Echo-10
by
Kenneth E. Wimer
SMASHWORDS EDITION
*********
Echo-10
**********
PUBLISHED BY:
Kenneth E. Wimer on Smashwords
Copyright by Kenneth E. Wimer 2008-2011
Cover design by Kenneth E. Wimer
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
* * * * *
1
January 10
Saint-Denis, France
The night was cold with a drizzle that turned the asphalt streets of Saint-Denis, a suburb of Paris, into a black mirror. The street lights were ancient; each gave off a warm pink glow, and illuminated a small circle.
A huge truck slowly made its way through the dark streets and into the commercial section of the town toward its destination, a long two story machine shop. There were large aircraft hanger doors at both ends of the building. The doors were opened revealing a cavernous interior, with men and machine creating a din that echoed throughout the building. Men ran to direct the driver to park under an overhead crane that moved the entire length of the building on an I-beam.
The crane was maneuvered along its track and positioned over a large cigar shaped steel, and Plexiglas object. It was sixty feet long, ten feet high, and supported by a steel cradle. Strange appendages protruded from both ends and the bottom. The crane’s massive hook was slowly lowered.
Workers wearing hard hats climbed ladders and walked the length of the object to attach cables that hung from the object to the hook. They were following orders being given by Atreus, who was standing on a steel cat walk which ran in front of a row of offices on a loft. In his hand, he held a microphone, and each command was amplified through large metal speakers that hung from the ceiling. Atreus was forty-two, five foot ten, with a solid muscular build. Through his voice and actions, he demanded attention. His dark graying hair reached his shoulders. His beard had gone unshaven for seven days, and was parted on his left cheek by a scar that ran from just under his ear to the corner of his mouth.
He walked back and forth watching the men below. “Careful with those cables, make sure, they aren’t kinked,” he yelled into the microphone.” Each command was repeated twice in both Farsi, and Turkish.
“Place those cables on the hook in the correct order,” he continued. “Start with the cables from this end,” he said pointing to the left. “And work toward the other end.” The men on the floor were yelling to one another as the eyes of the cables were slipped over the hook. When the last cable was firmly secured on the hook, the crane operator was given the signal, and hook was raised putting the weight of the object on the cables, and eventually lifting it from the cradle that held it.
“Hold it there,” he yelled in Farsi to the crane operator. “Don’t move it. You,” he said pointing to one of the workers, “get up there and check those cables, make sure, there are no kinks, and that all the eyes are side by side, with none overlapping.”
The workers stood, motionless. None moved.
“You,” he repeated pointing to a man standing nearest to the object.
The man looked around, and then up and pointed to himself.
“Yes you, damn it, get up there, and check those cables.”
The man hesitated, but eventually climbed up onto the enormous object. He cautiously walked its length checking each cable where it was attached. As he bent over to check the last cable, as it snapped with a loud crack sending the man’s head to the warehouse floor, his body kicked and thrashed as it slid off of the object and hung up on the cradle.
“Shit!” this time in English. “Lower it back to its cradle!” He yelled. “And get that damn thing fixed. Move! Now!”
There didn’t seem to be any sense of remorse for their fallen comrade as the men waited for the crane to lower the object back to the cradle..
“And get that mess cleaned up,” he continued. “Now!”
The men replaced the ladders and climbed onto the object removing cables, and body parts. He waited impatiently for the men to wash down the object, and attach new cables. When he was satisfied, he gave the signal, and again it was lifted from its cradle, and slowly moved toward the trailer.
“I want that cradle moved,” he ordered. “Get it done. Now! Move! Move! Move! We’ve lost too much time, and we don’t have all night.”
The men dismantled the cradle and reassembled on the trailer bed.
Atreus walked the length of the catwalk, keeping pace with the slow movement of the crane, watching the cables as they strained under the load.
When the object was perfectly positioned above the trailer he gave the hand signal, to lower it into place. The trailer bowed, and there was an audible groan as it settled into the cradle.
The men secured the object, and removed the cables. The doors at the opposite end of the warehouse were opened, and the truck slowly moved through the warehouse, onto the driveway, and into the street.
