Free The Rendition by Albert Ashforth Page B

Reed.”
    â€œFrom what I understand, Klear, Nadaj’s still on the loose. If you guys had done that job right, he’d be in The Hague now, on trial. Or else in jail.” Shenlee took another sip of tea. “Talk about your screw-ups—”
    â€œWhat did he do that deserves a trial in The Hague?”
    Like I said, we’d taken Slobodan Milosevic out of circulation. That one had gone down without a hitch, and I knew Jerry had the account of that operation in his folders. But the Ramush Nadaj rendition turned out to be a greater challenge than the Milosevic rendition.
    Anyway, the truth was we’d blown the Nadaj mission—and that in combination with the fact that I hadn’t heard anything from anyone in the last half year, led me to think I was out of the picture, and that I was retired.
    Maybe I wasn’t yet a candidate for a psychiatrist’s couch, but a couple more experiences like the one in Kosovo and I definitely would be.
    I’d concluded that I wouldn’t be hearing from anyone anymore. In one of my evaluations, an Air Force colonel who didn’t appreciate my original way of thinking had referred to me as a “loose cannon to end all loose cannons.” The way the intelligence brass thinks, that kind of remark can be a career killer. Anyway, after the First Gulf War I decided it would be a wiser career move to submit my resignation and, like Larry Scott and a bunch of other guys and gals, move over to working on a contract basis. I thought I would like the idea of being able to say yes or no to a job.
    Mostly I said no, not that there were that many offers. Things were pretty quiet on the special ops front for a while, at least until some explosive-laden trucks destroyed our embassies in Nairobi and Kenya. I only began receiving calls after the civil war heated up in Bosnia and the UN decided to intervene. I would have said no to the Kosovo operation if it hadn’t been Buck Romero who’d asked me.
    But now I definitely wasn’t going to accept any more contracts. My experience with so-called special operations, which had begun with a long-ago interview in a Fayetteville, North Carolina, cafeteria, was officially over. “So long, guys. It was nice knowing you.”
    â€œWhat’s this business you’ve got?” Shenlee asked suddenly.
    â€œI supply ice to restaurants and hotels.”
    He made a wry face, showing he was unimpressed. “Klear, I’ll be candid. You’re going to have to put your ice business on hold. Someone very high up picked out your name for this assignment.”
    â€œI’m retired, Jerry.”
    As he studied the check, Shenlee said, “You look okay. You work out regularly?”
    â€œSure. I haul a lot of ice. What do you people want me to do anyway, climb the Matterhorn?”
    On the way to the door, I thanked him for breakfast.
    â€œThank the American taxpayer, Klear.” Out on Main Street we made room on the sidewalk for a young couple, each with skis on their shoulders, and an attractive young mother, slim and brunette. As she pushed a stroller with one hand and led a youngster eating an apple with the other, she smiled a “Good morning.” I smiled back.
    At that moment, a husky blond guy wearing a blue pullover over a flannel shirt, jeans, and brown work boots tossed down his newspaper, gave us a wave, a loud hello, and climbed down from the cab of a refrigerator truck parked at the curb. It was my partner, Gary Lawson, and the truck was one of the two we owned. I’d told Gary to pick me up at Smith’s after breakfast.
    After I’d introduced Gary to Shenlee, Gary looked at me. “I just got a call. The country club’s lookin’ to throw a party tomorrow night, Alex. All kinds of food deliveries will be coming in, and they’ll be wantin’ a full load, three o’clock at the latest.”
    Shenlee’s mouth was set in a grim line. When I glanced