Run Money

By Drew Howell

When a crafty old spymaster suspects all is not well in his kingdom, he contacts an old friend. But this is no social call. Gault owes him, and the favor is come due.

What starts as a routine job babysitting a minor bureaucrat at a Moscow conference quickly becomes much more, a complex scheme to trade arms for secrets. Saddled with a partner that can barely keep her lies straight, Gault is left to chase the truth across four continents. All the while, a growing cast of shady characters are looking to double-cross each other and steal the prize for themselves.

Everything is leading to a bloody standoff in the desert, and they can’t all win.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Drew Howell
• Release date: Apr 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311363862

Drew Howell

After graduating Annapolis, Howell served in the United States Navy for more than two decades, deploying to every numbered fleet and operating with more than sixty nations. On leaving active duty, he endured law school and entered private practice. Howell engaged in complex federal court litigation and intellectual property law before joining Blackwater as a senior vice president and its general counsel. Then things got interesting.

Book preview

Run Money

Drew Howell

Also by Drew Howell

Expendable Assets

Irish Pennant

Bombay Runner

This is a work of fiction.

The history, science, and

tactics are real.

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 Andrew Howell

All rights reserved.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Run Money - noun \ ˈrən mə-nē \ Nautical. Slang.

1 a reward paid for the return of a deserter

2 a bounty for the return of any valuable thing.

Chapter 1

Gault kicked out the last of the shattered windshield and pulled himself through the opening. Wisps of acrid smoke leaked from under the crumpled hood, the ruined engine ticking quietly as it cooled. Limping back to the courtyard in the battered pickup had been dicey, at best. But the truck made it, and that was all that mattered.

Sliding to his feet on the dusty ground, he ran a hand across his stinging eyes. It came away bloody.

Outside the gates, another vehicle roared up and braked hard. A car, by the sound of it. One of the guards peered through a slot in the steel and then yelled at the others, "Iftahu il-baab!" Open the gate! Two of them leaped to pull back the heavy, door-like barriers while their brothers watched anxiously over raised gunsights.

The steel gates barely moved before a white Opal nosed through the crack, stirring up more dust as its driver braked to a halt behind the wrecked pickup. Before the car stopped rolling, the guards had already slammed the heavy gates closed, quickly barring them with a thick beam. From the street outside came the growl of truck engines racing, as everyone waited to see if the pursuers would stop or raise the alarm. Instead, they roared past, pushing hard to find their fleeing target.

Gault shook his head against the ringing in his ears. It didn’t help.

To his left, the car opened and its black-clad driver stepped out. A full-length abaya gown and dark niqab veil covered all but a narrow slit across the eyes. Now those brown eyes swept across the guards, noting with approval the positions they had taken around the small courtyard, guard up, carbines ready. Next the driver’s gaze surveyed the wrecked truck, its whole left side dented and torn, right fender gone, roof caved, doors jammed. Finally the eyes settled on Gault, examining him carefully, noting the blood with concern.

You are injured, my friend? the driver asked.

Gault tugged off his balaclava. He found a dry corner and used it to wipe away more of the blood.

It’s not mine.

Ah, the driver said, pulling the veil off and walking toward the pickup. Close-cropped black hair and a heavy, almost purple shadow of beard dispelled any lingering possibility that first appearances told the story of the driver. Praise be to Allah! he added, laughing as he wrapped an arm around Gault. Still grinning, the man leaned down to glance into the passenger seat of the truck. Then he peered more closely, the smile fading.

Where is he? the man in the dress asked.

Where is al-Jazzaar? he demanded again, angrily.

Gault tossed the balaclava to one of the guards and leaned over the side of the truck bed. He unhooked one corner of a heavy canvas drop cloth and peeled it back. After unfastening another corner, he tossed the tarp aside to reveal a body. Zipties bound the man’s wrists, elbows and ankles. A bag covered his head, and he was dressed in the long black cloak favored by local imams and clerics. One sandal was missing.

Is he …

Nope. Just drugged, Gault said, he’ll be back with us in a few minutes.

The man in the dress nodded curtly and two of his soldiers hustled to grab the prisoner by the arms and drag him from the truck. They pulled him into the house, hurrying to have things ready.

As it turned out, they weren’t quite done when the man awoke, slowly coming out of it, shaking his head as he looked blearily around. He found himself in a windowless room, lit only by a bare bulb hanging over a plastic lawn chair screwed to the floor. His legs were free now, but his arms had been fastened tightly to the chair.

