The Last Refuge (42 page)

“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.

As he came around the corner of the schoolhouse, he was surprised to find somebody already at the court hitting tennis balls against the backboard. Dillman thought about turning around. It was the only tennis court he knew of in Haifa, but he didn’t feel like waiting God knows how long for the man to be done.

Dillman walked over to the court. The player was young, dressed in red sweatpants and a long-sleeve gray T-shirt. He wore a yellow baseball cap with a Maccabi Haifa logo on it, and mirrored sunglasses. He was bearded and scraggly-looking.

“How long will you be, my friend?” asked Dillman in Hebrew.

The player turned, raising his hands.

“I only just arrived,” he said, slightly annoyed.

“No worries,” said Dillman. “I’ll go for a jog instead.”

The man tossed the ball up and swatted it toward the backboard as Dillman started to walk away. Dillman listened to the serial thwacking of string against ball; he could tell by the rhythm and pace that the player was decent. A tiny bit of jealousy ran through him.
Oh well, another time,
he thought.

As Dillman came to the corner of the schoolhouse, he heard a whistle. He looked back.

The tennis player waved him over.

“Would you like to hit some?” the man yelled from the court.

Dillman shrugged.
Why not,
he thought.

“Sure!” he yelled back.

They rallied for the better part of an hour. At first, they hit the ball back and forth, without keeping score, but that grew boring. It was Dillman who suggested they play a set. The stranger was good. His strokes were a little unnatural, as if he’d picked up the sport later in life, but he was fast and was able to get to everything, despite a slight limp. The man beat Dillman 6–3 in the first set. Dillman took the second 7–5. Then, in the third, the bearded stranger jumped to a 4–0 lead.

In the middle of the fifth game, they both heard the stranger’s string break, after a particularly nice backhand he’d ripped up the line out of Dillman’s reach.

Dillman welcomed the interruption. Not only was the younger man thoroughly beating the crap out of him, but he was sweating like a pig and hungry for breakfast.

“That’s too bad,” said Dillman, breathing heavily as he ran to the net. “I guess that means I win, yes?”

Dillman had been kidding, an attempt at a joke, but the stranger, who still wore his mirrored sunglasses and hat, either didn’t hear the joke, or, if he had, didn’t think it was funny.

“I have another racquet,” the man said, walking to the bench at the side of the court. Other than saying the score, it was the first thing the young man had said the entire match.

He unzipped his racquet bag.

Dillman walked toward him as he reached into his bag.

“Are you from the area?” asked Dillman, puffing hard as he came up behind the stranger.

The man didn’t turn, keeping his back to Dillman as he searched inside his bag.

“No,” he answered. “Tel Aviv.”

“Are you a student?” asked Dillman. “Do you play at the university? You’re very good.”

The stranger turned. His brown hair was thick and long and it cascaded out from under the hat. He reached up and removed his sunglasses. His eyes were dark brown, almost black. Something in the way he looked at him triggered a memory in Dillman. The nose was sharp and slightly askew, as if it had once been broken.

“No, I’m not a student,” he said. “I’m in the military.”

“Oh,” said Dillman “What unit?”

“Shayetet Thirteen.”

Dillman stared into the stranger’s eyes. Then, slowly, Dillman’s eyes drifted down to the man’s right hand. A trick of the mind perhaps; he had thought the stranger had pulled a second tennis racquet from the bag. He hadn’t really looked. But this was no tennis racquet. Instead of a graphite shaft there was a thick piece of wood; instead of a racquet head and strings, there was the dull steel of a large axe, the kind of axe you could chop down a tree with.

“Your second serve needs some work,” said Meir. “Other than that, you’re actually not bad.”

Dillman turned to run, but Meir swung the axe, catching him in the side of the torso, ripping a deep gash into Dillman’s side just below the ribs. Dillman fell to the ground, with the axe stuck in his side, gasping for air. The pain was so severe he couldn’t scream, as his mouth went agape, his eyes bulged, and blood abruptly filled his mouth, then stained his stomach, chest, and side. His white shirt was quickly ruined in crimson.

“Was it Bhutta?” moaned Dillman. “Did he give me up?”

Meir ignored him, staring from above.

Dillman yanked at the axe handle, trying in vain to pull it out.

Calmly, Meir knelt next to him.

“You like my axe?” asked Meir, smiling at him. “It’s for chopping the heads off traitors.”