“You gotta stop having a quick one at lunch, Billy boy.”
“Just find out where the call came from and call France to find out where they found Peter’s wallet and my card.”
“Oh crap!”
“Exactly.”
When Joey left. Bill clicked the address book icon on his desktop, found the number he was looking for, and dialed.
“Johnny, it’s Bill Hiccock. How you doing? Listen, I wanted to ask you something. Your brother, Peter; did he live with anyone in Paris? Could ya? Great; let me give you my cell number.”
Cheryl came in and waited for Bill to finish.
“It’s probably nothing, but I just had a crazy thought. Later, Johnny.”
Bill ended the call and looked up.
“Joey called and said ‘14 Rue de Roosevelt, St Germain.’ Isn’t that Paris?”
“Yes it is. Get me that CIA guy at our embassy in Paris.”
“Does Joey know who the CIA guy you are talking about is?”
“Yes. I’m sorry Cheryl… of course, you wouldn’t know who that is. Have Joey call, and request to have surveillance of that address.”
“Who are they looking for?”
“A dead guy.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Bridgestone and Ross were active and fanning out from the source of the bombs, the refinery in Egypt. In a widening circle from the Nursery, they were trying to uncover any information about where the bomb was and where it might be headed.
The best lead they had ferreted out yet was a truck driver who they now believed delivered the 24 nukes to the facility two weeks before the raid. They based that belief on information provided by the long trail of broken bones and soiled undergarments of those who needed some persuasion to cooperate with them.
They were sitting in an old Range Rover at a truck stop along the desert road from Syria waiting for the truck driver.
“Ever hear of this guy Hiccock before?” Bridgestone asked.
“No, but he’s got enough juice to get us out of jail free. That’s all I need to know.”
“So we are part of what now?”
“Quarterback ops, or something like that.”
“Ah, now I get it.”
“Wanna share?” Ross hated when Bridge knew something he didn’t.
“Bill Hiccock! Played for Stanford! Now he’s like the science guy for Mitchell. He sprang us!”
“Like to meet him someday. Thank him face to face.”
“You and I should live so long.”
“Is that the truck?”
“Plate number BH7234, roger.”
They watched as the truck pulled into the rest stop. The driver, one Jamal al Najime, stepped from his cab carrying his thermos and made a beeline for the restroom. Ten seconds later, Ross climbed into the cab to look for any records or clues to his affiliation. Bridgestone positioned himself outside the truck stop’s men’s room. Not being listed in the Michelin Guide meant this roadside oasis essentially had holes in the ground for commode facilities and since ventilation was still two centuries off, the odor was very distinct.
When Jamal emerged, Ross watched him walk to the counter, place his thermos on it, and sit. Ross entered and went straight to the men’s room. Bridge followed. They checked that they were the only ones in there and spoke English in low tones.
“You take him, Bridge. He’s from the south; you’ll do better with him.”
“What else did you find?”
“He’s not real religious. He is on his way to Cairo out of Damascus with a load of televisions in the back. He’s got two daughters and one son. He takes pills for high blood pressure. He’s had riders in the shotgun seat. I found prescription glasses in the passenger door pocket. He doesn’t wear them and I don’t see contacts. He’s studying up on chicken farming.”
“Stay close; I’m going to try and jump a ride with him.”
“Got your back, Master Sergeant.”
Bridgestone sat next to Jamal and ordered strong coffee. Jamal ordered and ate like a truck driver. Bridgestone started small talk in Arabic.
“Sandstorm’s coming this afternoon.”
“They always make it sound worse than it is.” The driver grunted as he tore off another piece of flatbread.
“Where are you headed?”
“Cairo. Got four hours to make it.”
“You have to go pretty fast, and then the storm.”
“I’ve done it in three-and-a-half during worse.”
“May Allah guide your trip.”
“Thank you and a blessing upon you. Do you drive?”
“I drove before I lost my truck. I’m hoping to get some relief work in Cairo. Trying to make my way there now.”
“How are you going?”
“On the charity of others. Allah has seen fit to have gotten me this far.”
“Where did you start?”
“Lake Nasser, early yesterday.”
“You made good time for someone without a truck.”
“Some of the drivers still know me, so I was able to beg a few rides.”
The trucker dabbed the bread in oil. “Ever drive Syria?”
“Sudan, Jordan, Sinai, Syria, yes, on many occasions,” Bridge said in perfect desert cadence. “Some a little less legal than others, but it’s not my place to speak.”
“I am afraid it’s the only way to make a good living these days.”
“Praise Allah. But they do pay like the devil.”
That made Jamal laugh. “Shame on you, brother. You are going to need much luck in Cairo. Don’t get Allah on your bad side.”
“My friend, if I am not already on his list, it is purely an administrative oversight.” Bridge stressed the vowels of the last two words in a manner consistent with…
“You are from the desert?”
“Yes, south of Al Kharijah. You are quite astute.”
“When you drive as far as me, you get so that you can tell people.”
“My father was a herder. I hated it. I started driving at 14, got my own truck at 22, but it seems like I have no head for business.”
“No, it’s not your head, it’s the business. It’s madness! Rules, regulations, fuel, and insurance; they have many ways to put you out of business, but never help you stay in business.”
“I was talking with someone who knew a Minister, to get a government contract. I thought I would be set for life. But he wanted too much money and I wasn’t able to pay for the introduction.”
“Camel’s asses all. There is a special place in hell for people like that.”
“If I can’t find another job. I don’t know what I’ll do.” Bridge laid that out there like a big fat softball pitch on a Sunday afternoon.
“You still know this Minister?”
Swing and a hit. “My friend does.”
“It might be interesting to speak with him; how much did he want?”
“Ten thousand pounds, then five percent of each load. But you get 100 trips within the Misr, guaranteed a year.” Bridge used the local term for Egypt.
“Interesting.”
“When I get to Cairo, if I get to Cairo, I can look him up if you are interested.”
“Come with me; I have a seat.”
“Why, thank you, brother. That is most kind.”
The waiter returned with a full thermos for Jamal and a check.
“Here, let me get that, er… the coffee I mean,” Bridgestone said sheepishly as he laid down enough coins to only pay for the refill of the thermos.
“There’s no need.”
“Please, to cover the fuel.”
“Okay. What is your name?”
“Mohammad Ali, and please no jokes.”
“You must have heard them all.”
“Regrettably so.”
Ross watched as Bridge climbed onto Jamal’s rig. He started up the Rover and tailed them from a safe distance behind.