More plastic chairs lined the wall ahead of him, and a long wooden table was pushed against the wall to his left. There were at least two other people in the room, by the table, although all he could see in the gloom were their legs.

One of them turned and then leaned down to inspect him.

He knew this man; had seen him on several occasions. Fighting back the haze in his mind, he tried to recall who this was. An army man, Iraqi Special Forces, one of the commando battalions, wasn’t it?

Major Aziz? You... he began, then cleared his throat. You are making a great mistake.

Aziz, who had traded his black dress for street clothes, looked at him with disgust. Do not bother, he said. Aziz glanced over at the other man, the one still on the edge of the shadows.

The man stepped forward, and it became clear this was a filthy infidel. A dirty kafir. Al-Jazzaar spit, and then told the man what he should go do. With a goat.

To his surprise, the kafir smiled slightly. He grabbed a chair from the wall and pulled it over to sit down in front of him, their knees nearly touching.

Really? the man said. You’re gonna go meet Allah with a mouth like that? Whatever happened to ‘nothing will avail a man save a pure mind’ and all that?

Allah? he said, confused now. Somehow this kafir knew his language. And the Quran.

Yeah, you know, the big man upstairs. The one you’re always yammering about when you strap bombs on scared, strung-out kids and send them out to blow up markets and mosques full of women and children. Bloody business. That’s why they call you al-Jazzaar, isn’t it? The Butcher? As he spoke, the man was filling a needle with liquid from a small bottle.

Aziz, what is this?

The major ignored him, and the prisoner suddenly realized with horror that he was wearing a vest, the same kind he had been building for years. Tightly wrapped around his torso, it no doubt contained a few pounds of explosive, along with a few hundred nails or ball bearings. A wire ran down his right arm to a small switch dangling near his hand.

You cannot! This is … I have friends, protectors! You will die for this!

Right, the kafir said, nodding. Rough hands seized al-Jazzaar from behind, holding his head still as the infidel brought up the needle.

He tried to thrash, to move, to get away from them, but it was no use. At last, hate burning in his eyes, he grabbed the small switch near his hand and thumbed it.

Nothing happened.

Not armed yet, the kafir said, amused. Good to see you’re ready to use it, though. He worked as he spoke, quickly injecting the prisoner twice on the right side of his face, and then again on the left.

Aziz handed the kafir some kind of metal device and the infidel forced the dental instrument between his teeth, ratcheting his jaws open. Al-Jazzaar squealed as the man injected something into his tongue.

Okay, that’ll do it, the infidel said, handing his tools to Aziz.

Here’s the deal, the man continued, looking al-Jazzaar straight in the eye. For all the driving we did, we didn’t actually travel that far. In fact, we’re right across the square from your headquarters. Hope surged in him as the kafir said this. Yeah, and in a few minutes, we’re going to turn you loose. Al-Jazzaar began to think maybe there was a way out of this after all.

The infidel nodded at the soldiers holding him. Their grip relaxed.

Shaking them off, al-Jazzaar said, Aaargh. Confused, he wondered why his mouth suddenly failed him. He remembered the shots. A big glob of drool trickled onto his robe.

You’re not really going to be able to tell anybody what’s going on, but you’re going to have two choices. First, you make up, in some small way, for all that you’ve done. You march right back into your own headquarters and set this thing off.

He shook his head angrily, eyes flaming.

Second, you go into the market, find a cop, throw yourself on his mercy. Maybe they’ll come up with somebody to disarm this, maybe you won’t be in prison that long, who knows, maybe your cellmate will be gentle.

Al-Jazzaar tried to lick his lips, his eyes darting around the room, searching for some escape from this, some angle he could work.

Now I know what you’re thinking, the kafir continued. You won’t do it. You’ll run someplace else, or you’ll come back in here and take us out. Nope. Vest has a remote trigger, just like the ones you build. And there’ll be a long gun trained on you the whole time. Let’s see ... guess that about covers it. Any questions?

Gaaaahh, he drooled.

Okay, then, let’s get you moving.

Rough arms grabbed him, someone cut the ties to the chair, and he was dragged toward the door.

Aziz and Gault watched them leave.

Shall we go? the major asked.

Yep.

Together, they made their way out of the room, up two narrow sets of stairs and onto a rooftop terrace. Over a low wall, they had a clear view of the square. Al-Jazzaar had walked some twenty yards from the house. He still could head either way—into the market or back to his own nest of thugs.

