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He was American, Zack instantly noted, although he couldn’t say for certain how. He eyed the man up and down, quickly and calmly, then looked back down to his drink.
A minute later he finished, ordered another beer, and when it came he snatched the cold bottle off the marble surface and rose from his barstool. Walking coolly through the restaurant tables, he made his way around a group of Chinese, through some locals, and then sat back down at the bar, right next to the man he’d noticed facing him.
Zack took a swig of his beer, put the bottle down.
“How long?” he said, looking ahead, not at the young man next to him.
There was a pause, just as Zack had expected. And then, “I’m…I’m sorry?”
“How long am I waiting?”
“Uhh…waiting for what?”
Zack sighed, lifted the bottle in front of him. “When this beer is done, I’m out of here.”
“I don’t know why…”
“Look, kid,” Zack said, still not turning to the man. “You’re from the embassy. I won’t go any further than that, but we both know who you work for. You look like you were sent out to fix my position, not to talk to me yourself, because you don’t look like you’ve been off the Farm for more than, what…six months?”
The young man let out a defeated breath. “Almost a year.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, I’m just really fucking good at my job.”
The CIA officer said nothing.
“Anyway, I assume someone above you is on the way to come talk to me, but I’m not exactly in the mood for a chat with some embassy stiff. My papers are legit, I can—”
“He’s here,” the young man said, deep relief evident in his voice.
Zack turned to him. “Who’s here?”
He heard the barstool pull out behind him, and then he heard a new voice. “How’s life here in the worker’s paradise, Sierra One?”
Zack turned back around to see Jim Pace, a former teammate on his Golf Sierra unit, sitting there in an off-white linen suit. Eyeglasses, a mustache, a head of thick dark brown hair. Without looking at Zack, Pace flagged down the bartender and ordered a Havana Club rum on ice in sloppy Spanish.
Zack spoke softly. “What’s a nice fella like you doing in a place like this?”
“Can you guess?”
Zack turned forward again, took a sip of his beer. The younger man on his right slid off his barstool and walked to the entrance, taking up a position there.
Zack watched him, and then he noticed a smaller Asian man in a T-shirt standing just outside in the street. He looked like he could be part of Pace’s team, as well.
“I can guess you aren’t in the Branch anymore.”
Pace was no longer in Ground Branch, that was true, but Zack was also insinuating it was clear he had gone over into “mainstream” CIA operations. It was meant as a dig, but Pace didn’t seem to mind.
“I left the fun stuff behind for the younger generation. How ’bout you?”
“You know me. Fuck the younger generation. I’m out here, still doing fun stuff.”
“What does your spine think about that?”
Zack gave his first little smile of the night. “It has some reservations about my life choices.”
“Heard you got into the fun stuff last night, a few miles from here. Sounds like it was an absolute blast.”
Zack took another sip, his little grin having faded away. “What can I do for you, Jim?”
