by Mark Terry
“Fear of flying?” the flight attendant asked. She was a middle-aged blonde, probably in her fifties, and seemed concerned, but not necessarily worried.
“Not exactly,” he said. “I’m fine. Sorry about that.”
“If you need anything, let me know.”
“Sure.”
The heavy-set man sitting next to him slept through the entire thing.
Derek reflected that his panic attacks were more frequent these days. He had been having them for years. The first one had occurred in Afghanistan more than twenty years ago. The typical triggers were starting an operation. Once he was in motion, he was usually fine. Sometimes he thought of them as stage fright. He freaked out, got it out of the way, then he was okay.
But since Syria he had experienced some sort of attack almost every day.
He drifted off again and woke up as they descending into Dulles.
Home was a sixty-foot CrissCraft Constellation moored at Bayman’s Marina near Baltimore. As he was unlocking the door to the cabin, one of his neighbors, a woman with the unlikely name of Misty Rivers, popped up and waved hello. Misty was about sixty years old, looked in her forties, and when she wasn’t on her boat, spent her free time doing CrossFit competitions. She was a retired economist who’d done something esoteric for the Commerce Department and apparently used her education to invest wisely.
“How are you, Misty?”
“Good. Where were you this time?” She knew he worked sometimes for Homeland Security or for the State Department and that he traveled a lot. When she had questioned him about his job, he’d said he was a troubleshooter, which was, in fact, his job title at Homeland. He didn’t really have a job title at State because he was technically on loan to them, although he supposed troubleshooter was as good a title as any.
“Turkey,” he said. “Then Russia to see Lev.”
“How is he?”
“Growing.”
“You’ll have to come over soon and tell me all about it.”
“I’d like that.”
“Dinner tonight?”
Derek hesitated. Misty was older than he was by quite a bit, although she was about the fittest, sexiest sixty-year-old woman he’d ever seen. He also knew that Misty was interested in getting him into the sack. “I just flew in from Moscow and I’m not sure what time zone I’m in. Can I take a rain check?”
“Tomorrow night?” she offered.
No getting out of it, he thought. He plastered on a smile and nodded. “Sure. I’ll bring something. Wine or scotch?”
“Oh, surprise me! See you at seven?”
“I’ll be there,” he said, and let himself into the salon of his cabin cruiser. It smelled stuffy. He opened the windows and went about unpacking.
Getting a load of laundry going, he sipped at a glass of Laphroaig then laid down on the bed in the master bedroom. Thirteen hours later he woke up.
When Derek had been loaned to the State Department, he had been assigned a cubicle in the basement of the Harry S. Truman Department of State building in Foggy Bottom. He shared the cubicle farm with twenty people who were more directly affiliated with the State Department’s Bureau of Intelligence and Research, the intelligence gathering and analysis wing of State. Mostly his duties were to either provide his opinions on various intelligence regarding biological and chemical weapons in a variety of countries, or to actually meet with those countries’ experts to discuss problems. As a result, he could either work on a laptop almost anywhere, or he was in a plane or meeting with people in embassies or coffee shops.
He showed up in his cubicle, which was decorated solely with a photograph of Lev. It had been about four weeks since he’d last been there. The analyst in the next cubicle was a twenty-something Harvard graduate who was apparently an expert of some sort on Central Africa. Derek had spoken with him briefly about Derek’s brother, who was a physician in Congo with Doctors Without Borders. For a moment he couldn’t remember the guy’s name. Then it came back to him: Jerome Tenbon.
He said hello, then pulled up his email. There were a number that were employee related that didn’t interest him much and he flagged to read at his leisure. Joe Moore had sent one first thing in the morning. It indicated he wanted a meeting with Derek at 10:30, followed by a brief meeting with the Secretary afterwards. Derek replied to the affirmative, and went about finishing up the report he had started about his opinions on what should be done about Syria and chemical weapons.
