The Last Refuge (7 page)

Dewey was at least half a foot taller than Bronkelman. The hedge fund manager was five-six or -seven, but he weighed at least three hundred pounds. He was bald, with glasses, and had a big, infectious smile.

Bronkelman sat back down on one of the leather sofas. Dewey sat across from him.

“You don’t look like the kind of guy who likes to wear ties, Dewey,” said Bronkelman.

“I’m not,” said Dewey.

“Good. I don’t let any of my people wear them. Honestly, I don’t even understand what the fucking point is. Originally ties were there to catch food before it hit your shirt. Now God forbid you spill something on them. Cost you two hundred bucks.”

Dewey grinned, but said nothing.

“So you’re from Maine, went to BC, played football there, then served in the army, Rangers, Delta,” said Bronkelman.

“Yes,” said Dewey.

“Jessica tells me you’ve done a bunch of other things but that she wasn’t at liberty to divulge any of it, for national security reasons.”

Dewey nodded.

“She also said you didn’t talk much.” Bronkelman smiled. “That’s okay. I talk enough for two people. So here’s the deal. I need someone to oversee security, mainly for myself and my family. Last March, my daughter was kidnapped while we were in St. Bart’s. It cost me several million dollars to get her back. I don’t care about the money, but if I had lost Rebecca it would’ve killed me.”

“Who did it?”

“We still don’t know. The exchange was arranged by someone at the CIA. It’s how I met Jessica. She’s the one who recommended I get someone to help out.”

“I understand. Do you mind if I ask what it is you do?”

“I’m an investor. Mainly currency. I’m what they call a global macro investor. I take what are hopefully educated guesses about the direction a specific country’s currency is going to go in relationship to the dollar. We manage approximately thirty billion dollars. Insurance companies, endowments, wealthy individuals. Almost half of it’s my own money; clients like when you put your money where your mouth is.”

Dewey smiled.

“Look, Jessica told me a little bit about you. I know you view this as a lousy job, a compromise, settling. And the fact is, most of the time, you’re going to be bored out of your skull. But, I don’t want the kind of person who wants this job. That guy’s a schmuck. I want someone who does view it as boring, as settling, because then I know I’ve got the right guy.”

“I’m flattered you’d consider me,” said Dewey. “I don’t see it as settling, I’m just not sure I’m the right person.”

Bronkelman leaned forward. He was an odd-looking man with a slightly nasally voice, and he spoke very rapidly; Dewey liked him.

“Here’s the deal, and you think about it,” said Bronkelman. “Take your time. Your base pay will be a million dollars, and I’ll give you a nice bonus. You’ll have access to my plane when we’re not using it. I’ll give you a budget so you can hire a few people so you don’t have to be a constant babysitter.”

“That’s very generous,” said Dewey.

“Something else,” said Bronkelman. “We’d be spending a bunch of time together. I’ll teach you how to trade. Maybe you’re good at it. My best currency trader is a guy who didn’t even graduate from college. He played online poker from the time he was fifteen until I hired him. I’ll show you the ropes, teach you another skill. And you can teach me a thing or two, I’m sure.”

Dewey grinned.

“You want some references?”

“No. Already got ’em. Jessica’s the best reference I know. I can tell you’re my kind of guy. I’ve never been wrong, at least about people. You seem like the kind of guy who’s had some interesting shit happen to you. I’ll take that. I always tell people, the best time to buy something is when it’s undervalued. And my best traders are invariably the ones who’ve lost a fortune or two.”

Bronkelman stood, as did Dewey. Bronkelman extended his hand and they shook hands.

“Take your time,” said Bronkelman. “You know, this job would be easy for you. You’d make good money. And I’m a good boss. My people like me because I’m fair and I’m loyal. I want you here. So let me know.”

*   *   *

Dewey took the Delta shuttle from Logan to LaGuardia Airport outside of New York City. By the time the plane touched down, it was nearly 5:00
P.M.

Dewey was to meet Meir in the lobby of the Mark Hotel at six.

Dewey had liked Bronkelman, more than he ever would have predicted. He found him to be straightforward, kind, and not at all corporate or stuffy. Clearly, Bronkelman was also brilliant. Interestingly, what intrigued Dewey the most wasn’t the money, but rather the chance to learn something new.

