Russell Andrews - Midas

“Why didn’t you question Theresa? After her husband died, she could have been a valuable source.”

“Who says we didn’t question her?”

“Well. .” Justin hesitated. “She did.”

“Was she nervous when you spoke to her? Jumpy? Frightened?”

“Yes.”

“That’s because we were putting the screws on her. She gave up valuable information right away but we didn’t let up. It’s largely through the information we gathered from her interrogation that we found the cell in Delaware. She was guilty as hell, that woman.”

Justin stayed silent, trying to poke holes in the story he was hearing. But he wasn’t sharp enough. He was too overcome with fatigue.

“Is that it for your questions?” Starched Fatigues asked.

“What about Heffernan’s death?”

“A tragic coincidence. Conspiracy theorists would have a field day with that one, but it’s absolutely true. The guy was a regular at a restaurant and somebody else decided to blow that restaurant up.”

Starched Fatigues reached into a desk drawer, pulled out a bottle and two small paper cups, the same cups Justin had been served water in during his incarceration. The cups were white and flimsy, the kind one got in a dentist’s office.

“You know,” the man behind the desk said, “in my job you have to get used to one thing: how much people hate you. You can see it in their eyes. Their whole face, really.”

“Must be tough.”

“Not really. I never minded very much. It’s understandable, their hatred. I talk to people who have secrets. Their job, and sometimes their passion, is to keep those secrets. My job is to find out what they are. Cross-purposes. It’s like the Arabs and the Jews. Or cowboys and Indians. It’s hard not to hate the person who’s trying to take what you’ve got. I mention all this because I thought you should know, I can see in your face how much you hate me. But there’s nothing else you’ve got that I want to take, so it’s wasted effort on your part. And ultimately, it can’t do you any good.”

The soldier filled both cups halfway, the equivalent of two shot glasses.

“We are not apologizing to you, Mr. Westwood, but that doesn’t mean we don’t sometimes regret the actions that have to be taken when serving our country.” He handed one cup to Justin, who, as he leaned forward, saw the label on the liquor bottle for the first time.

“Havana Club,” Justin said.

“Fourteen-year-old Havana Club. The best rum in the world. It’s like fine cognac.”

“Cuban.”

“We are in Cuba, after all. It’s the worst thing about the damn embargo-you can’t buy this stuff at home. It’s liquid gold.”

“Can’t get this in America? Anywhere?”

Starched Fatigues shook his head. “There’s got to be some reward for being stuck in such a godforsaken place.”

Justin took a sip of light brown liquid. It scorched his throat as it went down and filled his belly with heat. But the flame that spread inside his stomach didn’t compare to the flame that was raging inside his head. He remembered sitting in Theresa Cooke’s kitchen and Theresa showing him the exact same bottle, saying her husband had brought it back from a Midas-related trip to Florida.

This is Cuban, Terry. Not from Florida , he’d said.

I know , she’d told him. Hutch said they sold it in Florida ’cause there are so many Cubans there. Refugees.

Another one of Hutch Cooke’s clues? Another part of the game he thought he was playing to win?

“Ever tasted it before?” Starched Fatigues asked.

“I saw a bottle once, but I never tasted it.”

“And?”

“It’s extraordinary,” Justin said.

The soldier stood from behind his desk, downed the rum in one quick swallow, dropped the cup on his desk. Justin watched it teeter before toppling on its side.

“Time to go,” the soldier said.

Justin, too, downed his rum, stood up, and his legs immediately gave way. He stumbled to the desk, grabbed on to it for support. Starched Fatigues grabbed his arm to keep him steady.

“There’ll be food on the flight,” the soldier said. “Sandwiches. It’ll give you some strength.”

“Thank you,” Justin said. “Sorry, the rum must’ve gotten to me.” He gently pulled himself away from the other man’s grasp. “I think I’m okay now.”

Starched Fatigues walked him to a small plane parked on a runway no more than seventy-five yards from where they’d been sitting. Halfway there, they were joined by a pilot. The pilot made no acknowledgment of Justin’s existence and Justin returned the favor. Before they boarded, Starched Fatigues pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and indicated that Justin should put his hands behind his back. He did as instructed and was cuffed. No apology was made. Starched Fatigues simply said, “Precautionary.”

As they stepped up into the plane, Starched Fatigues grabbed the back of Justin’s shirt. He didn’t grab him too tightly, just enough to hold him back.

“Your investigation is over,” he said. “You do understand that. There’s nothing more you can accomplish.”

Justin nodded. “I understand,” he said.

“Just so you know, if it was up to me, I would have killed you. But I have to follow orders.”

“Orders from who?”

“That doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“It does to me.”

“What matters is that the orders are for here and now. You keep screwing around in this thing, those orders won’t apply anymore. And I’ll be free to do what I think should have been done in the first place.”

Starched Fatigues let his fingers relax. He and the pilot climbed into the front of the plane. Justin was put in the cramped backseat. It was the same kind of plane he’d been flown down there in; the same kind of plane that Hutchinson Cooke crashed. Before takeoff, Justin leaned forward and said to Starched Fatigues, “Hey, what’s today’s date?”

“December twenty-first. You’ll be home in time for Christmas.”

Justin leaned back, but suddenly moved his head forward again. Into Starched Fatigue’s ear he said, “So, since we’re flying companions, do I get to know your name?”

The man’s head swiveled around and Justin saw another thin-lipped smile. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “Some things do have to remain secret.”

“I guess they do,” Justin said. And as he spoke he could feel the flimsy paper cup that was tucked into the right pocket of his khakis, the cup he’d picked up off the desk when he’d pretended to stumble. He had handled it carefully, barely lifting it with his fingertips, trying to touch only the rim, and gently easing it into his pants as they’d walked.

Some things do have to remain secret, Justin thought.

And as the plane began to taxi, as it rocked back and forth and then lifted off the ground, Justin smiled, too.

The first smile he’d managed since he’d been in this hellhole.

It felt even better than the water and the soap and the sunshine because he knew, as long as he was careful, that this was one man whose secrets he was going to learn.

Merry Christmas to me , he thought.

She came running as soon as he called.

He dialed her cell phone because he didn’t want to speak to anyone else at the station; the more he thought about it, the more his plan developed in his head, he knew it would be better if as few people as possible knew he was back in town. But he called Reggie because he had to call Reggie.

When she stepped into his living room there was an awkward moment. They had never had a chance to relax as lovers or even savor a moment of the passion they’d shared, so neither was exactly sure how to act. Reggie took the lead when she really saw him-saw the weight he’d lost, and the bruises on his face, and the combination of pain and relief in his eyes. She went to stand in front of him, then put her arms around him. She didn’t kiss him, just laid her head down on his shoulder, comforting him and letting him know how much comfort he gave her.