Dire Straits by Mark Terry Page A

check out the cherry blossoms.
    The biggest problem with living on a boat, he thought, working hard on the teak, was the upkeep. Ocean air was hell on wood, hell on metal…
    The Federal Express truck stopped near his dock and it was unusual enough that Derek looked up from his work to watch the driver climb out, stare at the package, stare around at the marina, then walk hesitantly toward his dock. Derek stood up, knees creaking, back complaining.
    The Federal Express driver looked about eighteen, had sandy brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. “You Dr. Derek Stillwater?”
    Derek jumped down onto the dock and nodded. Despite the scar tissue, and there was a lot of scar tissue, he was moving fairly well. The last bit of surgery was nine months ago and he’d been working hard at his physical therapy to try and get his body back to where it was prior to getting shot.
    “Gotta sign for this.”
    Derek took it, saw it was international and noted further that the sender was Irina Khournikova and the address was in Moscow. Huh. It had been a long time. He signed it, made a trip through the salon to grab a Sam Adams Cherry Wheat, and took the package up to the bridge. He sat down in a captain’s chair he kept up there, took a sip of his beer and opened the package.
    Dear Derek,
    If you are reading this I am dead…

4
    Secretary of State Robert Mandalevo’s Chief of Staff eyed Derek and said, “Most people can’t get ten minutes with the Secretary on short notice.”
    “I appreciate it,” Derek said.
    Derek had immediately placed three phone calls after reading the letter. One was to his boss, Tom Ross, the Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, to tell him that he had an emergency and would be on indefinite leave. Derek’s job title was troubleshooter. His expertise was biological and chemical terrorism. Officially he was assigned to DHS’s Office of Operations Coordination, but in reality he answered to the Secretary. The problem was that Tom Ross was the new Secretary and he didn’t think much of Derek.
    Ross believed Derek was a political liability.
    Derek knew that, yes, as a matter of fact, he was a political liability. His job wasn’t politics. His job was preventing and investigating terrorist attacks. Period. Since Ross didn’t trust Derek to behave, Derek had been pushing a lot of paper under the new Secretary and not much else.
    His second phone call had been to a travel agent to get the ball rolling.
    His final phone call had been to Joseph Moore, Mandalevo’s Chief of Staff. He had requested ten minutes of the Secretary’s time. Moore wanted to know why, but he also knew Mandalevo and Derek’s history. So when Derek said, “It’s personal,” Moore had grumbled, checked his boss’s calendar and told Derek if he could get there in two hours he could have ten minutes.
    Derek was out the door, headed for the State Department offices on C Street in Foggy Bottom just as soon as he pulled on appropriate clothes.

5
    Robert Mandalevo reminded Derek of a scalpel. It wasn’t just that the man stood six-two and seemed to have no body fat. It wasn’t just his shaved skull or his bony, almost skeletal appearance. There was something edgy and blade-sharp about the man, his intellect, his wit.
    But he was a politician. That made Derek immediately suspicious. But he also knew that Mandalevo had guts, even that old-fashioned word, courage.
    The secretary ushered him into Mandalevo’s office. Mandalevo sat behind his desk, backlit by curtained windows. His suit was black, his shirt white, his tie a subdued, muted red so dark it was almost the color of dried blood. Reading glasses perched on his long thin nose. He finished scribbling his signature on a document and pushed it aside.
    “Everything okay, Derek?”
    “No, sir.” He took out the letter and passed it to the Secretary of State.
    Mandalevo read it carefully and leaned back in his high-backed leather chair. “You had no idea?”
    Derek shook