So, he’d take a day or two and think about it. In the meantime, he’d get together with Kohl Meir and see what he wanted. Maybe he’d head down to Washington and see Jessica. He’d call Bronkelman from there and say yes.

Dewey stepped off the plane, clutching a leather weekend bag. He walked quickly through the terminal. Outside, he made a beeline for the taxi line.

As he did, he heard a loud whistle. Turning, Dewey saw a black sedan with darkened windows idling in front of the taxi stand. The back window was halfway down. He recognized the face of Hector Calibrisi.

Dewey stepped toward the Town Car.

“Hi, Dewey,” said Calibrisi. “Get in.”

Dewey climbed in the front seat. A young agent was at the wheel; in back sat Calibrisi and Jessica.

He stared for several moments at her. She returned his look with a steady, blank stare.

“Hi, Dewey,” said Jessica.

“Hi, Jess,” said Dewey. “I’m sorry about the president.”

“Thanks,” she said.

Dewey glanced at the driver.

“Can you take me to the Mark Hotel?” said Dewey. “Seventy-seventh and Madison.”

The CIA agent didn’t move, except for his eyes, which glanced into the mirror at Calibrisi.

“He’s not there,” said Calibrisi from the backseat, running his hand through his mop of black hair. “Iranian agents abducted him. It happened day before yesterday.”

Dewey’s eyes shot from the driver to Calibrisi.

“He was coming to see you,” said Calibrisi. “Do you know why?”

“I have no idea,” said Dewey.

“How was it arranged?” asked Calibrisi.

“He called me. He said he needed my help on something. He wouldn’t tell me what.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell you?”

“How the hell should I know? He called. We spoke for about a minute. He said he needed my help. He wanted to discuss it in person. That’s it.”

He looked back at Jessica and Calibrisi, who stared at him in silence.

“Where did they take him?” asked Dewey.

Calibrisi glanced at Jessica.

“Why are you asking?” asked Calibrisi.

“Hector, where the fuck did they take him?”

Calibrisi shook his head.

“Dewey, the president doesn’t want us fucking around in Iran right now. Not with the Iranians about to stop their nuclear weapons program. Dellenbaugh doesn’t want to risk it. That’s why we flew up here.”

“God forbid we offend the fucking Iranians,” said Dewey.

“More important than the agreement is the fact that rescuing Kohl is a suicide mission,” said Calibrisi. “He’s in Evin Prison. No one gets out of Evin once they’re inside. Not Delta, not SEAL, not Special Operations Group. Not even you.”

“Is Israel going to do something?” asked Dewey.

“We assume they’re going to go out and kill a bunch of Iranians,” said Calibrisi. “If they haven’t already.”

“I meant, are they going to try and rescue him?”

“They came to us for help, if that tells you anything,” said Calibrisi. “He’s in Evin Prison. The only way he’s coming out is in a body bag.”

“What about a prisoner exchange?”

“There’s no prisoner Iran would trade for Meir. He’s a prize catch.”

“They’re going to dangle it over Israel’s head,” said Jessica. “Like Hamas did with Gilad Shalit, let him rot away, or else have some sort of trial and then execute him.”

Dewey stared out the window, at a plane taking off in the distance.

“If you came here to talk me out of going over there, you’re wasting your time.”

“President Dellenbaugh wants America on the sidelines,” said Calibrisi.

“I don’t work for President Dellenbaugh.”

“You’ve already done more than we ever asked of you,” said Jessica. “You went into Pakistan and risked your life because your country asked you. Now your country is asking you to leave this one alone.”

“Jess and I don’t want you to die,” added Calibrisi, leaning forward and placing his hand on Dewey’s shoulder. “That’s why we’re here. It’s a suicide mission.”

Dewey’s mind flashed back to the tarmac at Rafic Hariri. Pinned down by Hezbollah to the south, Lebanese Armed Forces to the north. Six dead Israelis were bleeding out on the bullet-pocked tarmac around them. The Israeli chopper, which they needed to rescue them, was nowhere to be seen. Death was imminent and both he and Meir knew it.

Dewey would never forget the look in Meir’s eyes as they exhausted the last of their ammunition, as they prepared to die; a fearless look that told Dewey not to give up.

Or was it his look that told Meir to hold on?

He felt it then, a surge of warmth, bitter at first, then all-consuming, like fire.