Do you think that he will do it? Aziz asked.

His headquarters?

Yes.

Not a chance.

So what will he do?

You know well as I do.

The major sighed. Probably, you are correct.

In the square below, al-Jazzaar suddenly veered left, heading toward the crowd in the market area.

Aziz frowned. Perhaps he is going in search of a police officer.

Gault turned and looked at him.

He could be, the major insisted weakly.

After looking at the commando for another moment, Gault turned back to the square.

Al-Jazzaar was deep in the crowd now, surrounded by dozens of people looking over baskets and tables of fruit and produce. He turned to face their building, raising his arms and trying to shout something. Allahu akbar, perhaps. Then he pushed the button.

The explosion, from the rooftop terrace, couldn’t even be heard. It was, after all, nothing close to the weapons al-Jazzaar built. This vest contained only a few ounces of old Semtex, carefully shaped to direct the small blast inward.

For a moment al-Jazzaar remained standing, a puzzled look on his face. He hadn’t seen a blinding flash of heat and destruction. Hadn’t killed dozens. Wasn’t surrounded by the envisioned virgins.

Then he slowly toppled over, unable to stand with all the internal damage. On the ground, he looked at his hand, trying over and over to push the button again, wondering why he couldn’t move and where all the blood was coming from.

From the rooftop, Aziz watched as the crowd looked at the fallen man and tried to figure out what had happened. He shook his head disappointedly.

I take it you will now be telling me about the leopard and his spots, he said.

Nah. I am shocked. Shocked, I tell you.

Aziz smiled. Well, thank you for at least saying so, my friend. And a thousand more for helping rid us of a cancer in the heart of my country.

Not a big deal.

No, my friend, it is. He did have friends and protectors. You have done me a great favor and I am in your debt.

Well, Gault said, I wanted this guy too.

Nonetheless, I am in your debt. I insist.

You don’t want to owe me.

Aziz looked at him seriously. I understand what a debt is between men like us. Warriors, if you will. I do not say this lightly. I shall owe you a favor.

Gault stared back for a moment, then nodded his assent. You don’t know what you’re signing on for, Aziz. In my world, paying back favors can be a real Qah’ba.

Chapter 2

The hulking stone mass was built not long after The War Between the States. A sign near the door proclaimed it to be Freemason Abbey. While the building had at different times housed both a church and an Odd Fellow lodge, it had never actually been home to monk nor Mason. But it was a catchy name and the place served a mean crab soup.

Inside, under the cathedral ceiling, there was dining on two levels and a long oak-and-marble bar near the door. There wasn’t much of a wait tonight, so half the barstools were empty.

Between sporadic orders from the waitstaff and the three regulars midway down the rail, the bartender didn’t have a lot to do, so she was watching people, as usual. At the moment, the most interesting was the guy at the end of the bar.

Tall and rangy, dark hair, blue eyes. He’d been sitting with his back to the wall for the last twenty minutes or so, nursing a local-brew hefeweizen and pretending to do a crossword. Edging down that way, she leaned over so it was obvious she was looking at him.

Ready for another? she asked, tucking an auburn curl behind her ear.

Gault glanced up, then checked his watch. Two-drink minimum?

No, she smiled, but you are about dry.

Okay.

Same?

He considered for a moment. Nah.

What’ll it be?

What’s good?

Everything. If I make it.

Okay, he said, a trace of a smile crossing his face. Pick something. His eyes made the circuit again, sweeping over the crowd, checking the main entry, the exits, scanning, noting. She looked at him curiously for a moment, then turned to the backbar. When she glanced at him again, he appeared to be working the puzzle once more.

Grabbing a new napkin, she set the glass on it and slid it near him, then crossed her arms and leaned against the backbar.

You’re right. It is good. What is it?

Something I’ve been working on. This boutique moonshine, ginger ale, a little lime ...

He took another sip.

It have a name?

Not yet, she smiled. One of the waiters came up with a list of orders—a whole tray of drinks for a girls-night-out table at the back. While she worked, she talked to him.

You have one?

Name?

Yeah. Silly.

Ah, Smith.

Really? she said dryly.

Sure. Adam Smith.

You don’t look like an Adam. Maybe Jack. Or John.

John Smith?

Too bland. How about John ... Locke. He’s a better read than Adam Smith anyway, she said, finishing off the tray and setting it out for the waiter.

He smiled. My kinda barkeep.

So what do you do, Locke? For a living, I mean.

Florist.

