He had white hair, a thick white beard, and towered over Harvath by a good five inches and an additional seventy-five pounds. He wore dark jeans, a pair of black Frye boots, and a faded Dallas Cowboys jersey. On his right wrist was a copper bracelet—the kind used for warding off arthritis, and on his left was an expensive Panerai diver’s watch. As Harvath stepped inside, Wise stole a quick glance toward the street, closed the door, and then offered his hand. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Wise.” “First of all, it’s Doctor Wise and second of all, give me a break with all the formalities,” he replied with a smile. “If Peaches says you’re okay, then that’s good enough for me.” Peaches was the nickname the Old Man had been known by back in the day. According to legend, he was one of the roughest interrogators the Central Intelligence Agency had ever produced. He had a reputation for taking the hardest cases, the worst of the worst, and could be absolutely brutal with the enemy.
