by Ben Coes
Dewey folded the newspaper as his eyes moved up Jessica’s legs, staring at her muscular, tan calves, then her knees and thighs. He looked at her panties, with their thin lace edges, then her stomach, toned but not muscular, with just the tiniest hint of voluptuous curve, above it her big breasts, the nape of her neck, and finally her eyes, which still held the same contemptuous stare.
Dewey stood up, walked inside, and kicked the door gently shut behind him, while gripping the two sides of the shirt, which after three days was very comfortable if quite rank in its aroma, and ripped it at the seams, sending buttons tumbling to the hardwood floor.
A small grin was on Dewey’s lips, which he attempted to hide. He stepped closer to Jessica, and as he came within arm’s length she reached her hands out and grabbed the buckle of his belt, yanking it harshly to unbuckle it, then grabbed and unbuttoned his pants, stepped closer, and then pushed her hands inside the back of his pants, making them fall to his ankles. He kicked off his shoes and then stepped out of his pants, naked.
She stared down at his body. He pushed against her. Behind her was the dining-room table. He pushed her back onto the table, and she sat on the edge of the table, wrapping her legs around Dewey’s back. He reached down and pulled her panties gently aside, then watched as Jessica closed her eyes and leaned back on her elbows. They made love on the table then moved to the floor, where Jessica climbed on top of Dewey, saying nothing, her anger eventually dissipating as she moved slowly up and down on top of him, pacing herself, until finally she could feel Dewey begin to lose himself, and she allowed herself to lose control, letting the warmth come, and she closed her eyes, her breathing growing louder as he reached up and grabbed her tightly as she collapsed on top of him, into his arms.
“My God,” she whispered afterward. “You really smell.”
“I know,” said Dewey. “It’s even starting to bother me a little.”
“When did you land?”
“I don’t know. A couple hours ago maybe.”
“Have they debriefed you?”
“No. I wanted to debrief you first.”
“That was bad,” she said, laughing. She leaned on her elbow. Dewey was on his back. She stared into his eyes. “What else are you hiding from me?”
Dewey grinned. She shook her head.
“Aren’t you even going to apologize?” she asked.
“For what?”
“For deceiving me.”
“Deceiving you? What are you talking about?”
“Your shit-eating grin doesn’t work on me, Andreas,” she said.
“Yes, it does,” he said. “At least it’s supposed to. Don’t fight it.”
“Asshole,” she said. “I spent a week with you in Castine, fucking your brains out, and then you find out Iran has a nuclear bomb and you don’t tell me.”
“Oh, that,” he said innocently.
“Yes, that. You owe me an apology.”
“For stealing the bomb and preventing Iran from dropping it on Tel Aviv, or for rescuing Kohl Meir?”
She stood, leaving Dewey on the ground. “If you’re not going to apologize, then get out.”
“Do you have anything you haven’t told me?” asked Dewey from the ground.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, some sort of secret thing with the president or some foreign country.”
“Maybe,” she said. “I mean, yes, of course, obviously. I’m the national security advisor.”
“Okay, so you have stuff you haven’t told me,” he concluded. “Yet I should have told you? It seems kind of asymmetrical.”
“You just should have told me, that’s all.”
Dewey stood up. He moved in front of Jessica.
“Let me ask you something,” he said. “What if I promised you something then turned around and broke my promise? Would you like that?”
“No.”
“I gave my word to someone,” said Dewey.
Dewey reached out with his right arm and cupped Jessica’s cheek.
“Do you want someone who’d break his word?” asked Dewey.
She stared at him, then shook her head.
“I don’t know what I want, Dewey. I still feel like you deceived me.”
“I did deceive you,” he said.
“You didn’t deceive Hector.”
“I knew Hector would break the rules. If I’d told you about the bomb, would you have let the operation go the way it did? Or would you have gone to the president?”
She stared at him.
“I would’ve told him.”
“And would he have allowed that sort of operation to move forward? Or would the Pentagon have been brought in?”
Jessica nodded.
“Probably.”
“There’s a war going on out there, Jess,” Dewey continued. “Our enemies don’t have rules. Had I told you about the bomb, it would’ve gotten back to Tehran. They would’ve moved it, hidden it, and then where would we be? Kohl would be dead. They might’ve leveled Tel Aviv by now. You want to stop these maniacs, you have to break the rules.”
Jessica stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Dewey’s back, then pulled him in close.
“Tough guy,” she whispered, looking up at him and smiling.
He stared down, a slight scowl on his face.
“Of course you could make it up to me,” she whispered, kissing his chest and then his shoulder.
“How?” he asked, kissing her back.
“Really?” she whispered in between kisses, their eyes closed.
“Yes,” he mumbled. “Yes, anything.”
Jessica kissed his lips for several more moments. Then, abruptly, she pushed back and stepped away from him. She looked at his waist, smiled mischievously, then moved her eyes up at his surprised face.
“Paint,” she said. “I’ll get you a brush. We only have two more rooms to go.”
Turning, Jessica ran upstairs as Dewey followed.
“That was mean,” he said, chasing after her. “You’re worse than Mahmoud Nava.”
