PYONGYANG INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
PYONGYANG
A silver Gulfstream G650ER was idling at Pyongyang International Airport, engines humming.
A few seconds later, a gray Sikorsky SH-60 descended toward the tarmac and touched down next to the jet. The side door opened and Dewey and Jenna stepped down onto the tarmac. They walked to the G650, Jenna in front, and they both climbed on board. Inside, Dewey pressed a button and the hydraulics purred, pulling the stairs shut. Within a minute, the CIA-owned jet was barreling down the runway, climbing rapidly into the dark sky.
It was a luxurious jet. There were sixteen seats in the cabin, along with several staterooms with en suite bathrooms. The seats were white leather captain’s chairs, on either side of the aisle. Dewey sat down and kicked his feet up on the chair across from him. Jenna sat down next to him.
Jenna looked at him, for the first time noticing his shirt, which was torn in several places. He still had on his weapons vest. She noted the butts of two guns tucked beneath his armpits. His jeans were brown—dried dirt and mud—and ripped at both knees. His face had a layer of stubble, war black, dirt, and dried blood. His hair was messed up, but still parted roughly in the middle. He was tan. Finally, her eyes met his. He was looking at her.
“What are you looking at?” said Dewey, his voice weary.
Jenna looked into Dewey’s eyes, noticing for the first time how blue they were. She averted her eyes.
“Nothing,” she said.
Dewey shut his eyes and leaned back, pushing his head against the window to go to sleep.
“If it’s all right, I’m getting a drop-off in England,” said Jenna.
“It’s fine,” said Dewey without opening his eyes.
“It’s my father’s seventieth birthday,” she continued, despite the fact that Dewey was trying to sleep. “There’s a party for him. They definitely aren’t expecting me.”
“That’s great,” mumbled Dewey, his eyes remaining shut.
“He’ll be very surprised,” said Jenna, trying to engage Dewey in conversation. But Dewey said nothing. Instead he adjusted his position in the seat, trying to stretch out and find a comfortable position for his head between the seat and the window.
“Are you trying to sleep?”
Dewey opened his eyes. They were bloodshot from exhaustion.
“How’d you guess?” he said. He immediately shut his eyes again.
After a minute or so, Jenna reopened the conversation.
“It’s my first time in England in six months,” she said in a soft British accent. “My husband was killed by a car bomb in London. It was intended for me.”
Slowly, one of Dewey’s eyes opened.
“Can this wait?” he said.
“Yes.”
Dewey shut his eye as if he was about to go back to sleep. Suddenly, he opened both eyes and sat up. He shook his head as if trying to wake himself up. He looked at Jenna.
“Hold on,” he said.
Dewey stood and walked up the aisle to the bar. He opened the refrigerator and took out two cans of Budweiser and set them on the bar. He opened both cans and chugged them, one after the other, crushing the cans after he was done and leaving them on the bar. He started rifling around the bar area, opening drawers and cabinets, finally finding an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He unscrewed the top and took a sizable chug. He looked back down the aisle.
“Do you want something to drink?”
“Whatever you’re having,” said Jenna.
Dewey took two glasses and poured each one half full with whiskey. He took two more beers from the refrigerator and walked back down the aisle. He handed Jenna the glass of Jack Daniel’s. She took the glass with a look of disbelief and shock at the volume of brown liquid, just as Dewey extended the beer. She took that, too. Dewey sat down, put his legs up, and brought the glass of bourbon to his lips and took a big sip.
“So, your husband died?” said Dewey, leaning back. “Tell me what happened.”
* * *
For the next two hours, Jenna did most of the talking. Occasionally, Dewey went back to the bar for refills, all of them for himself. It was as if Jenna hadn’t spoken to anyone in six months. She told him about Charles, about the investigation, about MI6, about London. Eventually, Dewey’s eyelids simply could not remain open any longer. He fell asleep during a story about an operation Jenna had designed, her first operation, a rescue of a British diplomat who’d been taken hostage in Belfast.
When they landed at Heathrow, Dewey awoke. He looked at Jenna. Her eyes were closed.
“Hey, Jenna,” he said.
Jenna looked at him through drowsy eyes.
“We’re here.”
She looked out the window and then at Dewey. She smiled.
“See you back in Langley,” she said.
* * *
After dropping Jenna in London, Dewey found one of the staterooms and climbed onto the bed with his boots still on and blood still staining his shirt, arm, and hair. He collapsed and fell asleep until, six hours later, he felt a hand shaking him.
“Dewey,” said a female voice, one of the pilots. “We’re back in the United States. You’re home.”
Dewey arose slowly from the bed. He moved past the pilot and walked to the left front of the fuselage. He hit a button and the stairs descended to the tarmac. He stepped down onto the ground. It was warm out, mid-sixties. Summer was coming. He stepped down the stairs and onto the tarmac.
Dewey walked into a small gathering of on-duty air force men, killing time, hanging around in one of the hangars.
They stopped talking and looked at him.
“Hey,” said Dewey.
All of the men stood up. One of them saluted him.
“We heard what happened,” said the officer. “Nice work, Mr. Andreas.”
Dewey nodded but said nothing. He kept walking until he found the parking lot where he’d left his car. It was a black Ferrari 575 Superamerica, a gift from Rolf Borchardt. Dewey didn’t necessarily like expensive cars, but he was starting to like this one. He stood back and stared at the sports car for a few moments, then put his hand on the back left tire and found the key he’d left there. He climbed inside and hit a button that caused the glass roof to unhitch, lift up, then tuck behind him. It was a warm night. Dewey pressed the ignition switch and the Ferrari roared to life.