The Right Hand (21 page)

H
E NEEDED
a break.

Clay had spent the last four months in Berlin, tracking embassy staffers and reporting back to EurOps whom they met with, when they met, where they were headed, and why they were meeting. There was a reason these men were politicians; they were boring. They went to meetings, they wrote missives and reports, they glad-handed, and they failed to do a single thing that was interesting.

He met Adams at Sanssouci Park in Potsdam, near the obelisk that guarded the entrance. They looked like a couple of businessmen out enjoying an afternoon walk. The sun was high in the sky, and Europe was headed for another summer heat wave. They had both shed their jackets and draped them over their arms.

“I can see Prague has been treating you well,” Clay said, and patted Adams on the stomach.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I mean you look like you’ve put a tire around your middle, Patch.”

He had taken to calling Adams Patch after the dippy clown Robin Williams had portrayed in a maudlin movie. Adams hated the nickname, of course.

“Don’t call me that.”

“But you’ve always filled me with such joy, such a will to live—”

“Enough,” Adams said, now crossing his arms over his stomach. “What do you have?”

“If Berg and Eichel were sharing inside information with Nigeria, I found no evidence. These guys are clean.”

“Hmmm,” Adams said. “All right. If there’s no fire there, there’s no fire.”

“There’s not even smoke.”

Adams nodded. “Okay…I’m going to need you in Dubai. There’s a group of arms dealers—a consortium of American, British, and French—who might be trying to sell weapons to, let’s just say,
unsavory
types in Syria.”

“When do they meet?”

“You’ll get the dossier this week. I believe they’re flying into Dubai week after next.”

“Perfect. I need a break.”

“A break?”

“I just have to get out of here for a few days. Clear my head.”

“And go where?”

“Where the left hand won’t know what I’m doing.”

Adams smirked and nodded. “Fair enough.” He started to leave, but Clay’s voice stopped him.

“How’s the family?”

Adams turned, surprise on his face. He wasn’t used to anyone in intelligence save the Director asking after his family. But there was no animus in Clay’s voice, just genuine concern. “Great. Laura has found a group of expats in Prague who keep her busy. She’s playing tennis again and feeling well.”

“And Kate and Grace?”

Adams grinned, impressed Clay remembered their names. “They keep me on my toes. I don’t think they’ve stopped smiling since we landed in Europe. We’re going to take them to see Paris next week.”

“I’m glad,” Clay replied, and he meant it. “I’ll report in from Dubai after I land. Take care of yourself.”

“You too.” Adams watched Clay disappear around the obelisk and head out of the park. He chuckled to himself, then raised his hand to shield his eyes so he could look at the hieroglyphics carved into the stone pillar, but he couldn’t make sense of the shapes. Somehow, that struck him as apt.

Clay settled into his booth, drank his coffee, and gazed out the window. They made a strong pot at this diner, and when the waitress came, he asked for more. She topped it with a smile. “You in for the game?”

Clay looked back from the window and offered her a smile of his own. “No.”

“Not a football fan?”

Now that he took a moment to look around, he saw that most of the booths were occupied by men and women in red-and-orange jerseys. They were all chattering excitedly.

“Not really.”

“Well, you picked a busy time to come in…it’s the first game of the season and we’re gonna be hoppin’.”

Now he knew why she was making conversation…he was taking up a whole window booth, just drinking coffee. She could’ve shuffled in a couple of families in the time he’d already spent sitting there.

“Tell you what”—he searched for her name tag—“Helen. You let me sit here and drink my coffee until I want to get up, and I’ll give you a hundred-dollar tip.”

“You’ll get a piece of pumpkin pie and not another word from me.”

“Can you make it apple?”

“I can make it anything you want, sugar.” She waddled off, and he turned his attention back to the window.

She sat across the street at an outside table, cross-legged, peering down into a textbook. Her hair had grown longer since he’d last seen her and was shiny and clean. A single braid twisted down from her temple and dangled next to her mouth. She played with it absently as she read. Every now and then, she’d pick up a yellow highlighter and mark something on the pages.

The sun was reflecting off the window where Clay sat, so she couldn’t see him. He was adept at sitting in places where he could study people without their knowledge. He raised the cup to his lips as the waitress set down a steaming piece of apple pie.

He looked back out the window just as a young man about Marika’s age approached and she moved a backpack so he could take the seat next to hers. The boy put his hand out on the table, and she took it. A smile stretched across her face so wide that it lit up the distance between the two cafes.

When the waitress returned to Clay’s booth, she found a hundred-dollar bill there, but her customer was gone.

Derek Haas is the author of
The Silver Bear, Columbus,
and
Dark Men
. He cowrote the screenplays for the films
3:10 to Yuma, Wanted,
The Double,
and the new NBC show
Chicago Fire
. He is the creator of the website popcornfiction.com, which promotes genre short fiction. Derek lives in Los Angeles. Interact with Derek and other fans at
derekhaas.com
, follow him on Twitter
@popcornhaas
, or Facebook friend him.

You won’t be able to put down these Mulholland books.

Visit
mulhollandbooks.com
for your daily suspense fiction fix.
Download the FREE Mulholland app.

The Silver Bear

Columbus

Dark Men