She looked at him doubtfully.

No, really. I got tired of being a hairdresser.

Dang.

What?

You’re batting for the other team, she said.

There was that hint of a smile again.

Really. How’s that?

Well, she said, taking a sip of icewater, you’ve been here, what, half an hour now? You haven’t made the slightest effort to hit on me, even when I gave you an opening.

Maybe there’s no spark.

Locke, ninety, ninety-five percent of the guys come in here hit on me.

Kinda full of yourself, he said. He was smiling, though.

I could look like Rodney Dangerfield and they’d still do it, long as I had these, she said, glancing down at her chest. It’s some kind of Guy Code. Like it’s required by your Secret Articles or something.

Isn’t he dead?

Who?

Rodney.

That’s my point.

This is your evidence?

Well, you’re not yuckkin’ it up with those other guys down there, complaining about your woman; you’re not here with her; and, well, there’s your job.

Persuasive. Maybe I’m just waiting on somebody.

Right. Who?

Girl of my dreams.

She looked at him skeptically for a moment.

So why isn’t the mystery girl here? Why hasn’t she called? Thirty minutes, you don’t call her, she doesn’t call you?

He leaned back, a little surprised. You’re pretty observant, he said.

She shrugged.

Happy birthday, by the way. Belated, he told her.

Her eyes narrowed. How in the world? She looked behind her. The snapshot taped on the barback. Me blowing out candles. But how’s he know it’s belated?

How did you ...

It was last week, he grinned.

She looked at the photo again. TV in the background with a news crawl going.

Touché. So we’re both observant.

He took another drink, his eyes doing the scan of the room again.

You keep checking the door, so maybe you are waiting after all, she said. But seriously, why don’t you just call?

He actually considered telling her the truth. Briefly.

When you’re a spy, lies are your lifeblood. They become unconscious, a habit you fall into without thinking. Nothing bold or extravagant, hard to keep straight. You just shift little things, key details that could pin down the real you. You never break the truth, just bend it. You borrow facts from other people you’ve known, places you’ve been. It’s the world, one degree off.

When you’re a former operator, an ex-spy hiding from most of the world, they’re even more vital.

So he didn’t tell her he didn’t have a phone on him, that he never carried one with a battery in it, that they are nothing but a bug and a beacon that can be exploited. Instead, he bent, and misdirected.

She’s a pilot. No cell service above a certain altitude.

Which was true. Although she was between jobs at the moment.

As the entry door opened, his gaze automatically shifted and then locked on. A woman had walked in, tall and lithe, with nearly black hair and striking blue eyes.

The barkeep followed his glance.

Wow, she said.

Yeah, that’s what I always think, too, he told her, standing and finishing the drink.

She picked up the napkin and took his glass.

Too bad, she said.

What?

You guys weren’t together, you might’ve hit on me.

I have a feeling you shoot down most every guy that tries, Dangerfield.

She smiled. Yeah, as a general rule.

So I would’ve been just another notch in your bartop.

Even general rules need to be broken sometimes, Locke.

Chapter 3

Samantha Calvert looked around the entry to the restaurant. Gault had been out of town a couple weeks and he was supposed to meet her here. She finally spotted him over by the bar, heading her way.

Hey, handsome.

Who, me?

No, I was actually talking to that guy over there. You’re not too shabby, though.

Gee, thanks. And here I was about to tell you that you’re looking slightly above average tonight.

She gave him a lopsided grin that lit up the room. Before they got any further, the maître d’ pointedly cleared her throat and asked if they were ready for their seating. Grabbing a couple of menus, the woman began leading them toward a table upstairs, in the back.

Following along, Sam whispered, I wonder: Do we still say maître d’ if she’s a her?

What else would you say?

I don’t know. Hostess?

Sure, if you’re at Denny’s.

Well why don’t they say maîtress d’hotel?

Cause she’s not a French dominatrix.

The woman, whatever her title, passed them off to a server. Then it was menus and an explanation of the specials. Soon as they were alone, Gault looked at her across the top of the menu.

So, how’d it go? he asked.

Not even going to let the waitress get out of earshot, huh?

I think we’re supposed to call them waitpersons now.

I forget myself.

Or waitron, he said.

Yes, that’s far less impersonal and demeaning.

So, now that you’ve tried to dodge the question ...

She focused intently on the entrée selections.

Well?

It went fine, she said.

Their server returned. Sam remained impassive, but it was like a drowning swimmer spotting a lifeguard.

