“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Do it. Five minutes ago.”
“What happened?”
“Do you remember anyone else who ever called me ‘Billy the Kid?’”
“Anybody
Bill bent over to where the phone was jacked to the wall. “WW-143-04.” From down there, he saw one of his business cards, which had fallen behind the credenza. He reached over.
“Okay, I’ll need a location as soon as you know.” Joey hung up and saw Bill pensively flipping the card in his fingers.
“Where do you keep your wallet?”
“I keep it in my pants.”
“That’s a good practice for a married man… and an American.”
“Where do Europeans keep their wallets?”
“I guess you aren’t looking for ‘pants’ as an answer.”
“Not if they are wearing jackets!”
“What?”
“You know, it’s very continental to have a billfold in the breast pocket of your jacket,” Bill said sliding his hand into his inside sport jacket pocket.
“You gotta stop having a quick one at lunch, Billy boy.”
“Just find out where the call came from and call France to find out where they found Peter’s wallet and my card.”
“Oh crap!”
“Exactly.”
When Joey left. Bill clicked the address book icon on his desktop, found the number he was looking for, and dialed.
“Johnny, it’s Bill Hiccock. How you doing? Listen, I wanted to ask you something. Your brother, Peter; did he live with anyone in Paris? Could ya? Great; let me give you my cell number.”
Cheryl came in and waited for Bill to finish.
“It’s probably nothing, but I just had a crazy thought. Later, Johnny.”
Bill ended the call and looked up.
“Joey called and said ‘14 Rue de Roosevelt, St Germain.’ Isn’t that Paris?”
“Yes it is. Get me that CIA guy at our embassy in Paris.”
“Does Joey know who the CIA guy you are talking about is?”
“Yes. I’m sorry Cheryl… of course, you wouldn’t know who that is. Have Joey call, and request to have surveillance of that address.”
“Who are they looking for?”
“A dead guy.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Bridgestone and Ross were active and fanning out from the source of the bombs, the refinery in Egypt. In a widening circle from the Nursery, they were trying to uncover any information about where the bomb was and where it might be headed.
The best lead they had ferreted out yet was a truck driver who they now believed delivered the 24 nukes to the facility two weeks before the raid. They based that belief on information provided by the long trail of broken bones and soiled undergarments of those who needed some persuasion to cooperate with them.
They were sitting in an old Range Rover at a truck stop along the desert road from Syria waiting for the truck driver.
“Ever hear of this guy Hiccock before?” Bridgestone asked.
“No, but he’s got enough juice to get us out of jail free. That’s all I need to know.”
“So we are part of what now?”
“Quarterback ops, or something like that.”
“Ah, now I get it.”
“Wanna share?” Ross hated when Bridge knew something he didn’t.
“Bill Hiccock! Played for Stanford! Now he’s like the science guy for Mitchell. He sprang us!”
“Like to meet him someday. Thank him face to face.”
“You and I should live so long.”
“Is that the truck?”
“Plate number BH7234, roger.”
They watched as the truck pulled into the rest stop. The driver, one Jamal al Najime, stepped from his cab carrying his thermos and made a beeline for the restroom. Ten seconds later, Ross climbed into the cab to look for any records or clues to his affiliation. Bridgestone positioned himself outside the truck stop’s men’s room. Not being listed in the Michelin Guide meant this roadside oasis essentially had holes in the ground for commode facilities and since ventilation was still two centuries off, the odor was very distinct.
When Jamal emerged, Ross watched him walk to the counter, place his thermos on it, and sit. Ross entered and went straight to the men’s room. Bridge followed. They checked that they were the only ones in there and spoke English in low tones.
“You take him, Bridge. He’s from the south; you’ll do better with him.”
“What else did you find?”
“He’s not real religious. He is on his way to Cairo out of Damascus with a load of televisions in the back. He’s got two daughters and one son. He takes pills for high blood pressure. He’s had riders in the shotgun seat. I found prescription glasses in the passenger door pocket. He doesn’t wear them and I don’t see contacts. He’s studying up on chicken farming.”
“Stay close; I’m going to try and jump a ride with him.”
“Got your back, Master Sergeant.”
Bridgestone sat next to Jamal and ordered strong coffee. Jamal ordered and ate like a truck driver. Bridgestone started small talk in Arabic.
“Sandstorm’s coming this afternoon.”
“They always make it sound worse than it is.” The driver grunted as he tore off another piece of flatbread.
“Where are you headed?”
“Cairo. Got four hours to make it.”
“You have to go pretty fast, and then the storm.”
“I’ve done it in three-and-a-half during worse.”
“May Allah guide your trip.”
“Thank you and a blessing upon you. Do you drive?”
“I drove before I lost my truck. I’m hoping to get some relief work in Cairo. Trying to make my way there now.”
“How are you going?”
“On the charity of others. Allah has seen fit to have gotten me this far.”
“Where did you start?”
“Lake Nasser, early yesterday.”
