Chapter 59
Derek's Room... several hours later
"Shit," Nick muttered as the door's hinge squeaked. In the darkness, he could see Yusuf curled in the chair. He peeked around the edge and was relieved to see Derek in bed, apparently asleep. He turned back to Ginge and whispered, "Let him sleep a little longer."
"Did you find it?" Derek asked.
"Shit!" the SEAL swore again. He flipped on the light, pushed open the door, and turned to the precept, who was now sitting up in bed. "Yeah... we found something," he conceded. "It's kept for a dozen years.... It'll keep for another couple of hours.... Go back to sleep."
"Show me."
Ginge sauntered in and handed Derek a Manila folder. "It's not in Russian.... I think it's Latin.... Indy says you can read it."
"After a fashion," the older man replied. "Where was it?"
"Spot on, Professor.... Right where you said."
Nick saw Derek blanche. His hand trembled as he opened the folder. What the hell, he wondered. A vision?... Weakness?... Something written there?... "What?" he asked abruptly.
Startled, Derek looked up at the two soldiers and smiled. "It's nothing," he told them. "Someone walked over my grave.... That's all.... Just call me Derek, Ginge... or Dutch is fine... if you prefer.... 'Professor' dredges up something I'd just as soon forget." He could hear West's taunting "Professor" still.... Could he ever put it all behind him... or would it always sneak up on him... blindside him when he needed focus?
"Sure," the redhead said, looking over at Nick in confusion. "Sorry."
"It's OK." Derek shoved the memories aside. "Tell me where you found it."
Feeling like a raw recruit at his first inspection, Ginge uncomfortably shifted his weight. "Well... some of the cages were separated by metal plates... probably to keep the peace," he explained. "She'd slipped the folder between a couple of those plates.... What'cha wanna bet the monks on either side weren't the two meanest bastards in the whole fuckin' place?"
Derek smiled again and let out a deep sigh. It was good to know that he could still be right... at the right time... on occasion. He turned his attention to the papers. Ignoring the other men, he began to leaf through the neatly written notes. Eventually, he stopped and looked up again. Nick and Ginge remained standing beside the bed. "It'll take a while.... Latin was never my forte," he admitted. "You two look tired.... Get some sleep. I'll work on these in the kitchen." He tucked the papers into the folder and swung his legs out of bed. "That way I won't disturb you."
Nick smothered a yawn. He lacked the strength to protest and knew that it would do no good if he did. The translation would take Derek quite some time, he reasoned. The kitchen was warm, and Yusuf would keep watch and ply Derek with food and tea at every opportunity. At least he'd know where the precept would be and what he'd be doing.
"Ginge... ask Yusuf to drag an armchair in there," said the SEAL. "It'll be more comfortable. Then he can help Derek." His hard gaze told the older man that he would take the boy's help whether he wanted it or not.
As the Afghan hurried away to find a chair, Nick sighed and threw back the covers of his own bed, then kicked off his boots, and fell across the mattress.
"Night... or whatever bloody time it is," the Brit murmured. Worn out, he limped off for his own room.
"Mmm...," Nick acknowledged, drifting towards sleep even as his head found the pillow.
< < + > >
Nick woke... confused. "Where?" he murmured. He started to roll over; the pain in his leg and his aching feet quickly brought him back to reality. God... he was tired. He wondered when he'd ever not feel tired again. Again, as weary as he had been, his sleep had been plagued by horror. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and tried to focus on Derek's watch. Gotta remember to give this back to him, he thought. "Dammit!... Ten?" He'd slept for twelve straight hours. He climbed from his bed and padded off to the bathroom for a hot shower and to have a look at his burn.
* * *
Later, feeling much more human, dressed in clean, fresh sweats, Nick headed for the kitchen. He expected to find the precept working on his translation, but the armchair was empty. Crumpled papers lay scattered under the table. The videotape lay on the kitchen chair that had served as Derek's desk, while the monitor had gone to static. Cups and dirty plates formed a ring around the chair. Nick smiled and flipped off the TV. Yusuf might still be spooked, but he had no intention of letting Da'reek go hungry. Nick wondered if he had the boy to thank for his clean clothes.
