Vengeance: A Derek Stillwater Novel (Derek Stillwater Thrillers Book 8) by Mark Terry Page B
Authors: Mark Terry
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not sure what time zone I’m in. Can I take a rain check?”
“Tomorrow night?” she offered.
No getting out of it, he thought. He plastered on a smile and nodded. “Sure. I’ll bring something. Wine or scotch?”
“Oh, surprise me! See you at seven?”
“I’ll be there,” he said, and let himself into the salon of his cabin cruiser. It smelled stuffy. He opened the windows and went about unpacking.
Getting a load of laundry going, he sipped at a glass of Laphroaig then laid down on the bed in the master bedroom. Thirteen hours later he woke up.
When Derek had been loaned to the State Department, he had been assigned a cubicle in the basement of the Harry S. Truman Department of State building in Foggy Bottom. He shared the cubicle farm with twenty people who were more directly affiliated with the State Department’s Bureau of Intelligence and Research, the intelligence gathering and analysis wing of State. Mostly his duties were to either provide his opinions on various intelligence regarding biological and chemical weapons in a variety of countries, or to actually meet with those countries’ experts to discuss problems. As a result, he could either work on a laptop almost anywhere, or he was in a plane or meeting with people in embassies or coffee shops.
He showed up in his cubicle, which was decorated solely with a photograph of Lev. It had been about four weeks since he’d last been there. The analyst in the next cubicle was a twenty-something Harvard graduate who was apparently an expert of some sort on Central Africa. Derek had spoken with him briefly about Derek’s brother, who was a physician in Congo with Doctors Without Borders. For a moment he couldn’t remember the guy’s name. Then it came back to him: Jerome Tenbon.
He said hello, then pulled up his email. There were a number that were employee related that didn’t interest him much and he flagged to read at his leisure. Joe Moore had sent one first thing in the morning. It indicated he wanted a meeting with Derek at 10:30, followed by a brief meeting with the Secretary afterwards. Derek replied to the affirmative, and went about finishing up the report he had started about his opinions on what should be done about Syria and chemical weapons.
At 10:30 he stepped into the outer office of Joe Moore, the Secretary of State’s Chief of Staff. One of Moore’s staffers said Moore was running behind, but only by a little bit. It was about fifteen minutes, which in Derek’s experience wasn’t bad. He was asked into Moore’s office, which had a large oak desk and chairs and a more comfortable setting of three chairs and a sofa. Every time Derek was in Moore’s office there was a different painting on the wall. He seemed to request them rotated by the week. He thought the current one might be a Renoir. He was convinced the last time it had been a Whistler.
Moore, chunky and bald with a round face and a gray goatee, sat behind the desk peering at the computer through bifocals. “Sorry I’m running behind. Take a seat over there. The Israelis can be such a pain in the ass.” He typed for a few minutes, reread what he had written then hit send.
He came from around the desk and shook Derek’s hand. “How’s the shoulder?”
“Mending.”
“Have you been over to Walter Reed?”
“Not yet. I need to call for a follow-up.”
Moore nodded. “I read the initial report. More to the point, Derek, I read John Hammond’s report.”
Derek waited.
“You were waterboarded.”
“It’s effective,” Derek said.
“I’m sorry. The Secretary doesn’t mean to put you in these situations. Do you want counseling?”
“I’ve been through that before. No thanks.”
Moore nodded again. “Are you ready to continue working on the Nazif Brigade?”
“Sure.”
“Where do you want to start?”
“Guantanamo. His brother is there.”
Moore sighed. “Go ahead and make the arrangements.”
They talked for a few more minutes about
“Tomorrow night?” she offered.
No getting out of it, he thought. He plastered on a smile and nodded. “Sure. I’ll bring something. Wine or scotch?”
“Oh, surprise me! See you at seven?”
“I’ll be there,” he said, and let himself into the salon of his cabin cruiser. It smelled stuffy. He opened the windows and went about unpacking.
Getting a load of laundry going, he sipped at a glass of Laphroaig then laid down on the bed in the master bedroom. Thirteen hours later he woke up.
When Derek had been loaned to the State Department, he had been assigned a cubicle in the basement of the Harry S. Truman Department of State building in Foggy Bottom. He shared the cubicle farm with twenty people who were more directly affiliated with the State Department’s Bureau of Intelligence and Research, the intelligence gathering and analysis wing of State. Mostly his duties were to either provide his opinions on various intelligence regarding biological and chemical weapons in a variety of countries, or to actually meet with those countries’ experts to discuss problems. As a result, he could either work on a laptop almost anywhere, or he was in a plane or meeting with people in embassies or coffee shops.
He showed up in his cubicle, which was decorated solely with a photograph of Lev. It had been about four weeks since he’d last been there. The analyst in the next cubicle was a twenty-something Harvard graduate who was apparently an expert of some sort on Central Africa. Derek had spoken with him briefly about Derek’s brother, who was a physician in Congo with Doctors Without Borders. For a moment he couldn’t remember the guy’s name. Then it came back to him: Jerome Tenbon.
He said hello, then pulled up his email. There were a number that were employee related that didn’t interest him much and he flagged to read at his leisure. Joe Moore had sent one first thing in the morning. It indicated he wanted a meeting with Derek at 10:30, followed by a brief meeting with the Secretary afterwards. Derek replied to the affirmative, and went about finishing up the report he had started about his opinions on what should be done about Syria and chemical weapons.
At 10:30 he stepped into the outer office of Joe Moore, the Secretary of State’s Chief of Staff. One of Moore’s staffers said Moore was running behind, but only by a little bit. It was about fifteen minutes, which in Derek’s experience wasn’t bad. He was asked into Moore’s office, which had a large oak desk and chairs and a more comfortable setting of three chairs and a sofa. Every time Derek was in Moore’s office there was a different painting on the wall. He seemed to request them rotated by the week. He thought the current one might be a Renoir. He was convinced the last time it had been a Whistler.
Moore, chunky and bald with a round face and a gray goatee, sat behind the desk peering at the computer through bifocals. “Sorry I’m running behind. Take a seat over there. The Israelis can be such a pain in the ass.” He typed for a few minutes, reread what he had written then hit send.
He came from around the desk and shook Derek’s hand. “How’s the shoulder?”
“Mending.”
“Have you been over to Walter Reed?”
“Not yet. I need to call for a follow-up.”
Moore nodded. “I read the initial report. More to the point, Derek, I read John Hammond’s report.”
Derek waited.
“You were waterboarded.”
“It’s effective,” Derek said.
“I’m sorry. The Secretary doesn’t mean to put you in these situations. Do you want counseling?”
“I’ve been through that before. No thanks.”
Moore nodded again. “Are you ready to continue working on the Nazif Brigade?”
“Sure.”
“Where do you want to start?”
“Guantanamo. His brother is there.”
Moore sighed. “Go ahead and make the arrangements.”
They talked for a few more minutes about
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