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“That book deal you just signed . . . you can kiss that hundred-thousand-dollar advance good-bye.”
Jones’s face grew angry. It was all so unfair. He had worked hard, more than fulfilled his end of the bargain, but they wouldn’t let him go. He hated to admit it but he knew Bernstein was right. Sixteen years as a distinguished journalist, the first ten with the Associated Press, and then the last six as CBS’s Middle East correspondent. One whisper that he was a spy for the CIA and he would become the biggest pariah in his field. He’d be fired by his employer and with it his expense account and entire way of life would vanish, and then he would be ostracized by all of his colleagues and hated by almost every friend he’d made over his professional career. Although, maybe it might help book sales, he thought. Times had changed, despite what his handler had always said. The mean old bastard loved to describe to him in detail what would happen to him if he was ever exposed.
“You can’t let this shit get to you,” Bernstein said, trying to snap his friend out of his funk. “At least hear what he has to say.” As they continued down the crushed-gravel path Bernstein wondered about the roles they played. Jones was the on-air talent—the pretty face with the deep voice and sympathetic blue-gray eyes. A nice head of hair, but thinning just enough to give him the seasoning of a man who has seen the world and knows the difference between right and wrong. Insecurity came with the job, unfortunately. There was always someone younger and better looking out there hot on his heels. Bernstein was the hustler—never afraid to go anywhere if it meant getting the shot. They’d both won a mantel full of awards. Where Bernstein was reckless, Jones was cautious. The taller of the two had saved them more than a few times by refusing to enter a particular hot spot. He had an uncanny sense for situations that were about to fall apart, and Bernstein had learned to respect it.
They continued for a good hundred yards without speaking, passing the Octagonal Lake and making their way toward the eclectic corner of the park where the young, old, brilliant, and strange gathered to play chess. As they rounded the lake, Jones decided to make one of his pronouncements.
“I have a bad feeling.”
Bernstein was long past giving him shit about these premonitions. He cleared his throat, looked over both shoulders, and asked, “What is it?”
“I think this has something to do with the massacre at the hotel the other night.”
Bernstein digested the news, took a few thoughtful strides, and said, “No sense worrying about it until we hear what he has to say.”
“I’m not so sure. I’d just as soon tell him to fuck off. I could be in Cairo by nightfall, and they can all kiss my ass. I’ll still write my book, and maybe I’ll out all these fuckers.”
Bernstein knew his friend well enough to know he was prone to theatrics and grandiose statements when he was nervous. “You migh
t want to keep that thought to yourself.”
“Oh, trust me . . . I know. I’m the one he yells at, not you.”
“That’s because I keep my mouth shut.” Bernstein shoved his hands into his pockets. “You ask too many questions.”
“I’m a reporter. That’s what I do for a living. I ask questions. Lots of them.”
“Well maybe today you could give it a break. Just sit there and listen for a change.”
They found an open table with a little space between them and the guys who were playing chess. Bernstein produced a folding chessboard from his jacket and two Ziploc bags—one filled with white pieces and the other filled with black. Holding the bags under the table, he extracted one piece from each and then held his fists out for Jones to choose.
The Minnesotan tapped the right hand and Bernstein cringed as he opened it to reveal a black bishop.
“Oh, great. You get white. I might was as well quit right now.”
Bernstein didn’t want to hear any more complaining, so he handed the white bag across the table.
“I don’t want your charity.”
“And I don’t want to hear you bitch anymore . . . besides, we both know I don’t need the first move to win.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“No thanks,” Bernstein responded as he started to set up the black pieces.
The two were so focused on setting up the board that they failed to notice a bald man in a khaki trench coat sit down at the table next to them. He was wearing a pair of sunglasses and thin leather driving gloves. He took a newspaper from under his arm and set it on the table. In a gravelly voice, just above a whisper, he said, “So you’d just as soon tell me to fuck off. Be in Cairo by nightfall and out my ass.”
The color rushed from both of their faces, and Bernstein gave his friend a look that said he would like to shove every last chess piece down his throat. Slowly, they both turned their heads and looked at the man sitting four feet away.
Stan Hurley slid his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose and looked straight at Jones. “How about I put a bullet in the back of your head, and we call it even?”
The tall reporter sat gaping for a moment, as he was too shocked to think of a reply. Slowly his mouth started to move, but no words came out, and then he started to stammer as if he were back in grade school.
“Stop fucking mumbling,” Hurley ordered. “How long have I been working with you two?”
Again, Jones began to stutter.
Hurley, as impatient as ever, answered his own question. “Seventeen fucking years and this is how you want to treat me, you selfish prick? I got your ass out of that jam in Turkey. I helped both of you find jobs, and there’s been no shortage in cash that has come your way over the years, and you act like you’re a fucking victim.”