The truck slowly made its way down back streets, towards the river, and a waiting freighter. The cables were reattached to the load, and a dockside crane’s great hook was lowered into position. Each cable was attached the object was lifted and gently placed onto a cradle that had been welded to the deck of the freighter.
The captain, a large man with a gray beard, and blue pea coat stood on the bridge deck watching the activity below. He clenched a briar pipe between his straight white teeth.
When Atreus was satisfied that the cargo was secure he climbed the ladder, and stood next to the captain.
“It’s all yours captain,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “Don’t loose the damn thing over the side, there’s two years of work there.”
The captain smiled, and took a long draw on his white briar pipe. “Leave it to me, Mr. Atreus. It’s safe in my hands.”
With that, he called out orders, and the crew began preparing the ship for sea.
The French pilot arrived and walked up the gangway, showed his credentials to the first officer, and proceeded to the bridge where he was given control of the ship.
Orders were given to proceed ahead at one-quarter speed. The large propeller, which was half out of the water, started turning, and thrashing the river into white foam. The wheel was manned by the pilot who guided the ship away from the dock, and down the length of the river. Slowly, the ship navigated the treacherous water, past its sand bars, around its twists and turns, and into the Channel. His job completed a small boat pulled along beside the ship, and the pilot, with a salute to the captain, and an au revoir, departed.
The Captain gave orders to precede full speed on a heading of 275 degrees. The revolutions of the propeller increased, churning the sea into foam as it headed into the channel. Its intention was to break out at the channel’s west end, and after clearing the British Isles to head north by north west into the North Atlantic. When land was no longer in sight, the French flag was lowered, and another was raised in its place. It was green, white and red with a stylized word of Allah in the shape of a tulip in the center, the symbol of martyrdom; it was the flag of Iran.
2
(Eight Months Later)
August 25
The plane landed in Penang, Malaysia with a thump, a screech, a cloud of smoke, and the roar of engines. This last leg of the journey was short, and uncomfortable, but a dream flight in comparison to the flight from the States.
The flight from San Francisco to Hong Kong, then on to Kuala Lumpur had been packed. It is a twenty-four hour flight with bad food, small seats, and no leg room. To make matters worse the lady with the window seat had a reaction to the food, and emitted gas for the last six hours. I usually fly economy for two reasons: first it doesn’t call attention to me, and the Agency won’t spring for anything else. If there was a seat on the wing, you could bet I’d be on it.
I usually love my work. I can always count on the fact that I am doing some good. This assignment is different; its value is questionable, and if caught it could cost me more than my life. More than my life you might ask, “how can that be?” Life in some Southeast Asian prison would be worse than death. My People, the CIA, and the NSA, won’t help me if I got caught. If my little ruse, is found out, my life won’t be worth a plug nickel. I am really in everyone’s sights. Their orders are, “Shoot to kill”, or “Lock up and throw away the key.”
The airplane was full of everyone from every place, mostly Chinese, with a spattering of Europeans. In this leg of the trip, I flew from Kuala Lumpur, the capital of Malaysia, to the island of Penang, a Malaysian resort island near the Thai border. It’s a pretty island, with lush vegetation, orchids, and the foul smelling King of fruit, Duran. It has its historical sights left over from the days of British rule.
I stepped from the plane ramp into the overly air-conditioned airport. It seems that the Malaysians over compensate for their hot humid weather by pumping their air conditioners up to freezing, result, very cold airports with condensation dripping from the windows and concrete walls.
I got through customs, and Immigration after displaying my British passport with my cover name, “Stephen Dresden.” I liked to use the same initials S.D. since my luggage, what there is of it, and a few shirts were monogrammed. The S.D. stands for “Samual Drake”. Dad had a problem spelling, and the rural Doctor in Scottsbluff. Nebraska didn’t question it. Therefore, I am Samual with an “a”.
A string of Taxi Cabs are waiting at the curb. The cars are all Protons, the locally manufactured car. A small Malaysian man with a Batik shirt waived me toward his cab. He seemed to be the only one interested, so I walked over.