At 10:30 he stepped into the outer office of Joe Moore, the Secretary of State’s Chief of Staff. One of Moore’s staffers said Moore was running behind, but only by a little bit. It was about fifteen minutes, which in Derek’s experience wasn’t bad. He was asked into Moore’s office, which had a large oak desk and chairs and a more comfortable setting of three chairs and a sofa. Every time Derek was in Moore’s office there was a different painting on the wall. He seemed to request them rotated by the week. He thought the current one might be a Renoir. He was convinced the last time it had been a Whistler.
Moore, chunky and bald with a round face and a gray goatee, sat behind the desk peering at the computer through bifocals. “Sorry I’m running behind. Take a seat over there. The Israelis can be such a pain in the ass.” He typed for a few minutes, reread what he had written then hit send.
He came from around the desk and shook Derek’s hand. “How’s the shoulder?”
“Mending.”
“Have you been over to Walter Reed?”
“Not yet. I need to call for a follow-up.”
Moore nodded. “I read the initial report. More to the point, Derek, I read John Hammond’s report.”
Derek waited.
“You were waterboarded.”
“It’s effective,” Derek said.
“I’m sorry. The Secretary doesn’t mean to put you in these situations. Do you want counseling?”
“I’ve been through that before. No thanks.”
Moore nodded again. “Are you ready to continue working on the Nazif Brigade?”
“Sure.”
“Where do you want to start?”
“Guantanamo. His brother is there.”
Moore sighed. “Go ahead and make the arrangements.”
They talked for a few more minutes about details of the reports and of the report he was working on. “Okay, the Secretary’s ready.”
Derek followed Moore into Mandalevo’s office. Mandalevo was on the phone. “Yes, that’s a possibility. In two weeks? Perhaps in three. I know Joe’s working on it … well it’s complicated, dammit. Okay, fine. Maybe in two weeks.”
He hung up the phone and looked at Derek. “How’s the shoulder?”
“Getting better.”
“Get your ass over to Walter Reed and have it checked.”
“Do you and Joe coordinate your opening remarks?”
“Joe knows how I think.”
“Walter Reed’s on my to-do list.”
“Good. That was Melissa Wilson over at the White House. You ever met her?”
Derek shook his head. Moore sighed.
Mandalevo chuckled. “Joe does.”
“She’s one of the security council’s Middle East experts. She’s coordinating the meeting.”
Ah, Derek thought. They’re getting to it. He waited.
“The meeting,” Mandalevo said, “is between myself and representatives from Russia, Syria, Israel and a few other countries to try to get Syria to back off.”
“So we don’t have to get involved militarily,” Moore said.
“Which is where you come in,” Mandalevo said. “I want you there.”
“Why? This is a summit?”
“Not that official. But you’ve been there, you’re an expert on chemical weapons and counterterrorism. I want you there.”
“Fine. Where is it?”
Moore said, “That’s what we’re working on. Possibly Geneva, although it could end up in Israel.”
“I can’t imagine Syria would be too thr
illed about that,” Derek said.
“They aren’t. So Geneva’s more likely. But it’ll be in two or three weeks. So I’ll want your full report on the Nazif Brigade as well as your thoughts on how to solve this problem before then.”
Derek almost rolled his eyes. “Anything else?”
“That’s enough for now,” Mandalevo said.
Sure, Derek thought, heading out. Just create a solution for peace in the Middle East while you’re at it. No problem at all.
Sandra Singh was the State Department’s go-to person for all things Egyptian. As far as he could tell, she wasn’t Egyptian, although he thought maybe Indian. There was a PhD after her name and she had been the person Moore suggested he talk to about Sheikh Hussein Nazif. She was an extraordinarily beautiful woman, Derek thought. She looked to be in her early thirties with smooth caramel skin, shiny black hair she wore long and straight, with high cheekbones and large brown eyes.
