Chapter 36
Six Days, Four Hours, Thirty Minutes
Casually, DeMarco glanced up and down the busy, bustling Washington, D.C. street. He realized – in that moment – that no one was ever truly alone in America. There was always someone else around. The women strolling from building to building, from shop to shop, taking in a meal with their special friends or trying a catch a bite between company meetings. The men marching to and fro, serving their country or their industry all for the sake of keeping a roof over their head and putting food on the table. In a country so large, he had imagined that eventually he would find a lonely corner – an unforgiving place that time and technology had forgotten much like so much of his homeland. In America, it wasn't so.
'Plenty of targets,' he thought, smiling to himself.
Quickly, he stepped into the kiosk, picked up the receiver, dropped a few coins into the slot and dialed the phone number he had scribbled on the back of his hand. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Finally, he heard the click of the line going active.
"Hello?"
DeMarco said, "Yes, hello. Is this the Dorantes residence?"
"It is."
"I was hoping that you could help me locate a friend of mine," he tried. "You see, I'm visiting the District of Columbia. A tourist. I'm in from Michigan. I was supposed to meet my friend this morning for breakfast, but I missed him. I was visiting my great-grandfather's grave at Arlington National Cemetery, and I lost track of time. He gave me this telephone number to call if I was in the city."
"Where did you say you were from?"
DeMarco grinned. He loved playing cloak-and-dagger, despite the fact that the international intelligence community had taken much of the fun out of it. "Alpena, Michigan."
The person on the telephone flatly replied, "Mr. Dorantes is at the discussed location," and hung up.
Dropping the receiver onto its cradle, DeMarco walked across the street into the Thirteen Stripes Delicatessen. A tall man under a white apron met him at the door and escorted him past the dining patrons into the eatery's rear hallway. Together, they entered through a door marked 'Employees Only' and walked down the stairs into the basement. The dimly lit space sheltered boxes of stored breads and canned goods. Behind the boxes, they found a small marble table with two chairs. One of the chairs was occupied by an American in blue jeans and a long-sleeve, button-down blue Oxford shirt. The man had rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, and he sipped from a tall glass of bubbling soda. Seeing DeMarco's arrival, he rose, extended his arms, and the two men embraced.
"It's good to see you, Rick," the man said with genuine warmth.
"It is always a comfort to see you, Matthew," DeMarco replied.
With the wave of his hand, the denim-wearing man dismissed his help, and the two terrorists sat at the small table.
"What is this?" DeMarco asked, gesturing at the tall glass of soda. "I thought you would be drinking whiskey from an open bottle!"
Matthew nodded. "There is plenty of time for whiskey, my friend," he replied, a hint of his Southern accent trailing his syllables. "But, alas, I am trying to give up the grain, as they say."
"What? Give up drinking?" DeMarco opened his eyes in mock alarm. The two men laughed. "What poisoned mind would even entertain such a crazy notion?"
"You get along in years like I am, and you start to take a little better care of your body each passing day," Matthew explained. "Isn't that what your people believe? You treat your body like a temple?"
DeMarco waved. "My people believe many things, some of them useful, but most of them are foolish." Pointing at the glass, he tried, "I would hope you might have another for a friend?"
Matthew raised his hand into the air and waggled a finger. Through a curtained doorway behind him stepped a short redhead woman. Like him, she wore jeans and a button-down shirt. She smiled, and DeMarco found her stunning, as he did most American women.
"Who is this?" he asked.
"This is Lisa," Matthew answered. "And you'll do yourself some good to keep your hands off her, Rick."
"Is that so?"
"That's right," the man said. "She happens to be my little sister."
"Really?" With pleasure, DeMarco extended his hand to the young woman. She took it, and he squeezed pleasantly. "I never knew you had a family."
"Well, I've tried to keep mine hidden for as long as I can," Matthew explained, "but I figured that the War on Terror might eventually lead Uncle Sam to knock on my door. She's always wanted to get a foot in the business, so I figured there was no better time than the present ... isn't that right, little sister?"
Lisa wore her hair short in an almost mannish cut. For her size, she had a long, sensual neck, and she kept it on display with her shirt unbuttoned down to the upper curve of her breasts. DeMarco could tell that – despite the fabric – she wasn't wearing any bra.
"How do you do, Mr. DeMarco?"
Rising, DeMarco released her hand and, instead, pulled her closer to him in a bear hug. She laughed, and he laughed with her. When he let her go, he held her at arms length so that he could admire her Southern beauty.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Lisa," he said, "but I insist that, like your brother has done for so many years, that you skip any formality and call me 'Rick.' As you will no doubt learn from him, our business tends to work far more effectively when we stay on a first-name-basis."