“Bayview Hotel,” I said, as I pulled myself through the small door, and fell into the back seat. “And use the meter,” I added, grabbing the seat belt and attempting to snap it into place. After a few attempts, I realized that Malaysian made cars weren’t made for one hundred-ninety pound Americans. After a few tries I gave up, and grabbed the handle above the door.
“No meter this trip. I’ll give you a better deal,” the driver said through a toothless grin. “Here to the Hotel for 50.00 Ringget.”
“No flat fee,” I insisted, “Use the meter.”
“Flat fee’s a better deal,” he said, looking at me through his rear view mirror. “I’ll save you Ringget.”
“No! The meter, use the meter, and I know the way so don’t take me in circles.”
He shrugged his shoulders and started up the old Proton. “I wanted to give you a deal,” he said. “You look like a good guy.” A cloud of black smoke shot from the tail pipe as he pulled away from the curb, with the meter click, click, clicking.
The drive was pleasant enough. I liked Penang. If I wasn’t here on business, I would have loved to see the sights. We traveled north along the white beaches, and the Straights of Malacca. The Straights run between Malaysia and Indonesia. It separates Malaysia from the Indian Ocean. The taxi made its way down the freeway on the East side of the island. I watched the beaches as we passed by. Unlike the mighty Pacific, or Atlantic, there are no waves crashing here. It just ripples, two to three inches high, warm and as smooth as glass.
We entered Georgetown, past Fort Cornwallis, and the clock tower, to the front door of the hotel. The meter read 62.50 RM. The driver turned and with his toothless smile said “I told you 50.00 Ringgit good deal.”
I paid the man, grabbed my bag, and struggled to pull my American body through the Asian door. The outside air was stifling. I opted for the ramp, and was greeted by the doorman and the bellboy who took my bag and waited while I registered.
The lobby was large, clean and air conditioned, with the sound of water coming from a pod of what looks like ceramic dolphins in a fountain stuck beneath the stairway.
The pretty Malaysian girl with her head covered with a scarf smiled, “Nice to see you again Mr. Dresden, passport please.”
I dug into my coat pocket, pulled out my British passport and handed it to her.
“We have you in room 1219; I hope that meets with your approval?”
“That’s fine.” I responded in my best British accent. Actually, it was the room I asked for when the reservation was made. The hotel is shaped like a cross, and room 1219 gave me a view of room 1242, where our meeting was to take place. “That’s fine,” I repeated.
She finished up, returned my passport, and handed me my breakfast voucher and keys. “Enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you. I will,” I said as I turned to the bellboy, handing him my key.
“Room 1219, sir,” he said, as he took my key, and led the way to the elevator.
The room is clean, with two beds, TV, fridge, bath, and Internet access for an additional twenty RM for twenty-four hours, about seven U.S. Dollars.
The bellboy deposited my bag and left. You don’t tip in Malaysia.
I opened my bag, set up the laptop, took a DVD, and placed it in the player. It contained twelve of André Rieu’s concert songs, and the complete plans for an intercontinental, Ballistic Missile.
The second disk contained the complete plans for MRV, Multiple/Missile Reentry Vehicle, together with the guidance system. Each missile contained one MRV, and each contains eight warheads that can be independently programed for a different target.
I checked both disks and they are ready for delivery. All that's required is the transfer of ten million dollars into my Swiss Bank account, then I give them the disks, together with special DVD player.
I removed the small tripod, mounted my camera on it, zoomed in on Room 1242’s window, and ran a cable from the camera to my laptop. I set the motion detector, and headed for the bathroom for a cool shower. I showered, stretched out on one of the beds and was asleep within minutes.
I woke up with a start, not recognizing the room. I sat up on the edge of the bed, rubbed my eyes, recognized where I was, and checked my watch; it was eight o’clock. I checked the laptop, no action. My guests still were a no show.
I checked the desk, and was told that Mr. Adiem had canceled his reservation.
It was obvious that something had gone wrong, very wrong, and it was time to get out of Malaysia as quickly as possible.
I phoned the front desk. “Can you tell me when the next scheduled flight, Malaysian Airline to Kuala Lumpur?
“One moment sir.”
I sat on the edge of the bed waiting. What could have happened? This operation had been in the works for four years. Four years of my time. Four years of undercover, underground trips to Iran, meetings in France. Everything was set.