“Doctor Stillwater,” she said. “Come in. I read your initial report.” She gestured at his arm in the sling. “How are you feeling?”
“Not too bad,” he said. In truth, by this time of the day his shoulder ached, the pain ran up his neck and caused a tension headache. He was about due for some pain meds.
Dr. Singh had her own office on the second floor and wasn’t stuck in a cubicle. There was even a window, although the view was of C Street NW. “You’re one of those guys,” she said.
“Those guys?”
“Yes. One of those guys who gets blown up and shot and shrugs and says, ‘Oh, all in a day’s work.’”
“It was just a flesh wound,” Derek said with a straight face.
She laughed. He decided he liked her laugh. Unfortunately, he also noted the wedding ring.
“Fine,” she said. “You want to know what I know about Nazif.”
“Yes.”
“Nothing.”
“I was hoping for more than that.”
“I’m sure you were. I have a file on his brother, Abdul, who’s still down at Guantanamo. And I’ll forward it to you. But I don’t know much about him. Abdul is the eldest brother of children, five boys, three girls. Hussein is brother number four. As far as we can tell, the second oldest brother is dead. The other two, we don’t know much of anything about. The sisters have apparently disappeared into traditional Muslim marriages. We know nothing about them. We don’t know much about Hussein.”
“He’s a sadist,” Derek offered.
She shrugged. “He’s in good company. We’re pretty sure he was under Ayman Mohammed Rabie al-Zawahiri’s influence several years ago, say seven years ago. Before the Arab Spring. You know who al-Zawahiri is?”
“Current head of al-Qaeda, wherever he may be.”
“Very good. Both of them were in the Muslim Brotherhood. Al-Zawahiri is older than Nazif, who we think is forty-three. That seem about right?”
“Could be. He had a son who was twelve or thirteen. Al-Zawahiri was a physician. What’s Nazif’s background?”
“Cairo University. Bachelor’s degree in computers, although it’s not clear if he actually finished. He discovered terrorism.”
“The title of sheikh mean anything?”
“In his case it doesn’t seem to be a family title. More likely something he gave himself when he formed the brigade.”
“How long’s the brigade been around?”
“First signs were five years ago. They were involved in some attacks in Somalia, working with al-Shabaab. Then, you may remember, Kenya sent 4,000 troops into Somalia to destroy al-Shabaab. Seems likely the brigade got out in time, and then was involved with a couple attacks in Kenya. Then they disappeared.”
“Until now.”
“Until now, Doctor. They’ve gone from Africa to the Middle East. Of course, Syria’s attracted all the bright stars of the world, hasn’t it? When you were in Syria did you hear anything about a group calling itself ISIS?”
“No.”
“How about Khorasan?”
“No. Who are they?”
She sighed. “Just a couple other terror splinter groups we’re hearing rumors about. Like the Black Brothers and the Nazif Brigade.”
They talked for a while longer then Derek collected the file and went home.
17
Derek picked up two bottles of wine, one white, one red, to take with dinner with Misty. As he walked toward The Salacious Sally, a voice called out his name. Startled, spinning and raising his hands defensively, he dropped the bag carrying the two bottles. In a flash he recovered, snagging the bag with one hand just before it crashed to the pavement.
The caller was a friend of his, Jim Johnston. Climbing out of his Dodge pickup truck, Johnston strode over. “Good catch.”
“Startled me.” They shook hands, Derek’s left to Johnston’s right. “How are you, Jim?”
“Pretty good. I was hoping I would catch you. I heard you just got back to the states.”
“Uh-huh. Heard that, did you?” Johnston looked thinner than he had the last time he’d seen him, which was eight months earlier. The occasion then had been the funeral for Johnston’s wife, who had died of complications related to early-onset Alzheimer’s. Crew-cut gray hair, craggy face, broad shoulders, tall, Johnston looked like what he was: a retired general. He had been a three-star general and later the Secretary of Homeland Security.