He crossed to the stove and felt the kettle. It was cold. "Strange," he muttered, furrowing his brow. Unease began to build. He felt his gut tighten, as he returned to their room. Derek's pack had been lying on the floor beside his bed. It was gone. The SEAL headed for Ginge and Yusuf's room, where he found the SAS man dressed, but bleary eyed.
"Bugger me," he said. "I needed that sleep.... Thanks for the togs... if it was you."
"Have you seen Derek?" Nick asked the question, though he realized he already knew the answer.
"Dutch don't feature in my dreams." Ginge grinned, then stretched enormously and let out a howl.
"He's gone," Nick announced. "His pack's gone.... Shit!... I knew it!... I knew he was up to something!" The SEAL kicked angrily at the door.
"God's sake, Indy!... Calm down.... Oh... me 'ead.... It's too friggin' early for temper tantrums.... What about the kid?... Where's he?"
"Haven't seen him," Nick conceded. "He's probably with the horses... or with Derek."
"Let's go check," Ginge suggested. As he carefully pulled on his boots, he glanced over at his pack. He'd left his ever-expanding map of the complex tucked in the shoulder strap. "Bloody 'ell," he groaned. "Where's me fuckin' map?"
"Guess!" Nick snorted.
< < + > >
the Kitchen... later
Ginge pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down with a sigh. "OK.... The horses were fed and watered.... No sign of the kid... so they're together... somewhere."
"Looks like," Nick agreed, as he scooped up one of the discarded pages, which he laid on the table and carefully straightened. He recognized Derek's round, vertical writing, but then he frowned, puzzled. "He's translated this into... what?... Dutch?" he asked, passing the page to the Brit.
Ginge studied the paper for a moment. "Sure is," he replied. "It's just fragments... like he couldn't get started right.... Without the context, I can't make head nor tails of it." He looked up and read the anger in Nick's face. "What?... Sorry... I don't really know Dutch.... Just picked a bit up from speaking English and German... holidays in Amsterdam, chattin' up the whores... talkin' to Dutch blokes doin' duty with NATO."
"It's not you," Nick said harshly. "It's him... dammit!"
"I don't follow," said Ginge, plucking another paper wad from beneath his chair.
"He knows I can't read Dutch... and he guessed that you couldn't either."
"Why shouldn't he translate to Dutch?" Ginge asked in innocent confusion. "He is Dutch.... It's his first language."
"Derek's totally bi-lingual," Nick explained. "He grew up speaking both. He was born in San Francisco to an American father and a Dutch mother.... He almost always writes in English... even to his sister... even notes to himself.... He wrote this in goddamned Dutch, so we won't know what it says." The SEAL paced around the room in frustration... frustrated at the return of Derek Rayne... "game player". "What the hell's he up to?" Finally, he spun about to face the corporal. "Ginge... we gotta go find 'em."
"And look where?" the soldier asked. "They could've gone any place.... He's got the map.... This joint's a friggin' maze.... We could chase each other's tails for days.... If we stay put, they'll be back.... Besides, we need need the rest... off our feet."
< < + > >
Hours Later...
Neither of the two soldiers was good at waiting. Ginge occupied himself in a typical soldier's way.... He became engrossed in stripping and cleaning their weapons. All the while, he whistled tunelessly through the gaps where his teeth had been. At last, he glowered up at Nick, who restlessly paced back and forth. "Indy... you're gettin' on me tits.... If you can't stay off your feet, do something!... Go check on the horses.... Check our packs." He tossed a wet rag that hit Nick on the shoulder. "Swab the deck, Squid.... It's lookin' like a bloody pig sty."
