Free The General and the Elephant Clock of Al-Jazari by Sarah Black Page B

have to slide quietly out the door when somebody comes to brief me.”
    “I always hated that. I was afraid I was going to miss something critical that would get us both killed.”
    “We’re better together,” John said.
    General Painter didn’t send the files by secure courier. He brought them himself. John studied him. He’d put on a few pounds since he retired from the army, and his hair was a little thinner, but otherwise he looked the same as he always had. Just irritated. With his new eye for suits, John noted that General Painter was in a navy-blue crepe, three buttons, with black Rockports. Red-and-blue-striped tie with a little American flag tie tack. He handed the folders to John. “What the hell kind of shirt is that?”
    John took them, shook hands. “Hello, David. My nephew picked it out.”
    “So you want Brightman? You need an aide? Sure, sure, why not.” He looked at Brightman. “General Mitchel, he’s like Batman, you know? Always likes to have Robin hold his briefcase.”
    The room was very still; then Gabriel stood up slowly. John looked at him, shook his head. He handed the files back to Painter. “I think we’re done.”
    “Jesus, John! Too sensitive for Batman and Robin jokes? You just came out in big bright colors on the cover of Out magazine! You and the Horse-Lord, embracing over a chopper. Very sweet. Are we supposed to pretend we didn’t see it?”
    “You’re supposed to pretend you have some manners, you dickhead.”
    Painter threw back his head and laughed. John put his hands on his hips and sighed. He had forgotten the way Painter liked to throw a wasp’s nest when he walked into a room, just to see what would happen. Gabriel was watching Brightman. His face was bright pink, and he looked like he was choking on a piece of meat. John wondered how many gay general jokes he’d been forced to listen to in the last couple of days.
    “Give me those.” John pulled the files out of Painter’s hands. “How did your boys get to Tunis if they were working in Algeria?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Brightman got very busy suddenly, setting up the scanner/fax machine that had been delivered.
    “They had a couple days off, didn’t report back to work. Nobody’s sure exactly when they split.”
    “You don’t think somebody went into Algeria and snatched them? Why would they?”
    “I don’t know, John.” Painter sounded exasperated. And worried. “Ransom? To hold the operation hostage? But I absolutely don’t want the Algerians involved, not after what happened last time.”
    “Agreed. So what are you doing?”
    “Security for a drilling operation. Natural gas fields.”
    “Do you know who has the boys?”
    “The communication I got was from the Ministry of Justice. Ali Bahktar.”
    Gabriel looked up suddenly, and John put the files down on the desk. “Ali Bahktar? Is it….”
    “Yeah. Same kid, as far as I know. He’s the right age, anyway. Now he’s an assistant muckety-muck for Islamic affairs. If he’s going to be a thorn in anybody’s backside, John, I want it to be yours. He tried to cut your throat, right? And the Horse-Lord stopped him? I bet he hasn’t forgotten.”
    “Neither have I. I think he was thirteen, fourteen. Something like that.” John thought about this, studied Painter. If John went to Tunisia, it could very well enrage this kid, no, this young man, to the point he would make a strategic error. It might get John killed, but Gabriel would have his back, like always. It was a good tactic, to turn an enemy’s anger back against him, like throwing sand in his eyes. Ali Bahktar wouldn’t be able to think clearly until the irritant was gone. And by that time, the two men he’d come to rescue would be gone with him, quiet as smoke. “Okay, good.”
    Painter stood up, handed an envelope to Brightman. “Expenses,” he said. “Do whatever General Mitchel or the Horse-Lord asks you to do, okay? Don’t fuck this up, Brightman. I’m giving you a chance