They settled on soup to start, a couple Caesars, one filet and one smoked Gouda penne. The waitron went off to take care of it. Gault watched Sam expectantly.

Calvert played with her fork, staring down at the tabletop.

So you didn’t get it? he finally asked.

Sam shook her head.

It was the same as everyplace else: ‘You really have an impressive resume and we’d love to have you on the team, but we just don’t have any requirements at the moment.’

It’s got nothing to do with you. You know this?

I keep telling myself that.

The economy’s in the toilet, everybody’s scared to hire, if they’re not worried about being driven out of business ...

... and when the clowns in D.C. aren’t making it worse, they’re busy golfing or going on talk shows or jetting off to Hawaii for yet another vacation. I know all this.

He nodded.

Their serving wench discreetly interrupted things, delivering salads, clearing off the bowls.

Just takes time, he said. It’s not like you’re looking to work the counter at a burger joint.

I know. But maybe I need to lower my sights a little.

Look, soon as you were out of school, it was straight into the military. You were surrounded by people who were talented and smart and motivated, pulling off complex, challenging ops in a war zone, forming bonds like no other. It was mission, honor, service, loyalty.

I guess, she said, forking a bite of salad.

Then you get wounded and all that ends. But instead of moping, you fight back, work your way into the Bureau, and you’re chasing murderers, terrorists, and kidnappers. Once again, it was all about what?

Paperwork, bureaucracy, posturing.

No, that’s why you left. What you liked was the field, the mission, the camaraderie, serving.

What’s your point? Sam asked.

My point is, I think flying Nightingale or Life Flight or whatever is a great fit. Don’t give up. A record like yours, it’s going to happen.

And in the meantime?

Work out. Read some good books. Take on a big project.

She smiled faintly.

Can we talk about something else?

Sure.

How was the trip?

Fine, he said.

She looked at him over the salad.

Really? That’s all?

It went fine, he said. Got a little sun, looked over the sights ...

... the gunsights ...

Funny. Anyway, we, ah, resolved the issue I went over there to address.

So, now can I know where ‘over there’ was?

I don’t think that’s wise.

Sam considered this.

So from time to time you just disappear for a while and I have no idea where you are or if you’ll ever be back?

You forgot to list what I’m doing, he added helpfully.

"I know the kind of things you’re doing. That’s the problem."

Sam, there are people who, ah, don’t approve.

By ‘people’ you mean most of the government.

Among others.

She regarded him coolly while the salads were cleared and the main course set in place.

Look, I know about this ... whatever you call it. This hobby of yours. You’ve got your circle of contacts inside the system. People who think the government forgot its purpose. I know they pass you info, and that occasionally you all decide to go after bad actors that nobody else will touch.

Assuming any of that is true, you know a lot.

Yeah, well, why not a little more

Operational security. You remember that, right? Besides, if you don’t know, no one can use it against you.

She was silent for a moment, not wholly agreeing, but not disagreeing, either.

So, this is, what, an annual thing? Monthly?

He shrugged.

Whenever. No schedule.

Then you’ll be around for a while?

Ah, about that ...

Seriously?

Well, it’s not, ah, not the same thing. Houston wants to meet.

Your old boss?

Did I ever actually say I worked for him?

Houston, as in director of field ops at ... which agency was it again?

I don’t know anything about any agency.

Right.

So what’s it about?

Sam, he said, you already know.

She did, and this wasn’t news she wanted to hear. It’s about him helping out on that thing with my brother, she said.

Yes.

So he did you a favor ...

Now he’s calling it in.

Chapter 4

After turning off the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge, the staff car circled around the Lincoln Memorial and stopped near the west end of the Tidal Basin. A man in a grey suit and a worn pair of Justin ropers stepped out. His security detail, their objections having been noted, reluctantly drove off without him.

He adjusted the businessman’s Stetson he wore over a fringe of white hair and went through the aficionado’s ritual of lighting a thick cigar.

Harlan S. Houston looked like the bastard love child of Boss Hogg and Arnold Schwarzenegger. To make matters worse, he sounded like he just came in from branding calves and mucking stalls. But he wasn’t the first guy to realize that a touch of cowpoke persona and a little Southern drawl mean half the people you meet write you off as a low-grade moron.

Which can be a useful state of affairs in the swamp on the Potomac.

Adjusting the hat again, Houston set off along the footpath on the basin’s edge. To his left the Washington Monument glowed in the late-day sun, the line where construction stalled for twenty years particularly clear. Cold wind off the water sliced through the rows of cherry trees.

