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right climate,” he grumbled to himself.
    Never feeling as unsure as he did at this moment, Naqui glanced back at the television coverage of the nightmarish executions. He swore they were being played out in shades of gray.
    The questions swirling in Naqui’s mind were not the questions being asked by the reporters on the news coverage. Unlike the media, his most pressing questions were concerning those not shown in the execution photos.
    What happened to them?
    Could their connection to each other be a coincidence?
    He was startled back to reality by Wendy’s sweet voice over the intercom. “Dr. Naqui, sorry to bother you, I know you requested to be left alone, but there is a Eugene Hasenfus here to see you and he is being insistent.”
     

Chapter 8
     
    Before Naqui could even calculate the sudden turn of events, a man burst through the door with an arrogant limp. He wore a long-sleeved, khaki-colored safari shirt, un-tucked, hanging loosely over a pair of olive green cargo pants. Sitting atop his head was a leather cowboy hat he might’ve acquired during a raid of Crocodile Dundee’s closet.
    He removed the hat, revealing a military crew cut of salt-and-pepper hair. It was about seventy-five percent pepper—the direct opposite of Naqui’s ratio. His pockmarked cheeks and high forehead were a mishmash of orange blisters, the work of the unforgiving sun.
    He flashed a cocky grin towards Naqui and said, “What’s up, doc?”
    It was as if Naqui was looking at a ghost. “Stipe…you’re…”
    “Alive, yes, sorry to disappoint you. Hope you didn’t spend too much on the invitations for my going permanently away party.”
    The man’s name wasn’t really Eugene Hasenfus, it was Franklin Stipe. Naqui had worked with him on Operation Anesthesia for the last two decades and despised every moment. He had no attack of sadness when he heard that Stipe likely perished in Iran. As a doctor, and especially during the Vietnam War, he witnessed people die on a daily basis who were more worthy of the privilege of life than Stipe.
    But he couldn’t deny that Stipe was a necessary evil in Operation Anesthesia’s success. He was the one who could connect the dots to deliver the ends, no matter what the unflattering means. But it was Stipe’s visions of grandeur that most worried Naqui and the other Anesthesia leaders. They could all picture Stipe gleefully testifying before Congress in his dusted off military uniform, feeding his gluttonous ego, while the rest of them were sent off to federal prison.
    The Hasenfus reference related to October 5, 1986, when a US cargo plane was shot down in the southern portion of Nicaragua. Two of the crew members died in the crash, but a third, Eugene Hasenfus, parachuted to what he thought was safety, only to be captured by the Sandinista army. The capture of Hasenfus set in motion an international scandal that would become known as Iran Contra. Naqui knew one reckless move could lead Operation Anesthesia to the same congressional sword, and would constantly remind Stipe that it would only take one Eugene Hasenfus to bring down Anesthesia. So in typical Stipe style, he took on the Hasenfus alias to rub it in their faces.
    “So are you going to tell me what really happened?” Naqui spoke in the tone of a school principal, pointing angrily at the television coverage.
    “No offense, doc, but I talked to enough of you Ali Babas on the way back from Iran. I’m here for my cocktail.”
    Stipe moved gingerly to Naqui’s desk and shoved a pile of papers onto the floor. He took a seat on the corner of the desk and unbuttoned his shirt.
    What Naqui saw brought back horrible memories. Stipe’s chest was filled with so many burns and abrasions it looked like he was covered in leeches. Many were infected and puss-filled. They were the injuries of war, reminding Naqui of Vietnam.
    Naqui grabbed a long needle from inside his desk drawer. He moved to Stipe, noticing two gunshot wounds in his left