“Mr. Dresden?”
“Yes.” I answered. “The next flight?”
“Yes sir the next flight is at one in the morning. It’s the last one until eleven tomorrow.”
“Can you book me a seat on the one o’clock flight?”
“Yes sir. You’ll be checking out then?”
“Yes. Please have my bill ready, and can you call a taxi for me?”
“Yes sir, the taxi will be waiting. Shall I send someone for your luggage?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
I packed the equipment. I hated this. This is no way to transact business. Something had gone wrong, they were a no-show. If I was caught with this stuff in my possession, I could be prosecuted as a spy, and for stealing classified information. No one, not the NSA or the CIA would come to my aid, even though it was a CIA and NSA joint operation. If I was caught, I would go to prison or be executed as a spy. It was important that the Iranians believe I was a defector, a traitor.
There was a knock at the door.
3
A glance through the peep hole revealed a uniformed Bell Boy. I opened the door, and two suited men pushed the boy aside shoving me back into the room. One was dark skinned mustached, greasy hair, bad breath, and a black tooth that looked like it had died while he was a teenager. The other man was small. He reminded me of Peter Lorre, short overweight, gray suit that was too tight around the waist and chest, so that each button on the suit was challenged to remain in place.
The little guy spoke, “Back in the room,” he said, giving me another push, and I fell back onto the foot of the bed.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” I asked trying to sound casual. “If you want my money, I’m afraid I don’t carry much with me. Credit Cards you know.”
“We don’t want your money,” the little guy said, again so strikingly like Peter Lorre. “We’re here for the package.”
“I don’t have any package,” I answered. “Are you sure you have the right room?”
“Yes we got the right room,” the mustached man said looking at the number on the door and shutting it.
“The package, Mr. Dresden,” he said in an accent I couldn’t quite place. “Just give us the package, and you can check out and go back to London, New York, Washington, or wherever you come from.”
“London,” I said, “London is where I’m from… It’s London.”
“Of course it is,” he said flashing that black tooth with a smile, “That’s how you came into possession of American intelligence, now the package please.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said in my best British accent, and pulling myself to my feet.
Peter Lorre pulled a forty-five from his shoulder holster and slapped me on the side of the head with it, sending me reeling to the floor. “Give us what you was goin’ to give to the Iranian.”
I lay dazed, and tried to pull myself to my knees when he kicked me in the stomach, knocking the air from my lungs. I pulled myself to my knees, coughing, and gasping for breath, when he came at me again.
“Wait,” I said, holding my hand up. “Wait, if you want to talk let me sit and get my breath.”
He stepped back. “Do you have the plans with you?”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said pulling myself into the chair. “I’m a business man; I sell software, not plans."
He stepped forward with the forty-five raised. The last thing I saw was its handle streaking toward my head.
When I came around, I was in the chair with my hands tied behind my back. I kept my eyes closed, hoping it would give me time to recover. What has gone wrong? This was supposed to be a simple transfer of information for cash. I opened my eyes, and Moustache and Peter were sitting on the bed looking at me.
“Ready to talk?” Moustache asked. “Or should my associate show you a few of his methods of persuasion?”
“No… I mean yes… I don’t know, let me think.”
I sat looking at both of them. “By the way,” I said looking at Peter Lorre. ”Have you ever seen the movie Casablanca? You know Boggie, the Casbah?”
He looked at the mustached guy, with a bewildered look on his face.
“You’ve thought enough. Time to talk.” Mustache said.
“The agreement was that I receive, in my Swiss account, the sum of ten million dollars, then, and only then would I deliver the package.”
“Oh, so now you remember. Good, we’re getting somewhere. We are in a position to offer you something much more valuable.”
“And what would that be?” I asked shaking my head from side to side to get the fuzziness out of my eyes.
“Your life,” he said with a grin. “We are in a position to let you walk out of here with ears, fingers, toes, no broken bones, and your life. That has got to be worth something.”
“Ah, yes I understand, but, kill me and nobody gets the package.”
