A week had passed since Jake killed the man in the narrow alley in The Medina of Tunis. The daily beatings consisted mostly of thrusts to his stomach and ribs, where he was sure a couple had been broken early on and he now tried to protect with his arm each time they hit him. The food, what little there was, consisted mostly of molded semolina bread and meat that had turned sweet beyond expiration. He would have done better hanging out in an alley feeding from a restaurant dumpster. He had supplemented this food with bugs and scorpions that got close enough to him in his solitary, dark cell. The heat was unbearable, and he knew he was in trouble when he could no longer sweat. It meant he was dehydrated. The water they gave him infrequently looked like it had come from the toilet in a Mexican restaurant. But he drank it anyway. He had no choice.
Jake drew strength from the knowledge that he had killed the last man responsible for the death of his future wife, even though he had not found those who had hired them. Maybe it wasn’t that important to know. He had found retribution and now he would die here in Tunisia. Perhaps he deserved to die. He had done things in his life that he wasn’t particularly proud of, so maybe his past was finally catching up with him.
When he heard the outer doors being unlocked and the footfall of men heading toward his cell, he mentally prepared himself for today’s beating. They were early, he thought. Usually didn’t show up until after they fed him. That way they could force him to puke up his meal and let the taste linger in his mouth for hours.
He heard French outside his door. Someone different, he guessed, since they normally spoke Arabic to each other.
His cell door opened and a man in a frumpy linen suit stood before him, his eyes surveying Jake from top to bottom. The man turned to the two guards and now spoke Arabic harshly to them, as if a father addressing two troubled children. The guards simply shook their heads and backed away from the door. The man stood at least six-two, his longer grey hair combed back over the top of his skull to try to cover his baldness. If he had been dressed nicer Jake would have mistaken him for a funeral director.
“Mister Adams,” the man said formally.
“I’m guessing you’re not from Publisher’s Clearing House, since you don’t have that big check with you,” Jake said, trying his best at levity.
The man laughed. “Afraid not.” He stepped closer to Jake, who was sitting on a straw mattress on the floor, and put his hand out to shake. “I’m Robert Pierce. Rob to those who know me. I’m the cultural affairs officer from the U.S. Embassy.”
Jake took the man’s hand and stood up onto his bare feet. They had taken his shoes, his belt, leaving him only with his T-shirt and khaki pants, which were now falling off his hips from his loss of weight.
“Splendid,” Jake said. “Are you here to show me the ruins of Carthage?”
The embassy man laughed. “I heard you were funny.”
“Yeah, well this place has let me hone my stand-up routine. What can I do for you? I have a tennis match in a half hour.”
The man glanced outside the door and turned back to Jake. “You’ve gotten yourself into quite the mess here, Mister Adams.”
“Listen, Rob. Can you just call me Jake?”
“Of course. Anyway, the authorities are not quite sure whether to hang you in the public square or give you a medal for killing that man last week. He was a nasty terrorist. They know that.” He hesitated.
“There’s always a but involved,” Jake said.
“Right. The problem is, this man is a second cousin with someone high up in the government.”
“Wonderful.”
“All is not lost, though. There has been no mention in the local news about the death.”
Jake was confused. “Why not?”
“Probably a couple of reasons. First, then they’d have to admit that a relative of a high-ranking official was a terrorist. Secondly, they’re trying to clean up their image here after all the protests and the change in government. We’re working with them to get all the American cruise lines to come to port here. Murder in the souq does not bode well for that effort. Nor does the trial of an American. You’re lucky nobody has discovered your background with the Agency.”
Jake smiled. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The embassy man looked out into the corridor again and turned to Jake a bit more serious. “Listen, you have to be frank with me. Why did you kill this man?”
Shaking his head, Jake said, “I didn’t mean to. We were wrestling and his neck suddenly broke.”
Rob lowered his head to his chest and let out a breath of air. “Come on. You expended all the ammunition on a silenced handgun with its serial number removed with acid. The spent casings had no finger prints, nor did the magazines.”
Jake shrugged his shoulders. “It’s hard to break with training. But did you notice how many shots the man took at me?”
“Thirty-two.”
“I told you I wasn’t trying to kill the man. I just wanted some information. Wanted to know who hired him to kill my ex-girlfriend.”