Well before reaching Jefferson’s Memorial, he turned on to a stone walkway leading away from the basin. The path led through a series of outdoor rooms—the fountains and sculptures and benches that make up the second memorial to FDR here in the District.

In the second room he entered, Houston took a seat on a low stone bench. A passing group of gaudily dressed tourists glared hostilely at his cigar before posing for witty snapshots with the statues of cold, hopeless and hungry men waiting in a breadline. He watched them disinterestedly until they moved along.

The old spy had been there about ten minutes when Gault moseyed around the corner of one of the stone walls. He was consulting a worn tourist’s guidebook and examining the breadline statues. Finally he closed the book, looked idly about the outdoor room and then apparently decided to rest for a while on Houston’s bench.

No codephrase? Houston asked dryly. The bowlegged steer walks upwind at noon? The buzzard’s fallin’ off the gut wagon?

Sure. The spotted cuckoo is flying backwards. That take you back to the good old days?

Ah, chasin’ frauleins, tangling with the Stasi, drinkin’ altbier ...

Yeah, well, the Fatherland also brought us Hitler, sauerfleisch and sold-out David Hasselhoff concerts, so let’s not get too nostalgic.

Houston nodded, taking a deep pull on the cigar. How’ve ya been? he asked, exhaling.

Good. Better than when I worked for you. Nobody’s tried to kill me this week.

Lucky you.

Week’s not over.

They sat in silence for a moment, enjoying the fading sun.

Any particular reason you picked this spot?

Gault shrugged. Good a place as any.

Come on, I know there’s some story behind it.

Okay, truth be told, I’m in this ratty hotel a couple days ago. Real dive. About three in the morning, I can’t sleep, everything’s closed, and the place has like two TV channels.

One of ‘em probably not even English.

"Right. Fantasy Island in Spanish. De plano! De plano! Anyway, I’m watching the other channel, and this old black-and-white movie comes on. Gabriel Over the White House."

Never heard of it.

Neither had I. You know how, back in the day, Hearst had his whole media empire do a full-court press to get his boy FDR in the White House? Literally, his editorials, media coverage, everything were like a campaign-long commercial, totally one-sided. Well, he decides even that might not be enough, that voters had to be made to see what a powerful president could do. So, he finances this movie.

About what? Houston asked, taking a long pull on the Montecristo.

The film is about this president, who coincidentally looks exactly like FDR. After a near-fatal car accident, he’s transformed from a do-nothing hack to a hands-on activist dictator. He purges his cabinet of ‘big business lackeys,’ then he ‘suspends’ the Constitution, violently wipes out the corrupt opposition, and revives the economy by nationalizing industries and spending billions on one program after another.

Only billions?

It was 1933. Anyway, when Congress tries to impeach him, our not-Roosevelt dissolves the legislative branch, imposes martial law, and creates an army of brown-shirted storm troopers. Then he blackmails the world into disarmament, ushers in global peace, and is universally acclaimed the greatest president who ever lived. It’s the politico-media complex in its finest hour. And get this: Roosevelt himself helped work on the script.

Ah ...

Yeah. Wacko. It’s like, like ... soft-core porn for those of a certain political persuasion.

Then or now? Houston asked.

No kidding. Anyway, that’s the backstory. I figured in honor of ol’ FDR, we’d come see the Memorial Breadline.

Houston finished the last of the cigar, carefully putting it out and then tossing the end into a nearby trashcan.

So, he said, shifting to business, you got anything to tell me?

Like what?

The Butcher.

Who?

Don’t play dumb. What do you know about al-Jazzaar?

I know he’s dead.

Well now that’s ‘bout helpful as tits on a boar hog. Know anything ‘bout how he got in that condition?

Gault rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.

You’re a high muckety-muck in one of our front-line intel agencies and you don’t know? As a concerned citizen, I have to say that’s troubling.

Just cut the crap, pardner. We gave the man a deal.

Gault turned to look at him, angry. Yeah, that’s kind of the problem. I mean, this guy killed scores of our troops, not to mention hundreds of civilians, kids even. And State just turns a blind eye, helps him be part of the local government, pays him money, even.

Houston scratched at his neck for a moment, thinking. Well, there were important regional geopolitical considerations that ... he began weakly.

"Harlan, the man was still killing our guys! We have people on the ground there now, you know, whatever big political pronouncements have been made. The man was still building bombs. His