“And if your life isn’t all that valuable to you, then perhaps a slow death would be more compelling,” Peter Lorre said pulling up a chair in front of me. “You see we do know what we are doing, and we are going to get what we came for.”
“You really should see the movie Casablanca,” I said. “The resemblance is uncanny.”
“The package Mr. Dresden,” Lorre said raising the forty-five above his head.
“In the computer bag,” I said. “The disks.”
The mustache went to the computer bag and poured its contents onto the bed. The laptop computer hit the edge of the bed and bounced to the floor.
“Nice move. Now how are you going to play the DVD’s you just wiped out my computer.”
“I’ll get ours,” Moustache said going toward the door. “Watch him.”
“He’s mine,” Lorre said, smiling and revealing a large gap in his front teeth. “We own you.”
“Do you people ever see a dentist?”
My head was exploding, and there was a taste of bile in my mouth, and nausea was building in my throat. “I really need to use the bathroom,” I said. “That is unless you want vomit all over the place. Oh, and I have to take a leak too.”
“Just sit,” Peter said smiling.
“Do you really think your boss wants me to get sick all over the place?”
“He’s not my boss. We just work together…….we’re a team.”
“Sure you are,” I said coughing. “You’re afraid that if you let me into the bathroom he’ll be mad at you. That’s okay, I understand. I’ve got people over me too.”
With that he grabbed me by my arm, pulled me to my feet and pushed me toward the bathroom.
“Go do it,” he said pushing me again.
“Untie my hands.”
“No, you can do it with your hands tied.”
“Sure, I can do everything I need to do with my hands tied behind my back. If that’s your decision then unzip my pants and help me with my……”
“Okay,” he said, interrupting me. “I’ll untie them, but I’ll tie them in front so you can use your hands.”
As soon as my hands were free I turned, and with my open hand caught him in the throat, while my left hand pushed the gun aside. He fell backward as I hit him again this time in the mouth with the heal of my hand. He staggered back and fell striking his head against the table. I walked over and grabbed him by the back of his collar pulling him to a sitting position by the television. He was out cold. Pain was shooting through my hand. I shook it and realized it was covered in blood, including the cuff of my shirt. “Shit that probably won’t come out, and this is one of my monogrammed shirts,” I mumbled. I went to the sink turned on the water and looked into the mirror. There was also blood on my collar. “This job is hell on shirts.” I rinsed the blood from my hand and realized that the blood wasn’t his, it was mine, and protruding from a wound in the heel of my hand was something that looked like bone. I pulled it out and looked at it. It was a tooth, his tooth. “I hope he doesn’t have rabies.” I washed my hand and wrapped it in a hand towel. Peter was still leaning against the television stand, with blood streaming from the corner of his mouth. I picked up the gun, and parked myself next to the door. The wait wasn’t long, there was the sound of a key being swiped and then a click of the lock as the door opened. I greeted him by slapping him on the side of his head with the forty five. It made a sickening sound, a mixture of bone and flesh. I was glad that it was his head this time, instead of mine. It was easier on my hand. He fell to the floor, blood streaming from a gash on the side of his head. I grabbed him from under his harms and pulled him to the chair, took his tie off, and tied his hands behind him. The wound on the side of his head was bleeding, but he was going to be okay. With a magic marker, I wrote “423-555-8344,” across his forehead.
I took Peter’s tie off of him and tied his hands to his feet, took his tooth, wrapped in a dollar bill, and stuffed it in his shirt pocket, while I slapped his face.
“Come on Peter, time to wake up.” He groaned and I slapped him again. “Wake up damn it.”
He stirred and pulled against his bindings.
“Don’t struggle, you’ll just hurt yourself,” I said. “Do you understand me?”
He looked at me with glazed eyes, and shook his head yes.
“Good, now listen, this is very important.” His eyes rolled back, and his head slumped forward. “Hey Peter, wake up!” I slapped him on the face again, and his head jerked up. got to pay attention. Are you with me?”
Again he shook his head. “Good. Now listen, if you’re interested in buying that information it’s still for sale. “I’m taking the DVD’s, but my phone number is on your boss’s forehead. Oh, and by the way, you’re going to need a good dentist, but check your shirt pocket, the tooth fairy has been very good to you. I’m going to leave now, but the maid ought to be here to let you guys go. So sit back and relax.”
