Beirut“M
r. Evans?” Gunnery Sergeant Morty Potashnick stuck his head inside the little third floor office and found the CIA man changing out of his PT gear. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but you’ve got a call on the sat-phone secure circuit down in the comm center.”
“I’m headed for the showers, Gunny.” Evans stood beside his wall-locker wiping his chest with a dingy towel. “Any idea who it is?”
“Somebody in Cyprus, sir, and they must have some juice. It came in urgent priority and personal for you.”
Evans pulled on sweatpants and a soggy t-shirt to follow the Gunny to the elevators and down to the Embassy secure communications center in the basement. The technician on duty nodded and pointed at a small enclosed cubicle in one corner of the room. The sound-proofed box contained a computer t
