IN THE AIR
The jet was a specially designed Gulfstream GV. It was almost ten years old but still one of the fastest—and most luxurious—of Air America’s fleet of jets. Dewey sat on one of the brown leather seats in the main cabin. The jet had its own master bedroom suite, but Dewey took one of the regular chairs and quickly fell asleep.
Dewey was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.
Halfway through the flight, Fields shook Dewey’s shoulder several times, trying to wake him up. He did it as gently as he could, not wanting to be the one who woke Dewey up too abruptly.
“Dewey,” said Fields in British accent, shaking his shoulder. “How you feeling?”
Dewey looked up as if awakened from a dream, its haze remaining even after his eyes opened. Pain from the fever still hung in his bones. It took him a few seconds, then he looked at Fields.
“Who are you?”
Fields stared at Dewey, not responding.
“Where are we?”
“Over the Sea of Japan.”
“How long until we land?”
“A couple hours. Here,” said Fields. “Take these.”
Fields reached his hand out. There were two small pills, one oval and red, one light green and round. He dropped them into Dewey’s hand.
“Am I being taken hostage?” said Dewey, still not understanding where he was.
Fields grinned.
“I work for MI6. Jenna sent me to help you.”
Dewey nodded, a dazed, confused look on his face.
“Oh, yeah. It’s coming back now.”
Fields pointed at Dewey’s hand, holding the pills.
“It’s called a stat-pak,” said Fields. “If we’re ever shot down and captured behind enemy lines, we’re supposed to take them. I don’t know what it is. All I know is, it’s designed for torture. Before they torture you. It’s not an opioid. It’s a nerve block.”
“No one’s torturing me,” said Dewey.
“You were poisoned,” said Fields. “It’s a way to deal with pain that doesn’t sideline you.”
Dewey looked at the pills.
“At least put them in your pocket,” said Fields, pushing the pills into Dewey’s hand.
Dewey took the two pills and stuffed them in his jeans pocket.
“Is there a plan?”
“I have no fucking idea,” said Fields. “Technically, I’m AWOL from an operation we’re running back in Macau. I don’t know how Jenna got me wrapped up in this, but she did. This seems like it’s more interesting. I figure Jenna can call Derek Chalmers after and get me my job back. Anyway, Jenna wanted to talk to you when you woke up.”
Dewey stared at Fields for a few seconds. Then he picked up a phone attached by wire to the wall.
“Name?”
“Andreas.”
A small click.
“Yes?”
“Jenna Hartford.”
“Hold, sir.”
A few moments later, Jenna’s soft British voice came on.
“Dewey?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“How are you?”
“Fine,” said Dewey. “Is there a plan?”
“It’s coming together.”
“Is there really an antidote in Pyongyang?” said Dewey. “Because if there isn’t, don’t put me through this bullshit. I’d rather go drink a few beers before I die.”
“There is an antidote,” said Jenna, “in fact there are two. A backup was sent. General Yong-sik sent the documents, but we haven’t given him the location yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because if one of the vials broke during transit, that would leave only one. We’d let Yong-sik die so that you can get it, Dewey.”
“No,” said Dewey.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I gave him my word.”
There was a long silence.
“Is the information helpful at least?” said Dewey.
Jenna bit her tongue. She knew the answer to the question, the fact that it was not only helpful but crisis-stage material—that Kim was dying and about to drop a nuclear bomb on a city in the U.S. But she didn’t tell him that. She knew he had to focus on one primary, sole objective: getting to Pyongyang.
“It was helpful,” said Jenna, “but we need to discuss your situation. The other antidote will be in Talmadge’s apartment. He will hide it. You need to get to Talmadge’s apartment.”
“Is he expecting me?”
There was a pause.
“We’ve been unable to establish contact with the agent in Pyongyang,” she said finally.
“Oh, great,” said Dewey.
“It doesn’t mean he’s not there.”
“Or maybe they caught him,” said Dewey. “Killed his ass, found the other antidote, and poured it down the drain. Or maybe it broke.”
“Maybe,” said Jenna, her British accent turning slightly sharper, with an edge. “Listen, I feel bad, but I’m not the horse’s ass who stuck the needle in his chest.”
Dewey grinned, saying nothing.
“We’re working on a plan,” said Jenna after a long silence. “By the time you land, it will be shipshape, promise.”