I started gathering my stuff. Everything was strewn around the room; my computer was a total loss. but I threw it into the bag, zipped it up. I opened my suitcase and pulled out a clean shirt, took off my bloodied shirt and threw it in the trash. I picked up the phone and called the desk. “Can you get me that taxi?”
“Right away Mr. Dresden.” Came the reply. “Are you alright?”
“Yes, why?”
“The boy said……”
“It’s nothing to worry about. I’m fine. I’ll be right down.”
I hung up, went into the bath room and inspected my head. It looked okay, a bit swollen and a little blood. I took the wash cloth, wetted it and washed the blood out of my hair, and splashed water on my face. It wasn’t bad, but my head was throbbing. I hate it when this happens.
I ran a comb through my hair, stepped back into the room, took my cell phone and snapped a picture of both of my guests, and forwarded them to headquarters, opened the door and stepped into the hall and hung the “do not disturb” sign on the door. Nothing had worked out. I walked to the elevator, when I bent over to place my bag on the floor and winced as pain shot through my head. Someday I’ll end up in the funny farm, one too many hits to the head, but they were worse off than me, and I liked that.
4
August 28 and 29 (international date line)
I missed the one o’clock plane, and the next one wasn’t until eleven. Domestic Malaysian flights are all Economy Class, with seats too narrow, and close, with short tight seat belts, and table trays that touch my stomach.
I settled into my seat fastened the seat belt. I'm looking forward to home.
The flight was torturous. Local flights can’t be compared to 747s. It was, however, a short flight back to Kuala Lumpur.
Kuala Lumpur is indicative of the Malaysian mentality. There is a huge sign that says “Kuala Lumpur Air Port, the Best in the World.”, another that says, “Malaysian Airlines, the Best in the World”, still another that announces “The Staff of Malaysian Air Lines, the Best in the World.” No modesty here. I sat in the best airport in the world for fifteen hours waiting for my flight to Hong Kong. Try sitting in a refrigerator for six- hours.
I’m glad the flight is on time, and the six-hours passed without an incident. The food was edible, and the service was acceptable, but not the best in the world. After Hong Kong, it was an seventeen hour flight to San Francisco, and then seven more hours on the red eye to Washington. The last leg is easier on the body and soul, because this time I flew First Class, my treat to myself.
It was necessary to change my identity as I flew. Therefore, I couldn’t just fly on one ticket with connecting flights. The flight out of Hong Kong was made under the name of Stan Dripps, an Australian, and the San Francisco flight Saul Dorson. “Follow me, follow me if you can,” I said to no one as I sat back into my comfortable first class seat.
Washington DC, inside the beltway, is my kind of town. People tout New York, but DC is where it happens. This is what makes the whole country tick, sometimes badly, sometimes very badly, but tick it does. I grabbed a cab from the airport, and gave the driver my address. No haggling here, you get in, and the meter starts. You get there, the meter stops. You pay, and get out, very simple. It helps if you know your way, so the meter isn’t jacked up, but here you know what to expect.
It was nice being back in my own apartment, my own bed, and eating my own breakfast, two eggs, real pork bacon, toast, and apple sauce. Malaysia is no place for pork lovers, unless you eat Chinese.
5
Washington DC
August 29
I slept nearly fourteen hours, and was awakened by the phone.
“Let it ring,” I mumbled to myself.
On the fourth ring, my answering machine picked up. “Not here, so leave a message at the tone.” I heard the beep and then the voice. “Sam, get your ass down here. I don’t remember giving you any vacation; sleep on your own time.” There was a click, then the dial tone, then my stupid answering machine thanked him for the call after he hung up, then silence.
I rolled out of the bed, took a hot shower, and brushed my teeth. I stood there gazing into the mirror.
“I’m getting old. I need a little plastic surgery, or get rid of these mirrors,” I said to myself as I stood looking at myself. “How does Harrison Ford do it? I’ll get rid of the mirrors,” I said grabbing the role of fat on my belly. “That’s the only solution.” I went into the closet to select my clothes. It was a large closet, one whole section of clothes that didn’t fit anymore. I’m waiting for my weight to go down, when it does I have a great wardrobe. Yes, too many mirrors in this place, and no one to look into them but me.