Nick slammed the rag back at the Brit. "Scrub it yourself, Limey!" he snapped.
"Just do something, for crissake," Ginge begged. "Why don't you watch the fuckin' tape?... See if we missed something... something the fuckin' genius spotted."
The door opened. "Fuckin' genius... right on cue," Ginge muttered, as he looked over to see Derek drag through the door with Yusuf following. The Brit decided to keep his head down and let Nick do the talking. As far as those two were concerned, he was an outsider and this was going to be a "family" fight. He glanced at the Afghan, who met his gaze and shrugged. The boy set Derek's pack on the floor beside the door and started to slip away, but Ginge gave a slight shake of his head and motioned for him to stay. Yusuf nervously remained where he was.
"Where the hell have you been?" the SEAL demanded, rounding on the precept.
"Walking... thinking," Derek replied. His voice was a quiet monotone.
"Thinking?... You couldn't do that here?... Did you finish the translation?... What did it say?"
The older man ignored the barrage of questions. "Ginge...," he said, turning to face the redhead, "there's something I want you to do."
Nick saw Derek slip his right hand slightly behind him. He's anxious, the SEAL thought, as he watched thumb rub against forefinger. He stepped around to the corporal's side and slyly examined his friend's face and stance. He noted the slump in the shoulders and the brown cast to the hazel eyes, which usually warned of illness or exhaustion, but his sharply honed instincts about the man told him something more was amiss.... Derek Rayne was scared.
Ginge slowly rose to his feet. "Yeah?..." he said with suspicion, fearful of being drawn into the battle. "...And what might that be?"
"Before I came into Afghanistan my... colleague... insisted on planting two transponders... a 'spy-chip' in my back... next to the left shoulder blade... and another thing here...." He touched a sensitive area beside his right collar bone. "...under the bone. I want you to remove them." The precept slipped his arm from its sling and cast the fabric aside. He then struggled to shrug off his brown, wool jacket, a regulation, Soviet army tunic. Yusuf stepped forward to help him ease his right arm out of the sleeve. He unbuttoned his shirt and shivered slightly as the air brushed his naked flesh.
Nick's eyes met Ginge's blue gaze.... They read each other's thoughts immediately. Such an implant meant what?... Who had been tracking Derek... and with global positioning?
The corner of Nick's mouth twitched up in disbelief.... Derek had permitted implants! "Sloan?" he asked. "Or Kincaid?... Why?"
"Please... just do it," said the precept, again ignoring his friend's questions. "Carefully... I don't want either one damaged."
The corporal shrugged. "Sure.... Yusuf, fetch me the medical kit... and a chunk of ice," he told the boy in Pashtun. "I'll change the dressing on your shoulder while we're at it... and maybe put a stitch or two back in if you need it." He gestured for Derek to sit and began to peel away the surgical tape and gauze that covered the shrapnel wounds. "They're looking pretty good," he commented, inspecting the ragged gash and puncture wound.
Derek winced as the Brit pressed around the edges, then bent to sniff. "It's on the mend, all right," Ginge confirmed, "but you've used it too much."
The soldier turned his attention to finding the microchip. "This little bump?" he asked, touching the mole-like protrusion on the precept's back. "...'bout the size of a big grain of rice?... Back home we plant these things in fuckin' Rover... to stop 'em gettin' lost."
Derek nodded. "It's a small capsule with the chip inside.... Thanks," he added as Nick handed him a cup of hot tea. He felt the annoyance radiate from his friend, but he couldn't allow himself to be distracted by it... not yet.
"You're lucky the shrapnel didn't nail it," Ginge stated. "An inch to the left and no more spy in the sky."
* * *
A few minutes later, Yusuf returned with the ice and the kit, which he handed to the SAS man.
Ginge dug through and found what he needed... the alcohol bottle... now replenished with vodka... bandages, tape, and the roll of surgical instruments. "Hold the ice on this spot," he told the Afghan, pointing to the small bump on Derek's back. He turned to select a delicate scalpel and a pair of tweezers, which he dipped into the alcohol. Afterwards, he swabbed the now numbed area on his patient's back.
