the answer to the question: Why did they leave me?
Why did this happen to me? What did I do to deserve this?
The unsung chorus of the orphan.
Within the hell that is the sole real thing that an orphan possesses, misery pools like molten lava and eventually hardens into rock, then steel. It bonds orphan to orphan, and it can never be broken.
“Do you remember Klimsov?” asked Cloud, returning from his memory, looking at the chess game on the computer screen before Sascha.
“Yes. What about him?”
“He was such a crappy chess player,” said Cloud, studying the chessboard. It was his move.
“I never played him,” said Sascha.
“I did. He sucked.”
“Why did you think of that old bastard?”
“Because I was wondering if he taught you how to play,” said Cloud.
He leaned forward and typed into the keyboard.
“Checkmate, Sascha. Now go fuck yourself.”
7
ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE
CAMP SPRINGS, MARYLAND
A white, unmarked Gulfstream V touched down at precisely two o’clock on a cloud-covered, brutally humid afternoon. Dewey followed Bond down the jet’s stairs as, in the distance, a black Chevy Suburban sped across the tarmac.
“Speak of the devil,” muttered Bond.
“Who is it?”
“Gant.”
The Suburban made a beeline for Dewey and Bond, stopping directly in front of them. Dewey and Bond stood still. Both men were still dressed in tactical gear.
The back window opened. Sitting in the backseat was Gant. He had a stern look on his face.
“How did Iguala go?” he asked, looking at Bond.
“Fine.”
“What happened?” asked Gant, his eyes scanning Dewey from head to toe as he waited for Bond to answer.
“We achieved the objective of the mission,” said Bond. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re both sort of tired.”
“Take me through the minute-by-minute,” said Gant.
“Sir, it’ll be in the brief.”
“Right now.”
Bond took a deep breath, trying to control his temper. He nodded at Dewey and they started to walk away.
The back door of the SUV suddenly opened. Gant stepped out and caught up to Dewey and Bond, stopping directly in their path.
Gant crossed his arms, fuming. His attention shot to Dewey, again looking him up and down. Dewey didn’t react. In fact, he didn’t look back, choosing instead to simply stare off into the distance, ignoring Gant.
“I want the first debrief,” said Gant, pointing at Bond.
Bond looked at Gant’s finger, pointing at him.
“No disrespect, but I report to Bill Polk,” said Bond, barely above a whisper. “He gets the brief, not you.”
8
GEORGETOWN
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Dewey sat at the bottom of a winding, carpeted stairway, on the first floor of an old, beautiful, impeccably designed town house, drinking a beer. It was his fourth beer. On second thought, it might have been his fifth. He was leaning against the wall, legs crossed in front of him, still dressed in tactical gear.
Dewey owned the town house now. Jessica had left it to him. It was the first time he’d stepped inside it since her death.
Next to him was a case of beer, five bottles missing. Two six-packs were Bud Light, two were Yuengling, a slightly heavier concoction. Dewey drank a Bud in between Yuenglings. He looked at Bud Light as being the equivalent to drinking water, a way to make sure he didn’t get too drunk. Of course, the bottle of Jack Daniel’s still inside the paper bag would soon make that whole thought process pointless.
His eyes were glued to the wall, at a large oil painting of a green iris. It was Jessica’s favorite painting. Dewey wasn’t thinking about the painting, however. He wasn’t thinking about Jessica either. He wasn’t even thinking about Gant, though he knew he’d likely come to Andrews for the sole purpose of eyeballing Dewey.
Dewey was thinking about Mexico.
He could count on one hand the number of operational failures he’d experienced. Invariably, they had been failures due to circumstances beyond his control. All
Why did this happen to me? What did I do to deserve this?
The unsung chorus of the orphan.
Within the hell that is the sole real thing that an orphan possesses, misery pools like molten lava and eventually hardens into rock, then steel. It bonds orphan to orphan, and it can never be broken.
“Do you remember Klimsov?” asked Cloud, returning from his memory, looking at the chess game on the computer screen before Sascha.
“Yes. What about him?”
“He was such a crappy chess player,” said Cloud, studying the chessboard. It was his move.
“I never played him,” said Sascha.
“I did. He sucked.”
“Why did you think of that old bastard?”
“Because I was wondering if he taught you how to play,” said Cloud.
He leaned forward and typed into the keyboard.
“Checkmate, Sascha. Now go fuck yourself.”
7
ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE
CAMP SPRINGS, MARYLAND
A white, unmarked Gulfstream V touched down at precisely two o’clock on a cloud-covered, brutally humid afternoon. Dewey followed Bond down the jet’s stairs as, in the distance, a black Chevy Suburban sped across the tarmac.
“Speak of the devil,” muttered Bond.
“Who is it?”
“Gant.”
The Suburban made a beeline for Dewey and Bond, stopping directly in front of them. Dewey and Bond stood still. Both men were still dressed in tactical gear.
The back window opened. Sitting in the backseat was Gant. He had a stern look on his face.
“How did Iguala go?” he asked, looking at Bond.
“Fine.”
“What happened?” asked Gant, his eyes scanning Dewey from head to toe as he waited for Bond to answer.
“We achieved the objective of the mission,” said Bond. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re both sort of tired.”
“Take me through the minute-by-minute,” said Gant.
“Sir, it’ll be in the brief.”
“Right now.”
Bond took a deep breath, trying to control his temper. He nodded at Dewey and they started to walk away.
The back door of the SUV suddenly opened. Gant stepped out and caught up to Dewey and Bond, stopping directly in their path.
Gant crossed his arms, fuming. His attention shot to Dewey, again looking him up and down. Dewey didn’t react. In fact, he didn’t look back, choosing instead to simply stare off into the distance, ignoring Gant.
“I want the first debrief,” said Gant, pointing at Bond.
Bond looked at Gant’s finger, pointing at him.
“No disrespect, but I report to Bill Polk,” said Bond, barely above a whisper. “He gets the brief, not you.”
8
GEORGETOWN
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Dewey sat at the bottom of a winding, carpeted stairway, on the first floor of an old, beautiful, impeccably designed town house, drinking a beer. It was his fourth beer. On second thought, it might have been his fifth. He was leaning against the wall, legs crossed in front of him, still dressed in tactical gear.
Dewey owned the town house now. Jessica had left it to him. It was the first time he’d stepped inside it since her death.
Next to him was a case of beer, five bottles missing. Two six-packs were Bud Light, two were Yuengling, a slightly heavier concoction. Dewey drank a Bud in between Yuenglings. He looked at Bud Light as being the equivalent to drinking water, a way to make sure he didn’t get too drunk. Of course, the bottle of Jack Daniel’s still inside the paper bag would soon make that whole thought process pointless.
His eyes were glued to the wall, at a large oil painting of a green iris. It was Jessica’s favorite painting. Dewey wasn’t thinking about the painting, however. He wasn’t thinking about Jessica either. He wasn’t even thinking about Gant, though he knew he’d likely come to Andrews for the sole purpose of eyeballing Dewey.
Dewey was thinking about Mexico.
He could count on one hand the number of operational failures he’d experienced. Invariably, they had been failures due to circumstances beyond his control. All
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