Jihad

CHAPTER 45

With Asad apparently bedded down for the night and electronic sensors in place to keep close track of him, Charlie Dean found himself bored. He went to a restaurant about a mile from the terror leader’s safehouse, a fancy place that catered primarily to European tourists and the occasional businessman. The pace was slow, which suited Dean perfectly; he sipped sparkling water while watching the other guests. The wait staff were making a fuss over a six-year-old Italian boy who was sitting with his parents two tables away, treating the boy as if he were the reincarnation of Turkey’s national hero and founder, Atatürk. Extra desserts appeared, waitresses and even waiters stole kisses. The father, roughly Dean’s age, looked on with a bemused smile, while the mother — closer to Lia’s — beamed.

They hadn’t talked about kids during their time in Pennsylvania. Maybe they should have.

Funny to be thinking about kids at this point in my life, Dean thought.

“No change, Charlie,” said Sandy Chafetz, the runner on duty back in the Art Room.

“Yeah,” muttered Dean.

“How’s dinner?”

“Not bad,” said Dean.

A waiter approached to take his plate. Dean asked to see a dessert menu.

“I feel like I’m living vicariously,” said Chafetz. “Try something chocolate.”

He ended up with an Italian cheesecake — Lia’s favorite.