do I know?” she said. “I’m an architect. Everyone else thinks they were after you. An isolated incident.”
“But you think there’s something else coming?”
“Yes.”
“So why would you want me to run away? If we’re—”
“You’re simply one individual,” said Jenna. “Just because I’m right or might be right—and we are under attack—doesn’t mean you, Dewey, have some sort of overarching responsibility! Revenge or attack, it doesn’t matter: they’re trying to kill you! Do you honestly not see that? They tried to bloody well kill you!”
Dewey sat in silence.
“Do you want a drink?” said Jenna.
Dewey said nothing.
“I happen to have a bottle of one-hundred-and-twenty-two-year-old Jameson,” Jenna said, pointing to a shelf. “It was a gift. I don’t really drink.”
“Well,” said Dewey, standing up. “Lucky for both of us, I do.”
Dewey went to the bottle and uncorked it, then poured some into a glass. He took a large gulp. “Definitely good stuff.”
“Jesus,” she said, laughing out loud. She shook her head in a slightly shocked manner. “Oh my God,” she said. A small grin appeared on her face.
Dewey refilled his own glass, then poured a second glass with just a little. He handed the second glass to Jenna. She took it and, as she looked at Dewey, took a small sip.
They were seated next to each other, and Jenna looked down and realized her leg was touching his.
“I know that this was a designed operation,” said Jenna, “and while it may not have worked out for them, they had you. I know enough to recognize a very good architect. He or she will have a secondary team waiting in the wings. Hector knows it because he would do the same.”
“I’m not running away,” said Dewey.
“Why not?” said Jenna, taking a swig of Jameson. “You’ve run away in the past.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m sorry, but the first time, to the North Sea? An offshore oil platform? The Exxon project off the coast of Africa? Capitana? Australia? Castine? Argentina?”
“I didn’t run away.”
Jenna nodded to Dewey. “Even though I don’t know you I see patterns. I know it’s hard for you, but today was just another chapter in an ongoing architecture,” said Jenna, her face becoming abruptly sad. “An architecture of those who want to kill you.”
Dewey downed the glass and leaned forward, then poured himself another glass.
“So you agree with Hector?” he said.
“No,” said Jenna, taking another small sip of whiskey.
“I thought you just said that I should leave?” said Dewey.
“No. I mean, oh, I don’t know,” said Jenna.
Dewey stared at her. She had a slightly dazed look on her face. Her eyes were a hazy, almost pure green. They were sitting together on the leather George Smith love seat, in Jenna’s office. The back of Jenna’s hand was on his knee, as if by accident. She was already a little tipsy after two or three sips of whiskey.
She smiled. Her hand, the back of which had been on his knee, reflexively moved and her hand found his knee and held it.
Jenna stared at Dewey and took a small sip. Her eyes shifted and looked at the ground, as if she was calculating something. She looked back at Dewey, shaking her head no, or more accurately, What am I even doing?
“I have an invitation,” said Jenna. Her hand went from his knee to his hand. “
From me, and I don’t want you to assume I think anything, or am inviting you other than because I think, tactically, it’s your best option. But how would you like to go to my father’s seventieth birthday party tomorrow? It’s on a boat, off Long Island. You’ll have your own bedroom.”
Dewey exhaled.
“A boat? Like a Boston Whaler?”
Jenna giggled.
“No, it’s slightly bigger.”
“How big?”
“Big.”
“I know your family is from aristocracy,” said Dewey.
“No control over that,” said Jenna. She took her hand from Dewey and shot it to her bangs and swooped them to the side.
Don’t let anyone in.
Dewey had read Jenna’s file. Jenna had designed two separate operations that Dewey worked. In both operations he’d come a hair’s width from death. Both operations were massively complex. Both had succeeded. Dewey’s eyes went emotionless and cold. He didn’t say anything.
Finally, Jenna broke the silence:
“Is that a no?”
“I appreciate the offer,” said Dewey. “I think I’d probably just end up embarrassing you.”
Involuntarily, Jenna frowned.
“Have I ever said anything that would in any way make you think that I would or could possibly think that?” she asked.
There was a long silence.
“No, you haven’t,” said Dewey.
“Have I in any way indicated that I have anything, wealth or whatever?” she asked in a sharp, cutting, elegant British accent. “Have I ever done that? Do you think that I’m like that?”
“Well,” said Dewey. “You did say something about firing your chauffeur for not having any crumpets.”
Jenna’s face went from offended to a smile.
“The truth is, my parents think I have friends, that I’m social, and popular, and am attending ‘glamorous diplomatic parties,’ and, well, Dewey, the truth is, I don’t have even one friend. Not one. In six months I haven’t even been on one date,” she said, her voice confident, not apologetic, though quiet. “It might seem incredible, but outside Bill and Hector, you’re the only person I even know, and I work for them. As pathetic as it sounds, you’re my best friend.”
