Sixteen years of military experience, extensive counterterrorism work. I’m surprised anyone could afford you. What’s the catch? Creasy: I drink. —MAN ON FIRE “Are you going to kill me or what?” a tired and bored Arje Dekker asked me an hour later. I sat across from him in the holding room. He was chained to the wall in a way that allowed him to move around a cot, chair and toilet. I was perfectly safe. A little drunk, but okay. “I just don’t get it,” I droned on for the fortieth time. “How did I miss it?” Dekker rubbed his eyes. “I’ve told you, I don’t know. I thought she was this naive little schoolgirl too.” I sat up. “I never thought she was naive.” I poured Arje another paper cup half-full of scotch and withdrew to a safe distance. He drained it in one gulp. That made me sad inside. It was no way to treat such a good single-malt. “Look, Bombay, what does it matter in the grand scheme of things? We’re men of action.” I giggled at his words and he smirked.