A second later he placed the tiny capsule in Derek's open palm. "There you go... barely a scratch," he said proudly. "Now... since you overdid... you get those stitches."
Derek nodded and sat patiently while the corporal numbed the wounds, stitched, and rebandaged the shoulder. "Now the other chip," he said as he shifted round and showed the spot to the soldier.
Ginge repeated the procedure, then placed the second capsule in older man's palm beside the first. The precept inspected both closely. He would need to know the difference. One was clear plastic, while the second had a pinkish tint. He then picked up a piece of gauze from amongst the medical supplies, carefully wrapped both, and slipped the small roll into the leg pocket of his fatigue pants. The room remained anxiously silent.
As soon as Ginge finished, the precept wearily hung his head, then pushed himself to his feet and announced, "I'm tired.... I'm going to get some sleep."
"Dammit, Derek!... Wait a minute," Nick protested, reaching out to touch his friend. "The translation... what did it say?... Where did you go?"
"Not now," Derek replied. He turned away and gathered up his clothing. "Later.... I need to sleep."
* * *
Open mouthed, Ginge watched the precept leave, then he turned to Nick. "What's his bloody problem?... We're all on the same team... right?"
The SEAL nodded and slumped down into the armchair. He remembered when Levon Soltar, the "Dark Priest" of the Church of the Black Mass, had resurrected himself. He had asked Derek that same question. Had it only been five years ago, Nick pondered.... It seemed a lifetime. He had been furious with the man for withholding information... bitter at his cool, arrogant, almost innocently dismissive attitude. The lift of the eyebrow and the dead-on stare, daring further challenge. "That's the tough part of my job," Derek had said. "Sometimes it's necessary."
Back then the precept's arrogance had grated on him. Nick smiled to himself. Hell!... It still grated on him, but now he knew to look behind it.
"Like I said, he plays his cards close to the chest," the SEAL explained. "Tells everyone what he thinks they need to know... no more... no less.... It's not just for his own protection, but theirs too.... To him, knowledge and secrecy can be a weapon... or a vulnerability." But... he thought, without giving it voice, remembering his friend's clinching fist... when Derek goes quiet and remote... barriers up... it's usually really bad news... and he's not sure what to do yet.
"...And you're OK with that?" Ginge snipped. "You know he bloody well gets off on that.... It's a friggin' power trip!.. It's what a body don't know what gets 'im kilt every damn time."
"No... no...," Nick stammered, distracted, wondering if he was seeing game playing in Derek... or fear and confusion. "I've never been 'OK' with it... but there ain't a whole hellava lot we can do about it... not yet."
"We could try beatin' the fuckin' crap outta him," the redhead suggested with a gap-toothed grin. "'Cept I'm not sure we could take 'im."
Nick managed a weak smile. Recalling yet another time, he rubbed his jaw. "Sometimes I think it might be fun... to try... but take my word, he's got a sledge hammer left hook."
"Well... 'ell... guess we got some time to kill... till 'is Lordship wakes up," Ginge murmured. "Might as well eat... I'll cook."
Throughout the exchange, Yusuf had been standing off to the side, understanding almost nothing save the frustration and anger, but now he felt the mood lift and at last recognized a word. "I cook," Yusuf corrected, handing Ginge the same wet rag he'd hurled at Nick. "You... clean." Muttering something unintelligible in his own tongue, the youngster pointed towards the mess that lay on and around the table... the scattered contents of the medical kit, the guns with their oily rags, and the discarded wads of paper. "Clean," he repeated, then shuffled off towards the stove.
"Sounds like you've got KP duty," said Nick. Chuckling, he pushed the
videotape into the VCR. "Let's see what's on the telly." He put his feet up on Derek's
makeshift desk and settled back to watch the tape one more time.
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