“I’ll tell Jen you think she’s a poor driver the next time I see her,” said O’Reilly.
“Don’t you dare, sir. I’m already in the doghouse for not calling enough during the last assignment.”
At the far end of the room, a picture of General Pak waving to a crowd of adoring schoolchildren filled the screen.
“Behold the new great leader of North Korea,” said Donaldson. “This is his first official photograph, taken during a visit to a school in Pyongyang.”
“The king is dead, long live the king,” said Mitchell sarcastically.
“Aside from the president, a small number of people in the State Department, and of course all of the people in this room, absolutely no one in the world is aware that Pak was the man behind the recent spate of events,” explained O’Reilly.
“What about Colonel Hwan and his men and the other bombs?” asked Jackson.
“Hwan and his men were given the option of returning to North Korea knowing they had failed miserably, or remaining here in the United States,” explained Donaldson. “To a man, all of the North Korean agents chose to stay. The State Department then quietly circulated a rumor that a number of North Koreans were killed during a failed attempt to cross the border. Their bodies were burnt beyond recognition when the truck they were being smuggled in rolled over and caught fire, thereby saving their families from retribution.”
“Clever,” observed Mitchell.
“My sources tell me that Colonel Hwan is a gold mine of information and is singing like a canary.”
O’Reilly chuckled. “A new identity and a couple of million dollars is a great incentive to cooperate.”
“I’ll take some of that,” said Cardinal, earning him a punch on the arm from Sam.
“What about the incident at the farm? Surely they can’t gloss over that?” said Mitchell.
“You underestimate the creativity of the current administration,” said O’Reilly. “The attack on the police was retribution for the recent arrest of a Mexican drug lord on our side of the border.”
“The earthquake?” said Jackson.
“Precisely — it was a minor tremor that destroyed the farm and flooded the cavern.”
“Mister Farragut, what about him?” Sam asked.
“Two days ago Taro Satomi purchased the land from Farragut and moved him into a trailer park,” said Fahimah. “From what I have been able to discern, for now, Mister Satomi intends to do nothing with the land. I suspect that when things quiet down, he will build a garden there.”
“Surely that old coot won’t be able to keep his mouth shut,” said Sam.
“He’s an alcoholic with a flair for embellishing stories. No one is going to believe him if he starts talking about what really happened,” said Donaldson.
“How is Cypher’s death being portrayed in the media?” asked Mitchell.
An obituary flashed up on the screen. Quickly reading it, Mitchell shook his head. “Are they serious?”
“Yes, they are,” said Donaldson. “Gabriel Cypher and Atsuko Satomi are presumed lost at sea when the yacht they were travelling in failed to arrive in Sydney, Australia. A massive air-and-sea rescue operation turned up nothing other than a couple of life jackets and some debris from the ship. Both families have asked for some privacy during this trying time.”
“Good lord, they’ve thought of everything except for us. What is to stop us from speaking to the press?”
“Let’s see, now: your contracts with me and the fact that the State Department promised to send us some work next year worth several million dollars,” said O’Reilly bluntly.
“Well, that’s good enough for me,” said Jackson. “I like getting a steady paycheck.”
“You haven’t said if they found the three other devices,” said Mitchell.
“Within hours, they found them all. Most were still sitting in the back of the trucks used to transport them,” said O’Reilly.
“So this is over,” said Mitchell.
O’Reilly nodded. “Taro Satomi closed his account with us yesterday. You will all be receiving a small bonus with your end-month pay.”
“I like the sound of that,” said Jackson. “I think it’s time my family and I took a trip to Disneyland.”
“Does anyone have any further questions?” asked O’Reilly, looking into the eyes of Mitchell’s team. When no one said a word, he stood up and said the meeting was adjourned. With that, O’Reilly, Donaldson, and Fahimah left.
Chatting loudly, Sam and Cardinal left the room, trying to decide how to spend their bonus, while Jackson and Mitchell quietly sat at the table.
“Why is it that after these post-mission debriefs I always feel like I need a shower?” mused Mitchell.
“Because you let it get to you. That’s why,” said Jackson. “I warned you years ago about having a conscience.”
“After so many deaths, no one is being held accountable. It just doesn’t seem right.”
Jackson stood and placed his hand on his friend's shoulder. “Ryan, you’re alive. Your teammates are all alive. That’s all that matters at the end of the day. We’re family. We have to look after one another. You sure as hell know no one else is going to. You have a job to do, and you do it well. Don’t let the world get to you. It’ll eat you alive if you let it.”
Mitchell took in a deep breath and then wearily nodded.
“Come on, it’s still early. Let’s head up to the cafeteria and get us a couple sticky buns each before heading to the gym for a couple of hours to blow off some steam before our ladies return to pick us up.”
“You buying?”
“Sure. Why not? You can pick up the tab for supper tonight.”
“How about we play for it?”
“First one to twenty-one wins?”
“You’re on. I hope you have a fat wallet,” joked Mitchell, knowing that before the game was finished, the gym floor was going to be covered in sweat and blood. Neither man was particularly gifted on the basketball court, but that never stopped them from playing like a pair of eighteen-year-olds.
Walking away from the table, Mitchell felt his spirits rise. Perhaps he couldn’t change the world, but with friends like Jackson at his side, he knew that he could always take it on and win.