Chapter Sixteen
December 17
Café Mondadori
Rome, Italy
“Al-Nueimi’s son is alive?” Justin asked.
“Yes, but keep your voice down. We don’t want the whole café to know about it.”
Justin frowned. His hushed voice had climbed above a whisper, but it was still low enough that he doubted other patrons could hear him. “So he didn’t die in the crossfire?”
“No, otherwise he wouldn’t be alive.” Bianchi gave Justin a wry grin.
Justin groaned. “You know what I mean. What happened?”
“The boy was wounded and collapsed a short distance from the house. One of the team members rescued him. He was bleeding quite badly, but made a swift recovery. And believe it or not, it wasn’t the SAD teams who shot him.”
“How do you know that?”
“The medic concluded it was an AK round.”
“The American doctor?”
Bianchi cocked his head. “I sense some doubt in your voice. Of course, the doctor was American.”
Justin shrugged. “I’m coming at it from al-Nueimi’s point of view. It’s convenient to place the blame on unknown Iraqi shooters.”
“Well, he can believe whatever he wants. But the truth is his son is still alive. Physically, he made a full recovery.”
Justin frowned. “But mentally—”
“The boy hasn’t said a word since he was picked up. Psychiatrists believe it is a temporary condition, and he should overcome it as he grows up.”
“And where is he now?”
Bianchi shook his head. “I’m not authorized to tell you that.”
“What? You’ve told me all this already.”
Bianchi gave Justin a piercing gaze. “I may have just met you, but I’ve read your file. And I’m a good judge of people.”
“And humble too.”
“No, not really. But that doesn’t matter. I know what you want to do.”
“It’s the right thing.”
“Not for you to decide.”
Justin held Bianchi’s eyes for a moment. “All right, so you give me all this. Why?”
Bianchi shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe because my boss told me to. Maybe because he feels slightly responsible for this screw-up. Or it could be because he wants someone to actually learn about this, since our president couldn’t care less about the intel.”
“But . . . we still have to stop al-Nueimi, and this will definitely do it.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure, Justin. These people pathologically hate us. That’s not because we invaded their lands or because we mistakenly shot civilians when terrorists use them as human shields. They hate our way of living, our very existence.”
“That has nothing to do with the boy.”
“Oh, but it does. The CIA can’t just produce him. That sole fact would admit the op’s existence. Our president went on national television denying SAD teams were ever near Mosul when this misfortune happened. This would look pretty bad and not only for him.”
“All right, so then let me give al-Nueimi his son.”
“That’s also not gonna happen. The boy has seen and knows too much. And frankly, I don’t think it’s going to change al-Nueimi’s mind.”
“Not for you to decide.”
Bianchi grinned. “Good one. But it’s at my boss’s discretion. You can take your objections to him.”
Justin nodded, then sipped his cappuccino, but tasted nothing. His mind was on finding out where the CIA was holding al-Nueimi’s son and how to rescue him.
Bianchi pointed at one of the cake slices. “Do you mind?”
“What happened to ‘I’ve got to lose—’”
Bianchi cut him off with a hand gesture. “I’ll go for a longer run tomorrow.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
Bianchi picked up the fork and dug in. Once he finished chewing the first bite, he asked, “Anything else you want to ask me?”
“No, not really, if you’re not going to answer me.”
Bianchi shrugged. “You understand I have orders.”
“I do, that’s why it’s better if we end this here.”
Justin moved his chair back.
“Wait, you don’t have to leave right away. And you still have to try the cake.”
“I have to find al-Nueimi, and I lost my appetite. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”
“Well, at least let me pay for it, and for your cappuccino.”
“Sure, grazie.”
“Mio piaciere.” My pleasure. Bianchi stood up and offered Justin his hand.
He shook it, then looked around the café. The middle-aged couple was still there, chatting and laughing. Justin decided to use the washroom, before hailing a taxi and heading back to the airport.
When he came out of the washroom, the couple was gone. Bianchi was working on the second piece of cake and gave Justin a small nod. He started to walk out, but the clerk behind the counter gestured at Justin. He gave the clerk a puzzled look, but he repeated his gesture for Justin to come and see him. “I’m not walking out on my bill. My friend’s going to pay for it.”
“No, no, that’s okay, he told me that,” the clerk said in rapid Italian. “But there’s a message for you.”
“A message?” Justin frowned. Why didn’t Carrie or Vale or Flavio call me? He checked his phone. It was in working order; the battery and the signal icons appearing clearly on the screen.
“Here you go, sir.” The clerk pushed a folded piece of paper toward Justin.
“What . . . Who gave this to you?”
“The gentleman who was sitting there.” The clerk pointed at the table where the middle-aged couple had been enjoying their drinks. “He gave me this for you before they left.”
Justin turned and looked through the windows.
The couple was gone.
He picked up the small piece of paper with a lot of hesitation. The frown on his face had grown deeper. He knew what the message contained even before he unfolded the paper. It read: Justin, we know what you’re doing.