“You think Kohl Meir and that Shayetet team thought about the risks before they went to Beirut that night to save me?” asked Dewey. He calmly turned and looked at Calibrisi, then Jessica. “Six Israelis died, men who didn’t even know me. Thank you for thinking about my safety, but Kohl Meir saved my life. I know you’ll understand.”

Dewey reached for the car door.

“Where are you going, Dewey?” asked Jessica.

Dewey turned and looked one last time at Jessica. He opened the door and climbed out.

As he walked away, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. On it was a long number. He stared at it for a second, then put it back in his pocket, replaying Meir’s words.

“If I’m not there, it means something happened to me. Call my father. He’ll know what to do.”

“What to do about what?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Dewey walked to the front of the taxi stand, cutting in front of a man in a suit who was talking on his cell phone.

“Hey, you’re cutting,” said the man, but Dewey ignored him and climbed into the cab.

“Where to?” asked the driver.

“JFK,” said Dewey. “Step on it.”

10

EVIN PRISON

TEHRAN, IRAN

Kohl Meir opened his eyes and felt nothing but a deep sense of drift, loss, bewilderment, as if he’d been asleep for days. His eyes took several seconds to adjust to the light.
Where am I? Where the hell am I?
Meir tried to move his arm, but it was shackled. His legs were tied tight, strap restraints at the ankles and just above the knees; a belt across his torso, tightly bound so that breathing was difficult, another strap across his neck. His arms were fastened down as well, just above the elbows, and at the wrists.

The burning in his arm went from mild to severe, razor-sharp like a snakebite, and suddenly, against his will, he found himself screaming.

“There, there,” came the voice.

Meir’s mind was a scrambled mess, but he quickly allowed the accent to cut through the fog of his misplaced mind: Persian, some British; a cut of deep desert country.
Iran.

His brain still worked. That was a start.

Meir looked to his left, blinking several times. He saw a short man with gray and black hair, a round face, glasses, and a big bushy mustache. He was wearing a white doctor’s jacket. He stood at Meir’s left arm, holding a syringe. The man pressed the plunger.

Meir screamed again as he felt whatever was in the needle invade his veins.

“It’s not meant to hurt you, Mr. Meir,” said the man. “It’s an antidote, to wake you up. You were tranquilized. You’ve been out for some time. The pain will pass.”

Gradually, the burning moderated. Meir stopped screaming as it went from severe to merely deep throbbing. As he calmed, Meir’s mind sharpened. In front of him, blacked-out glass so he couldn’t see out. He was in an ambulance. They were moving quickly. The road was rough, perhaps unpaved, or at least potholed.

The girls on the stoop.

Meir suddenly remembered his last thoughts. Walking down the sidewalk, the crowded sidewalk in Brooklyn. The warmth of the sun. The brownstone. Pressing the intercom buzzer, then waiting.

“You wonder where we are?” asked the doctor. He completed the injection, pulled the syringe out, then wiped Meir’s arm with an alcohol swab.

Meir remained silent. With the pain, the consciousness, with his reawakening, he let his training begin to take hold.

Don’t talk. Don’t say a fucking thing.

How long had it been? Hours? Days? Weeks?

“Stop the chatter,” came the order from behind his head. Another voice, this one with a deep, thick Iranian accent, telling the talkative doctor to shut up. He could hear, in the man’s voice, years of cigarettes, military training, authority; a soldier, a commander of soldiers. A voice that gave orders.

He watched the doctor’s eyes. Their reaction told him all he needed to know.

Meir strained to look behind him. But the restraints were too tight.

Now, his nose acclimated, he identified the smell, the cigarettes that the man’s voice hinted at.

Meir shut his eyes, shut out the smell, the motion, everything.

He recalled the voice that came across the intercom. A soft, female voice.

“Yes
.
”

“Hello, Mrs. Bohr, it’s Kohl Meir.”

The dull buzzer, a lock unbolting. He’d pushed the big door open and stepped into the small lobby in the brownstone. He had shut the door behind him. He had stepped toward the stairs, but he hadn’t even made it to the first step. Someone had been behind him. A sharp painful electric jolt to his neck. And that was all. That was the last memory he had.

There was a low chirp from the cell phone of the man behind him. The man cleared his throat.

“Yes. One hour ago. Yes.”