She grinned up at the charming foreigner. "Then it is my pleasure to meet you, Rick," she told him. "Can I get you something?"
"I'll have whatever cola Matthew is drinking," the man replied. "Your brother is a good man, and, so long as I've know him, he's always impressed me with impeccably good tastes. Whatever he's drinking – despite the presence of any alcohol – is good enough for this old friend of your family. We will drink it together ... for our mutual health."
"Coming right up," she said, and she disappeared behind the curtain.
"Matthew," DeMarco began as he slipped into his chair, "she is absolutely lovely."
Smiling back at him, the man warned teasingly, "You just remember what I said about keeping your hands off that little girl."
Holding up his hands in a show of surrender, the foreigner laughed. "I would never serve insult to you or to your family ... despite her obvious gifts."
"She's a peach, she is."
"The blood of your family has obviously been blessed."
"Isn't that what it's all about these days?"
DeMarco glanced around the well-stocked basement as he replied, "I think it has been that way for thousands of years, Matthew. Despite the lessons of history, the world – and those who inhabit it – has chosen to ... to believe otherwise in their dreams of peace and happiness."
"Misguided flocks," he said. "Isn't it a crock?"
"It has always been."
The curtain rustled, and Lisa appeared. She carried the glass to the table, dragging behind her a third chair. After she placed the drink in front of her guest, she promptly settled into her seat, smiling across the table at DeMarco.
"So where have you been keeping yourself these days, Rick?"
DeMarco smiled, taking his eyes off the American beauty and relaxing in his chair. He cleared his throat. "I finished my business at home," he explained flatly, any trace of emotion hidden from his voice. "Now ... now I have come to America to conduct my final affair."
Matthew nodded grimly. "I heard about your mother."
DeMarco studied his friend's eyes.
"I'm sorry for your loss, Rick."
Relaxing his hold on the glass, the man brought it up to his mouth and sipped. The cola stung his tongue – he never cared much for anything other than alcohol himself – but he ignored the sensation and continued drinking. Slowly, he finished swallowing and set the glass back onto the marble tabletop. "Yes," he said. "She died as she lived. She wouldn't have it any other way. Nor would her God. And, yes, it was ... it was a tragedy."
"You're damn right," Matthew agreed. "Your mother was a great woman, Rick. She was one of the first I met when I was dealing arms in Turkey. Despite what the worldwide media might have you think, she was a patriot in her own right ... perhaps one of the last of her kind." The southerner leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Whoever took that woman from God's green Earth doesn't deserve to breathe the same air we do."
DeMarco suddenly grew silent.
"You took care of the bastards who did it?"
The man craned his neck momentarily, trying to work out a sudden kink. "No," he answered. "I haven't the means. The international military? It has grown too large and too complex to service any singular purpose of good. They're far more interested in capture of information, the hunt for a single villain, or the delivery of humanitarian aid than they are in answering the call to justice whether it come from a nation or from one man, acting alone, on a mission of vengeance." He sighed. "I eliminated those in my country whose conspiracy brought about her death, but there is a person who eludes me ... well, I should say, that he is under the mistaken impression that he had eluded me."
"Here?" Matthew asked, sounding surprised. "This man is in the United States?"
Simply, DeMarco nodded. "He's in this very city, Matthew."
"Is that why you've come here?"
Finally, his neck popped, and the kink dissolved. The man brought his hand up to his neck to massage it, but, before he could begin grinding into the muscle, Lisa rose out of her chair, stepping comfortably behind him, and he felt her soft, small fingers on his shoulder. She tightened them, working her thumb closer and closer toward the base of his scalp with a practiced eagerness.
Relaxing, DeMarco tried, "I hope you will note for the record, Matthew, that it was not I who first put my hands on your little sister but, rather, it was she who placed her hands on me."
Matthew chuckled. "Like I said, Rick. She's learning the business."
DeMarco felt her welcome warm breath on the back of his neck as she continued to work his aching muscles. "She's doing a very fine job."
"Tell me what you need, and it's yours."
The man leaned forward as Lisa pressed lightly on the back of his head. Her fingers prodded the tissue surrounding his raised vertebrae. Unintentionally, his head bobbed softly to the left and the right. He closed his eyes. For several moments, he enjoyed the peace the young woman brought him. It had been so long since he had experienced any calm, any joy. Here he was ... sitting in the basement of a Washington café ... sitting in the heart of the land he had only known his entire life as his very enemy ... but he finally relaxed despite the painful reality of his life, of his situation, of his loss ... and he knew, at last, he was among friends.
DeMarco forced down the lump in his throat. He felt a tear forming at the corner of his eyes, and he knew no shame when it slipped down his cheek.
"I will tell you everything that I need, Matthew," he said, "in good time."