56
MIDDLEBURG, VIRGINIA
A long, somewhat dilapidated pine harvest table sat in the middle of the manicured lawn behind the rambling farmhouse. The moon looked like a tennis ball overhead, bright yellow, and the sky was so clear and filled with stars that the Milky Way appeared as if someone had thrown a splash of confectionary sugar across it in a long, beautiful wisp.
Surrounding the eight-and-a-half-foot table, at each corner, on long sticks, stood lanterns burning a citrusy concoction that kept bugs away and provided soft, peachy light to the table.
The table itself was covered in empty wine bottles and several more that were half full, bottles that were still being passed around. A line of empty beer bottles looked like an assembly line at a brewery. The plates that had, at one point, held big grilled steaks, corn on the cob, and potato salad, sat largely empty, as did the bowls that had been filled with homemade strawberry ice cream.
It was past midnight, and were it not for the more than five hundred acres surrounding the big farm, the raucous laughter from the five people at the table would have guaranteed a visit from the Middleburg police department.
At this particular moment, all eyes were on Dewey, who stood next to the table, a grin on his face, leaning forward, a quarter in his right hand, staring down at a large mug full of beer. Suddenly, Dewey listed to his side. He began to fall over, but Jessica righted him.
“Jesus, you’re in bad shape,” she said. “You need to hit this.”
“I’m fine,” said Dewey, holding the table. “Rob tried to trip me, that’s all.”
“I’m on the other side of the table,” said Tacoma, laughing. “How could I trip you?”
“Don’t ask me,” said Dewey, moving his hand up and down as he prepared to bounce the quarter on the table and try to land it in the beer. “You CIA guys are the tricky ones.”
“Oh, my God,” said Jessica, leaning forward and giggling.
“Come on, Dewey,” said Tacoma. “You haven’t made anyone drink all night.”
Dewey suddenly stopped smiling. He looked at Tacoma. Without looking at the table, his eyes locked on Tacoma’s, he tossed the coin at the table, where it bounced off the wood, lofted into the air, struck the lip of the mug, soared across the top of the mug, struck the opposite lip, bounced even higher into the air, and then came down with a splash into the beer.
Dewey kept his eyes on Tacoma as the crowd erupted in clapping, hoots, and laughter. A big shit-eating grin spread across his lips as he pointed at Tacoma.
“Drink up, killer,” said Dewey.
Tacoma reached forward. The beer in front of him was more than twenty ounces, the big mug having been added on to several times as he and Dewey went through a series of “double or nothings” until Calibrisi finally intervened and declared that this would be the last quarter toss.
Calibrisi, Jessica, and Dewey had all come out that afternoon to the farm. Foxx and Tacoma were both stateside for a few weeks. It was Foxx’s idea to celebrate July 4th at the farm. She and Calibrisi had planned it all. They had probably pictured something slightly more elegant and sophisticated, but somehow the combination of Dewey and the twenty-nine-year-old Tacoma had resulted in a rapidly escalating level of immaturity.
Still, not more than a minute had gone by all night without the sound of boisterous laughter.
Dewey sat back as Tacoma lifted the mug. He put it to his lips and began chugging the beer, slowly draining the entire mug, standing back, then letting out a ferocious belch.
“So I have a question,” said Calibrisi, looking at Jessica, then Dewey. “Can I ask a serious question?”
Calibrisi took a sip of red wine. He was dressed in a madras shirt and jeans. He took his cigar and took a puff.
“Oh, no, Hector,” said Jessica.
“It’s for Dewey,” said Hector.
“Are you going to ask me about my intentions, Hector?” asked Dewey.
“No,” said Calibrisi, shaking his cigar through the air to reinforce the no. “No, that, my friend, is none of my business, even though you should know that Jessica here is like a daughter and also that you would be crazy to not at some point marry her because she is arguably the most beautiful woman in the world, or at least tied for the most beautiful.”
Calibrisi turned and winked at Foxx, who with her long blond hair free, combed back across her shoulders, looked as if she’d just stepped off a Hollywood set.
“But that is none of my business, as I said,” continued Calibrisi.
Dewey rolled his eyes, smiled, and glanced at Jessica.
“Okay,” said Dewey. “Ask your question. Just remember I’m not the sharpest lightbulb in the drawer.”
“Knife in the drawer,” said Jessica, correcting Dewey.
“It was a joke,” said Dewey. “Get it?”
“Oh,” said Jessica, pausing, thinking about it for a second, then laughing. “That actually was funny.”
“Thanks.”
Calibrisi held his wineglass high.
“Okay, Dewey, here it is. What is the greatest threat facing the United States today?”
Dewey nodded and glanced about the table, thinking for a few moments.
“High-fructose corn syrup?” Dewey said.
The table erupted again in laughter. Tacoma hurled the heel of a piece of garlic bread at him, hitting him in the forehead, which he barely noticed.
“Come on,” said Calibrisi. “Can’t you be serious?”
“Um,” said Dewey. “Radical Islam. No question. Number two, the Chinese. Three, the knuckleheads in Congress. That’s it. Those are the big three.”
Calibrisi nodded. He smiled.
Then he shook his head back and forth.