“I believe you, Jake, but how can I sell that to the Tunisians? Let’s see. . .I know Mister Adams was not trying to kill the man, since he was a highly trained Air Force Intelligence Officer and then an experienced CIA officer. A man with Jake’s considerable shooting ability would not have missed the man with all those shots unless he was trying to miss. Splendid. Let’s all go home.”
It was the truth to a certain extent. Although Jake would have killed the man anyway once he had given up his employer. “What do you want from me?”
Rob took one more look outside at the guards. Satisfied, he said, “A favor.”
Jake laughed out loud. “Seriously? I’m gonna die in this country and you think I can help you?”
“Exactly. It will cost us, but we have a way to get you out of here.” Rob stopped short as if searching for the right words, his gaze everywhere but on Jake.
“Who do I have to kill?”
“It’s nothing like that,” Rob said, his hands out in protest. “It’s just a job. Nothing more.”
“I’m listening.”
“A missing person. Someone in our government needs you to find her.”
“Who is it?”
“An important constituent.”
“Who is it?” Jake repeated.
“Sara Jones.”
“Just some random American?”
“Not exactly. She’s the younger sister of United States Senator, from the great state of Texas, James Halsey.” He said the man’s last name as if it should mean something to Jake.
“So, this senator can’t hire someone to bring back little sis? Aren’t all senators rich?”
“Most are,” Rob said. “But the Halsey family goes back a long way in Texas. Before it was a state. We’re talking super rich.”
“Still. . .”
“They’ve sent two of the best private detectives in the country to try to find Sara Halsey Jones. Neither has been heard from since.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want to be found. Perhaps she paid off the detectives.”
“That’s the problem, though. She has no money. She’s a thirty-five-year-old historian and mathematician on a leave of absence from Rice University, where she is a full professor. She was last seen studying the writings of the Greek historian Polybius in Athens.”
“Great,” Jake said. “I’m not well liked in Athens.”
“That’s all right. We don’t think she’s still there. Her last passage through any customs was into Rome a month ago.”
Jake considered this man’s proposition. After leaving the Agency years ago, Jake had started his own security consulting business, taking on jobs mostly in Europe. He rarely took on missing persons cases. His jobs were usually much more complicated than that. But what choice did he really have? He could stay in a Tunisian jail and hang or get shot for having killing a useless pile of human DNA, or take off to Italy to find some poor rich girl. He also knew that jobs rarely turned out as easy as they first seemed. After all, the U.S. state department was not accustomed to calling in favors like this with marginally friendly countries without having to give up something in return. He imagined money had probably changed hands from Texas to Tunis, and Jake would never know the truth of that play.
“What kind of choice do I have?” Jake asked the cultural affairs officer. “But maybe I don’t need a break like this.”
“Your friends in high places would disagree.” The tall, gaunt man left it like that, saying without really saying anything. But Jake knew that the Agency director and perhaps his old friend Toni Contardo had something to do with this deal.
“Fine. When can you get me out of here?”
“They’re willing to pay you quite a bit to find Ms. Jones.”
“That’s not my hesitation,” Jake said. Although he could use some walking around cash, he had plenty hiding around Europe in various bank accounts. “I’ll take what they want to give me, but I won’t drag some mid-30s tree hugger yelling and screaming all the way back to Texas. If she wants to go back that’s fine, but I won’t force her.”
The state department man raised his hands palm out. “I understand. So, let’s go.”
Jake looked at himself down to his bare feet. “Just like that?”
“Yep. I’ll do my best to get your personal belongings back, including your passport, credit cards and cash.”
Jake shook his head. “Don’t bother. I had about fifty Euros worth of Tunisian dinars, which have probably deflated to nothing in the past week.”
“But you’ll need your passport.”
That’s how Jake knew the Agency was somehow involved with this whole matter. Jake had used a fake passport from one of his old Agency personas, which had been flagged when the Tunisian authorities inquired about him. He hadn’t used his real civilian passport in at least five years.
“You’re right, of course,” Jake said, appeasing the man. “Please get that for me.”
Smiling, the man pulled Jake’s passport from inside his pocket and handed it to him, along with a Visa card that was insignificant. There was perhaps a thousand dollars of available credit and Jake only used it for rental cars and hotels. Totally untraceable to the real Jake Adams.
With no grace or pleasure, Jake strolled out of the cell and Draconian prison just a few miles from ancient Carthage, wondering if anything had really changed in this region since the last Punic War.