End of Chapter 36
Six Days, Four Hours, Thirty Minutes
Casually, DeMarco glanced up and down the busy, bustling Washington, D.C. street. He realized – in that moment – that no one was ever truly alone in America. There was always someone else around. The women strolling from building to building, from shop to shop, taking in a meal with their special friends or trying a catch a bite between company meetings. The men marching to and fro, serving their country or their industry all for the sake of keeping a roof over their head and putting food on the table. In a country so large, he had imagined that eventually he would find a lonely corner – an unforgiving place that time and technology had forgotten much like so much of his homeland. In America, it wasn't so.
'Plenty of targets,' he thought, smiling to himself.
Quickly, he stepped into the kiosk, picked up the receiver, dropped a few coins into the slot and dialed the phone number he had scribbled on the back of his hand. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Finally, he heard the click of the line going active.
"Hello?"
DeMarco said, "Yes, hello. Is this the Dorantes residence?"
"It is."
"I was hoping that you could help me locate a friend of mine," he tried. "You see, I'm visiting the District of Columbia. A tourist. I'm in from Michigan. I was supposed to meet my friend this morning for breakfast, but I missed him. I was visiting my great-grandfather's grave at Arlington National Cemetery, and I lost track of time. He gave me this telephone number to call if I was in the city."
"Where did you say you were from?"
DeMarco grinned. He loved playing cloak-and-dagger, despite the fact that the international intelligence community had taken much of the fun out of it. "Alpena, Michigan."
The person on the telephone flatly replied, "Mr. Dorantes is at the discussed location," and hung up.
Dropping the receiver onto its cradle, DeMarco walked across the street into the Thirteen Stripes Delicatessen. A tall man under a white apron met him at the door and escorted him past the dining patrons into the eatery's rear hallway. Together, they entered through a door marked 'Employees Only' and walked down the stairs into the basement. The dimly lit space sheltered boxes of stored breads and canned goods. Behind the boxes, they found a small marble table with two chairs. One of the chairs was occupied by an American in blue jeans and a long-sleeve, button-down blue Oxford shirt. The man had rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, and he sipped from a tall glass of bubbling soda. Seeing DeMarco's arrival, he rose, extended his arms, and the two men embraced.
"It's good to see you, Rick," the man said with genuine warmth.
"It is always a comfort to see you, Matthew," DeMarco replied.
With the wave of his hand, the denim-wearing man dismissed his help, and the two terrorists sat at the small table.
"What is this?" DeMarco asked, gesturing at the tall glass of soda. "I thought you would be drinking whiskey from an open bottle!"
Matthew nodded. "There is plenty of time for whiskey, my friend," he replied, a hint of his Southern accent trailing his syllables. "But, alas, I am trying to give up the grain, as they say."
"What? Give up drinking?" DeMarco opened his eyes in mock alarm. The two men laughed. "What poisoned mind would even entertain such a crazy notion?"
"You get along in years like I am, and you start to take a little better care of your body each passing day," Matthew explained. "Isn't that what your people believe? You treat your body like a temple?"
DeMarco waved. "My people believe many things, some of them useful, but most of them are foolish." Pointing at the glass, he tried, "I would hope you might have another for a friend?"
Matthew raised his hand into the air and waggled a finger. Through a curtained doorway behind him stepped a short redhead woman. Like him, she wore jeans and a button-down shirt. She smiled, and DeMarco found her stunning, as he did most American women.
"Who is this?" he asked.
"This is Lisa," Matthew answered. "And you'll do yourself some good to keep your hands off her, Rick."
"Is that so?"
"That's right," the man said. "She happens to be my little sister."
"Really?" With pleasure, DeMarco extended his hand to the young woman. She took it, and he squeezed pleasantly. "I never knew you had a family."
"Well, I've tried to keep mine hidden for as long as I can," Matthew explained, "but I figured that the War on Terror might eventually lead Uncle Sam to knock on my door. She's always wanted to get a foot in the business, so I figured there was no better time than the present ... isn't that right, little sister?"
Lisa wore her hair short in an almost mannish cut. For her size, she had a long, sensual neck, and she kept it on display with her shirt unbuttoned down to the upper curve of her breasts. DeMarco could tell that – despite the fabric – she wasn't wearing any bra.
"How do you do, Mr. DeMarco?"
Rising, DeMarco released her hand and, instead, pulled her closer to him in a bear hug. She laughed, and he laughed with her. When he let her go, he held her at arms length so that he could admire her Southern beauty.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Lisa," he said, "but I insist that, like your brother has done for so many years, that you skip any formality and call me 'Rick.' As you will no doubt learn from him, our business tends to work far more effectively when we stay on a first-name-basis."