“Wrong,” he said. “Not even close.”
“He went to BC, Hector,” chimed in Tacoma.
“Hey, fuck you,” said Dewey. “BC’s a good school.”
“Yeah, right,” said Tacoma.
“You two could argue over anything,” said Calibrisi. “And by the way, Rob, BC is a good school. My idiot brother went there.”
“Hey, fuck you, too,” said Dewey, glaring at Calibrisi, but with a smile on his face. “Where did you go? Like Mexico City University or something?”
“Hey, watch it.”
“Well, don’t make fun of BC. They have an excellent art history program.”
“Okay, sorry,” said Calibrisi. He paused. “Here’s the answer. The gravest threat facing the United States comes from within, when our best people refuse to get involved. When the men and women we need to fight those threats you mentioned—radical Islam, China—stay on the sidelines. That’s our gravest threat.”
Calibrisi stared at Dewey. He leaned out and patted Dewey on the knee.
Dewey said nothing. He stared at Calibrisi, his arms crossed on his chest in front of him. His smile turned icy.
“I just almost single-handedly stole a nuclear weapon that would have wiped out Tel Aviv, a month after leading a coup d’état in Pakistan,” said Dewey. “And you’re going to tell me I’m staying on the sidelines?”
“So you’re planning on coming back in?” asked Calibrisi.
Dewey was silent.
“So you’re not?” asked Calibrisi. “You’re going to run away to another ranch in Australia? Another oil rig? You’re going to run away and leave the rest of us to fight it all. Is that right? Am I right?”
The table was silent. All eyes were on Dewey and Calibrisi.
“What do you want from me?” asked Dewey finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Your country needs you,” said Calibrisi. “You know it. Everyone at this table knows it. We’re losing these wars. We need you, and not just when you feel like it.”
Dewey stood. The table was silent. He walked toward the field, away from the house. His back was turned for several minutes. Finally, in the dim light from the lanterns, he turned.
“I’ll think about it,” said Dewey.
“We’re at war,” said Calibrisi.
“I said I’d think about it,” he said, candlelight flickering shadows on his face.
“You really think you’d be happy working for Chip Bronkelman?” asked Calibrisi.
“I wouldn’t mind making a little money, Hector.”
“Babysitting his kids,” added Calibrisi. “Taking out the trash.”
Dewey stepped back to the table. He glanced at Tacoma, barely a nod, and yet Tacoma knew what he was asking for. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the quarter, and tossed it to Dewey. Dewey caught it. Then he looked at Calibrisi, halfway down the table. A mischievous smile appeared on Dewey’s lips. He raised his hand slightly, then threw the quarter at the table. It struck the wood, then bounced high up into the air. All eyes followed the silver coin, which reflected the light from the lanterns as it spun in the air. It came down with a splash in Calibrisi’s wineglass. Red wine splattered across the front of Calibrisi’s shirt.
Dewey smiled as he looked at the director of the CIA.
“I guess that settles it,” said Dewey.
EPILOGUE
DAN CARMEL HOTEL
HAIFA, ISRAEL
Ehud Dillman walked through the lobby of the hotel, stopping outside the sliding glass doors. It was just after dawn, and the sun was above the eastern horizon, bright orange above the black of the Mediterranean Sea.
Dillman stared at the rising sun, then glanced suspiciously around. It was habit. It was the habit of all career Mossad agents. There was a reason everyone inside the agency called it the “madhouse.” Dillman had been looking around suspiciously for so long it was second nature, almost like breathing. Still, ever since the rescue of Kohl Meir, and the audacious theft of Iran’s nuclear weapon, Dillman had been particularly nervous. They’d planned a vital operation in the heart of Tehran, Israel’s mortal enemy, right under his nose, and he hadn’t known a damn thing about it. They’d segmented Mossad out of the
OP, the way a surgeon cuts around a vital organ to get at the cancer. It could only mean one thing: they suspected someone high up in Mossad of working for Tehran.
Going to Haifa, and to his favorite hideaway, the Dan, was meant to buy him a few days to think about what to do next. Should he flee to Beijing? He didn’t want to. He didn’t like China. But they’d made him a wealthy man over the past decade and asylum was a promise Minister Bhang, the head of Chinese intelligence, had made to him many times over the years. He didn’t want to leave his homeland, even though he’d betrayed her so many times, in so many ways, over so many years. Dillman knew that if he was caught, he would be executed without even a trial. He’d get a bullet in the forehead, and then only after one of his madhouse colleagues first looked him in the eye and made sure Dillman understood that he’d been caught, tried, and found guilty.
Dillman was dressed in blue tennis shorts with white stripes running along the edge. He had a white shirt on and black and white tennis shoes. In his hand, he held a yellow Babolat racquet.
Dillman began his jog in the hotel’s driveway. He ran down the steep, winding road toward the ocean, not fast, but certainly faster than your typical fifty-one-year-old male.
He jogged through the neighborhood called Carmeliya. He ran down a quiet street, past small stucco and brick homes. He came to a school, then ran across the parking lot. Soon, he would be behind the school, where the public tennis court was. He would hit the ball against the backboard for an hour or so, then jog back to the Dan.