“Don’t act so paranoid. You’ve been out of touch for a couple weeks and I wanted to get hold of you.”
“Come on then. How have you been doing since the funeral?”
“Bored out of my mind.”
Derek laughed. He was much more used to seeing Jim in a uniform or a suit. Today he wore khakis and a denim shirt with hiking boots. He still looked like he was wearing a uniform. “I never figured retirement would suit you.”
He walked along the dock and onto his boat. Unlocking the cabin, he put the wine in the refrigerator and held out a bottle of Sam Adams to Johnston. Taking one for himself, he gestured to the salon. “Is this purely a social call?”
“Not really. Where have you been?”
“Syria.”
“Ah, shit. Why would you want to go there?”
Taking a long swallow of the beer, he said, “I didn’t want to go and I’m sorry I did.”
“Bad? What’s wrong with your shoulder?”
Derek told him the whole story. He could, because Johnston had a higher security clearance then he did. Johnston was shaking his head sympathetically long before he finished. “Do you think you’re getting too old for that kind of field work?”
“Well, Hammond’s younger than I am and got beat up a lot worse. I’m unwilling to say I’m getting too old, but I’ve got to tell you, this kind of shit is getting old. I don’t recover like I used to.”
“You’re lucky you got to recover at all.”
“Yeah. And for what? We already knew Syria had sarin gas. I didn’t even prove they used it. I just proved—sort of—that the rebels are splintered, that they want to use chemical weapons, and we don’t want to be on their side any more than we want to be on Assad’s side. News Flash!—we knew that going in.”
“Would you be interested in a situation where you could pick and choose the jobs?”
Leaning back, Derek said, “I knew you had something in mind.”
“I don’t want to go into politics. The party’s interested in my running for senate or maybe even the presidency.”
“Oh dear God.”
Johnston laughed. “I’ve never run for office and have no interest in that. You know, since I retired as Secretary I was on the board of a couple companies and I consulted and I lectured. And I took care of Melissa. I could keep doing all that.”
“But … ”
“But I don’t want to. I want to form a company.”
“Let me guess. You’re going to start a restaurant. Jimmy’s Home Cooking.”
“International security and intelligence, dumbass.”
“Going to be the next Blac
kwater?”
“Too big an operation. I don’t want to hire eight hundred mercenaries—”
“Your bias is showing.”
“Yeah, well, military contractors are a necessary evil, but you know my feeling about that. The fact is, international business and NGOs have a need for trained security specialists, for investigations and for professional threat assessments. I want to focus on investigations, intelligence and threat assessments. That way we keep it small and focus on brains, not weapons.”
Derek had done some consulting during breaks between the CIA, the UN, teaching at Annapolis, and joining Homeland Security. “So you’re starting a company and you want to hire me for something. Let me think about it.”
Johnston shook his head. “No, Derek. That’s not it. I don’t want to hire you. I want you as a partner. I want you to help me run this thing. I’ve got all the contacts in business and government. I’ve got all the international exposure and the name. I’d run the business end. You’d run operations.”
Derek blinked. He was thinking of a response when he felt a vibration on the boat and knew somebody had stepped aboard. A voice from the above called out, “Yoo-hoo! You in here, Derek?” It was Misty Rivers.
“In here,” he called out.
Misty slipped into the salon. She wore tiny little black workout shorts and a sports bra and was glistening with sweat. “Oh, I thought you had someone in here.” She took in Jim Johnston’s appearance and smiled. “Hi.”
Johnston had perked up significantly when she stepped in. Derek didn’t blame him. Misty looked quite yummy and she was closer in age to Johnston than she was to Derek. He made introductions.
“You look familiar,” she said.
“Former Secretary of Homeland Security,” Derek said.
“That’s it! Nice to meet you.” They shook hands, Jim on his feet.
“My pleasure.”
Turning to Derek, Misty said, “I got delayed at the box. Give me an hour to take a shower?”