She grinned up at the charming foreigner. "Then it is my pleasure to meet you, Rick," she told him. "Can I get you something?"
"I'll have whatever cola Matthew is drinking," the man replied. "Your brother is a good man, and, so long as I've know him, he's always impressed me with impeccably good tastes. Whatever he's drinking – despite the presence of any alcohol – is good enough for this old friend of your family. We will drink it together ... for our mutual health."
"Coming right up," she said, and she disappeared behind the curtain.
"Matthew," DeMarco began as he slipped into his chair, "she is absolutely lovely."
Smiling back at him, the man warned teasingly, "You just remember what I said about keeping your hands off that little girl."
Holding up his hands in a show of surrender, the foreigner laughed. "I would never serve insult to you or to your family ... despite her obvious gifts."
"She's a peach, she is."
"The blood of your family has obviously been blessed."
"Isn't that what it's all about these days?"
DeMarco glanced around the well-stocked basement as he replied, "I think it has been that way for thousands of years, Matthew. Despite the lessons of history, the world – and those who inhabit it – has chosen to ... to believe otherwise in their dreams of peace and happiness."
"Misguided flocks," he said. "Isn't it a crock?"
"It has always been."
The curtain rustled, and Lisa appeared. She carried the glass to the table, dragging behind her a third chair. After she placed the drink in front of her guest, she promptly settled into her seat, smiling across the table at DeMarco.
"So where have you been keeping yourself these days, Rick?"
DeMarco smiled, taking his eyes off the American beauty and relaxing in his chair. He cleared his throat. "I finished my business at home," he explained flatly, any trace of emotion hidden from his voice. "Now ... now I have come to America to conduct my final affair."
Matthew nodded grimly. "I heard about your mother."
DeMarco studied his friend's eyes.
"I'm sorry for your loss, Rick."
Relaxing his hold on the glass, the man brought it up to his mouth and sipped. The cola stung his tongue – he never cared much for anything other than alcohol himself – but he ignored the sensation and continued drinking. Slowly, he finished swallowing and set the glass back onto the marble tabletop. "Yes," he said. "She died as she lived. She wouldn't have it any other way. Nor would her God. And, yes, it was ... it was a tragedy."
"You're damn right," Matthew agreed. "Your mother was a great woman, Rick. She was one of the first I met when I was dealing arms in Turkey. Despite what the worldwide media might have you think, she was a patriot in her own right ... perhaps one of the last of her kind." The southerner leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Whoever took that woman from God's green Earth doesn't deserve to breathe the same air we do."
DeMarco suddenly grew silent.
"You took care of the bastards who did it?"
The man craned his neck momentarily, trying to work out a sudden kink. "No," he answered. "I haven't the means. The international military? It has grown too large and too complex to service any singular purpose of good. They're far more interested in capture of information, the hunt for a single villain, or the delivery of humanitarian aid than they are in answering the call to justice whether it come from a nation or from one man, acting alone, on a mission of vengeance." He sighed. "I eliminated those in my country whose conspiracy brought about her death, but there is a person who eludes me ... well, I should say, that he is under the mistaken impression that he had eluded me."
"Here?" Matthew asked, sounding surprised. "This man is in the United States?"
Simply, DeMarco nodded. "He's in this very city, Matthew."
"Is that why you've come here?"
Finally, his neck popped, and the kink dissolved. The man brought his hand up to his neck to massage it, but, before he could begin grinding into the muscle, Lisa rose out of her chair, stepping comfortably behind him, and he felt her soft, small fingers on his shoulder. She tightened them, working her thumb closer and closer toward the base of his scalp with a practiced eagerness.
Relaxing, DeMarco tried, "I hope you will note for the record, Matthew, that it was not I who first put my hands on your little sister but, rather, it was she who placed her hands on me."
Matthew chuckled. "Like I said, Rick. She's learning the business."
DeMarco felt her welcome warm breath on the back of his neck as she continued to work his aching muscles. "She's doing a very fine job."
"Tell me what you need, and it's yours."
The man leaned forward as Lisa pressed lightly on the back of his head. Her fingers prodded the tissue surrounding his raised vertebrae. Unintentionally, his head bobbed softly to the left and the right. He closed his eyes. For several moments, he enjoyed the peace the young woman brought him. It had been so long since he had experienced any calm, any joy. Here he was ... sitting in the basement of a Washington café ... sitting in the heart of the land he had only known his entire life as his very enemy ... but he finally relaxed despite the painful reality of his life, of his situation, of his loss ... and he knew, at last, he was among friends.
DeMarco forced down the lump in his throat. He felt a tear forming at the corner of his eyes, and he knew no shame when it slipped down his cheek.
"I will tell you everything that I need, Matthew," he said, "in good time."
End of Chapter 36