“Sorry, Dewey, I’ve got to get back to the War Room.” She turned to leave, then stopped. “How are things with Nancy?”
He turned to her, puzzled. “Why do you ask?”
“You’re my friend, Dewey. I care about you.”
“It’s good,” he said. “It’s a good relationship. I mean, it’s a good sexual relationship.” He scratched at his unruly brown hair.
“Is that all it is?”
“Yes. She doesn’t like me. She just uses me for sex.”
“How do you know she doesn’t like you?”
“I’ve spent my entire life noticing how people don’t like me. I can tell. She just wants sex.”
“Is that what you want?”
“You know how hard it is for me,” he said. “Now I have a beautiful woman who uses me for sex. It’s a perfect relationship.”
“Don’t you wish it was more? You’re a good guy. You could meet someone else.”
“Come on. Women just don’t like me.” He rubbed his hand against his eyelids. “I’m lonely. Nobody wants to come down here, and you only visit when you need something.”
She started to protest, but he raised his hand. “I don’t mind. But if it wasn’t for you and Nancy, I wouldn’t have any visitors. Well, and the Old Man, of course.”
“The Old Man? Smith visits you?”
He scanned her face. “I thought I’d mentioned that before. It started after they caught me downloading all that porn. The Old Man came down and talked to me, said it was okay, not to do it again, that I wasn’t in any trouble. He told me to focus on some special projects that Nancy would send my way. That’s how I met her.”
“You’ve been doing special projects for Fulton Smith and you never told me?”
His eyes widened. “Oh wait, I wasn’t supposed to mention it. It’s highly confidential.” His eyes darted around his office. “Promise you won’t tell?”
“I won’t,” she promised.
“You’re the best. I’ll work on your camera problem.” He turned back to his monitor and began pounding away at the keyboard.
“Thanks, Dewey.” Dewey didn’t acknowledge her, or even notice as she left, closing the steel door gently behind her.
Dewey was a genius, but when he became involved in a problem, the rest of the world faded away. His attention would wander while trying to do the most mundane tasks, but when he was fully engaged, there was very little he couldn’t learn or accomplish. She knew he would resolve the issue of the missing video footage, but she also wondered what “special projects” the Old Man had him working on.
The Gulfstream raced over the northern Atlantic. As they approached Ramstein Air Force Base to refuel, Deion noticed John looking out the window at the newly-rebuilt entrance to the Landstuhl Regional Medical Center. It seemed a lifetime ago when the OTM had raced to stop terrorists from blowing up the hospital with an improvised truck bomb. In the ensuing two years the repairs had returned the facility to its former pristine state, but the repairs couldn’t shake his memory of the complete devastation, the dead and dying, the bodies buried under dusty chunks of concrete.
Deion searched John’s face for any sign that his mental state had changed. He liked the young man, but liking him was a far cry from trusting him.
I just wish Wise would put a tighter leash on him.
After refueling, Greg turned the Gulfstream southeast toward Turkey. They landed in darkness at Incirlik Air Base, the lingering heat finally giving way to a cool breeze that was almost pleasant, as they packed their gear into a pair of Toyota Helixes. Deion had worked out the logistics with Eric before they left, and they crossed the Syrian border early in the morning, the border guards requiring only a small bribe before waving them through.
They entered the city of Aleppo just before dawn. John kept glancing out the window.
“What?” Deion asked, driving through the narrow streets, Taylor and Mark following close behind in the second Toyota.
John pointed up. “What are those?” he said pointing to the dark semi-circular shadows on the buildings around them.
“Satellite dishes,” Deion said, looking up at rooftops.
The sun was just peeking over the horizon when they pulled in front of the dusty warehouse. He honked the horn three times in rapid succession and the wooden door rumbled open. A man with a ball cap and sunglasses waved them in.
They pulled the trucks through the small opening and the man shut the door behind them, plunging the warehouse into darkness. They waited patiently until the man with the bushy brown beard and scraggly hair knocked on the window. “Clear.”
They got out and the man shook his hand. “I’m Morse.”
Deion squinted in the darkness. Sean “Flipper” Morse was plainly built, dressed in local street garb, but Deion knew that Morse was Redman’s second in command and another friend to Eric Wise.
Taylor and Mark joined them, slapping Morse on the back. “Been a long time, Flipper.”
Morse grinned. “Gentleman, the pleasure is yours. Can’t believe you’re working for Steeljaw.”
Deion waited patiently while the men spent several minutes catching up. As their conversation and good-natured ribbing came to an end, he said, “What’s the sitrep?”
Morse shrugged. “Redman has eyes on your target. It’s almost a mile from here.”
There was a crackling from his earpiece. “Took your sweet time getting there,” Nancy said, loud and clear from Turkey.
Deion agreed. It was time to move. “How soon can we get there?” he asked Morse.
“Grab your gear,” Morse said. “I’ll drive.”
They loaded their gear into a Mercedes van. “Where’d you get this?” Deion asked.
“Borrowed it from a CIA facility.”
“You do know I’m CIA?”
“Relax,” Morse said. “I didn’t steal it, just borrowed. Besides, the CIA ought to be more careful with their equipment.”
Taylor, Mark, and John all smiled, but he frowned. “Seriously, you better return it when this is over.”
Morse laughed, and it echoed in the warehouse. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. Things are little more fluid here. You got to roll with the punches. Now, you better get in the back.”
Deion climbed in the back of the Mercedes. The service panel separating the cabin from the rear discouraged bystanders from noticing his team as Morse navigated the streets of Aleppo. It also inhibited the cabin’s AC from reaching the back. By the time they arrived, they were sweating profusely in the morning heat.
The streets of Syria were a uniform tan and white stone, with brightly-colored awnings differentiating individual apartments. Morse parked the van in a narrow alley, then got out and a few moments later knocked against the van’s rear door, signaling the coast was clear for them to step out.
The van was parked behind another, blocking the view from the street. Morse ushered them through an alleyway door, up two flights of stairs, and down a dark hallway where he knocked on a door, a quick pattern that elicited a soft voice from within.
“Clear,” the voice said.
Morse opened the door and hustled them inside. The only occupant, a sturdily-built man with shaggy black hair and thick beard, glanced up from his laptop to greet them, pausing to spit a thick squirt of tobacco juice into a paper cup. “Freeman,” Burton acknowledged. “Glad you could join the party.”
Deion smiled. “I guess Steeljaw doesn’t need me here,” he said. “He’s got Redman on the job.”
Bill “Redman” Burton smiled lazily. “And lookee lookee, you brought the idiot squad with you.”