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The US Navy was not generous with its prison rentals. His room was a lampless dungeon cell from hell. The haze got unrestricted access from a high window with three rusty bars. Hector boxed the padded walls, until the pain in his bones forced him to stop.
He sat down and sank bit by bit into himself.
He decided to taste the food, as a distraction. Beef barley (“I’m an Irishman, gimme barley, barley can’t come out bad for an Irishman, gimme barely,” his grandfather used to say). Coleslaw (reminded him of Cairo’s KFC, Tahrir Square, which the protesters pillaged then transformed into a squatters’ paradise). Diet Coke (God bless the olden days, when he’d been a boy in the Middle East, Coca Cola was the world’s unrivaled elixir, and he could swear it had tasted better). Cashews (his mind went blank on this one, for this tropical plant always resisted his taste buds).
He started to weep.
He breathed the haze. Thank goodness they weren’t generous enough to offer him a mask. He wanted this celestial poison, these spirits from the passing forest. He was high.
The sky dimmed ever and ever quicker. Few fat stars winked.
And the boots on the ground. The repeat-after-me-sailor:
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I’m a steam roller baby
And I’m a rollin’ down the line
So ya better get outta my way now
Before I roll all over you
It’s just a little—
(Ho!)
A little—
(Ho!)
It’s just a little rock ‘n’ roll.
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The shrieks were in his head. The boots tramped all over him.
The haze was one with his DNA.
He was aching with every cell of his body.
Darkness enclosed him.
* * *
The US Navy was generous with its air conditioning, though.
Hector awoke with a sneeze. He lifted heavy eyelids and slowly examined his environment.
He was in a different room. Spacier. More personal. There was a double-hung window overlooking the base’s hazy and noisy yard, and a folding plastic table pushed to the far wall, coupled by a hazelnut wooden chair. On the table were a cylinder water bottle and a modest pyramid of books. (Rudyard Kipling’s Kim—an unusual find—topped the pyramid.)
Beside the table was a closet, and inside he saw a pair of jeans, a cocoa blazer, and a sky-blue-on-white striped shirt—which looked too familiar not to be his.
He was ensconced in bed, the edges of the bedding annoyingly tucked under the mattress: a fluffy pink duvet and a couple of white sheets. He was dressed in scrubs of some sort, moccasin in color. He wiggled his toes and didn’t feel his socks. He turned on his right side and looked at the floor. His loafers and socks were there.
The door opened and Ozgur came in. He closed the door behind him, and chanted, “Hey, fighter, rise up, it’ll soon be brighter.”
Despite his smile, Ozgur looked disheveled and tired. His stubble was longer, his eyelids heavier. He was dressed in the same black suit from the interrogation, but the tie wasn’t there and the shirt was rumpled. He was holding two paper cups.
“What time is it?” Hector croaked, propping himself up on his elbow.
“Ten-twenty.”
“What day? Where am I?”
“You’re in eternal bliss, Hickey.” Ozgur handed him one of the cups. “Double-double. I haven’t forgotten.”
Hector pointed at the water bottle, and Ozgur brought it to him. Hector quenched his thirst, then tasted the steaming coffee. It was medium-roast Colombian, and the cream was smooth and fresh. “You spiked the food?” he asked.
“I wasn’t expecting you to take the bait. But, hey, you’re unpredictable, complex like a garden.”
Hector stared at him. “Don’t be so melodramatic. What happened?”
Ozgur drew out the wooden chair from the table and sat astraddle it. He folded his arms on its back. “How much do you remember?”
“Not much. Shadows. My life reeling before me. Sadness and happiness at the same time. What was that?”
“A hyoscine analog. Something to stimulate your memory.”
“It’s horrible.”
“Don’t feel pressured.” Ozgur smiled. “A thank-you is more than enough.”
“For what?”
“For saving your neck. You’re as innocent as lettuce, as the Egyptians say. Stupid. But innocent.”
Hector downed his coffee in a few nervous guzzles. Then he tossed the cup on the comforter and got out of bed. He took off his scrubs and began dressing himself. “Is Yubi okay?”
“She’s been cleared, too,” Ozgur said. “The DIA is pulling out of the res right now.”
“She’s at the res?”
“We checked her out of the Sands. What a story you told us last night, man! I’ve known you for years, but never assumed you were that romantic.”
Hector sat down on the bed and began slipping his feet into the loafers. “How’s Fabio, by the way? I need to apologize to him in person.”
Ozgur was silent awhile. “That’s what I came to talk to you about.”
Hector looked at him. “Is the injury really that bad?”
Ozgur shook his head. “Hector, don’t freak out, okay? Fabio is dead.”
* * *
Hector’s eyes contained the room in just a moment. It was a small one, comprising a small desk and two armless chairs. Agricultural Attaché was seated on one of the chairs, cross-legged. He smiled casually without getting up. Matthew Rossini stood in the center of the room. Like Ozgur, he looked sleepless but triumphant.
“Agent Kane.” Rossini strode to give Hector a firm hand-squeeze. “My sincerest apologies for the way we handled your inquest yesterday. You understand, this was an issue of national security. I was just saying that to the director. Come on in. (Agent Grant, the door please.) The DIA is looking forward to your full cooperation.”
Hector freed his hand from Rossini’s, then walked to the man standing by the window.
“Sir,” Hector said.
The Cardinal didn’t turn. “Did you have a good night’s sleep?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. You have a long journey ahead of you. We booked you all for the three p.m., straight to Cairo. All first class. Air China. No layovers, and they have an open bar on board. You can drink yourself to oblivion for twelve hours straight. As for that student who passed away—he doesn’t have a family, does he?”
“No, sir,” Hector answered.
“We’ll sort it out with the Egyptians, anyway. The most important thing now is you, Hector. How are you holding up? We’re not sending you back if you’re not ready.”
Hector looked out the Cardinal’s window, at the haunted piers. He couldn’t help but compare this view with the sweeping Mediterranean. Out his window, an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer was anchored only fifty feet away, its tripod mast too bulky for practical use, its hull too grand for this spit of dust known as Pulau. At the next pier was an Ohio-class submarine, open to supplies, a dull gray monster with a distinctive hump. Battle paraphernalia. It used to evoke his appetite. Now only his grief.
“Hector,” the Cardinal said.
But Hector did not hear him.
“I’ll tell you what,” the Cardinal said. “Why not take your wife on a real vacation? Vienna or Venice or anywhere with clean air. This island is cursed. It’s no wonder we’ve been played like fiddles by the Russians. Who can think straight in this inferno!”
When Hector still didn’t respond, the Cardinal looked at Ozgur.
Ozgur shrugged.
“Did Oz”—the Cardinal quickly corrected himself—“Kerry tell you about our alternative offer?”
Hector nodded slowly.
“So what d’you say? Deputy chief or dean? Of course, we would love to have you. But it’s your choice after all. In theory, you can take over AIMES, if you want to. Both are excellent choices.”
“In theory he would be working for us,” interceded Rossini. “AIMES is our training yard. So Agent Kane would be reporting to the DIA—if he chose the academic route, of course.”
Hector turned away from the window at long last. “I have other plans,” he said.
“What plans?” the Cardinal said.
“I have a family farm in Cayuga. I’ll go there with my wife and we’ll start over.”
After a long silence, the Cardinal said, “You need more time to think this over, son.”
“Too late, sir. I have already made my mind. My flight off of this island will be to Toronto Pearson. I will never set foot in Cairo ever again.”