I was starving. It was a three egg morning, or was it morning. I checked my watch three a.m., that was Malaysian time, that would be three p.m. Washington time. “No wonder Abe was up tight.”
After I polished off my breakfast, left the apartment, and stepped onto the street. The weather reminded me of Malaysia, hot, and humid. It's August in D.C.; I went around the corner to the parking garage, pushed the remote button and the door opened to a slow whirring sound.
Hope you start. You've been sitting a long time. I pushed the button, there was a chirp, chirp as the Hummer’s doors unlocked. I opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Gas hog,” I said as I turned the key in the ignition. “You'd better start or I’ll trade you in for a Smart Car.” The engine turned and started without missing a beat. “I love you, you old gas guzzler, and now that they aren’t building you anymore. You are like money in the bank. Come on let's dump a few tons of carbon into the atmosphere.”
I pulled out of the garage, closed the door, and turned onto the street heading for the beltway, and out of town. I probably should live in Maryland, closer to work, and cheaper, but I’ve rented that apartment so long that I felt like I own it. Besides I hate moving.
I drove headed the Baltimore/Washington Parkway to Fort Meade, Maryland and up the long driveway that led to the NSA complex. Our division for Middle East covert operations, has its offices at the NSA complex, and had been since the creation of the National Integrated Security following 9-11. I, and those in my division, worked as part of the CIA, and the NSA joint division. It is nice in some ways, and in others not so nice. We’re treated as poor relatives of the NSA, but with the NSA’s satellites, and monitoring systems, we have heads up real time access to intel. My pay check comes from the Department of the Interior, Parks and Recreation. I live in fear that someone will ask me about elk in Montana.
“Maybe I should live here,” I thought as I pulled up to the security gate. “I’m here more than I am at home.”
The Marine Corporal at the gate checked my ID, stepped into the booth, slipped the card into a reader, watched my picture come up on the screen, and brought a portable scanner to the car.
“Your thumb, please sir.”
I offered my thumb, and pressed it onto the pad. My picture appeared on the small screen. The gate opened. He came to attention and smartly waved me through the gate. “Welcome Back Mr. Drake.”
I thanked him and drove to a space close to the double doors. It was late afternoon and the parking lot was emptying, as everyone headed home. I walked into the main building, offered my ID to the sentry, and again offered my thumb, and eye for retina scan before being allowed into the inner sanctum of the NSA.
In the elevator, I pushed the down10 button, and again pressed the pad with my thumb before the elevator would move. The fall was quick and silent, leaving my stomach on the ground floor. I hated the thumb print security. Everyone knows you’re coming down because your name would light up on the “Who’s in board”. I was met at the door by Abe, and Juliet. Abe, my boss, looked like he had been up for hours, and Julie looked like she had just walked out of a beauty salon or whatever, they call them these days.
“About time,” Abe said. “I needed the Malaysian Report, like yesterday.”
“Nice to see you too, Abe, Julie, sorry, Juliet.” We’ve called her Julie forever, and suddenly, she wants to be known as Juliet.
“Sam, sorry Samuel,” Juliet said with a smile. “Get over your jet lag?”
“Samu-al,” I said emphasizing the ‘al’. “With an 'a', and I don’t think so, slept to long, now I’m back on Malaysian time, and probably will be for some time to come.”
“Things didn’t go so well in Penang, did they?” Abe said as he walked to my cubicle with me. “I thought we had this all thought out.”
Abe Knudson, isn’t the run of the mill agent, he’s straight CIA, and has been forever. He had transferred over from Mother. That's what we call Langley. He was the Asian Division chief, now he is attached to the CIA Middle East clandestine event division. Prior to the Asian Division, he was a field man with expertise in the Middle East and USSR. Now he nearly lives here at building E down 10 and treats the agency as his family. He is strict, but likes to make the book fit the situation.
“Not as we planned,” I said. “But I do have someone who’s interested. I’m not sure who they are but someone is.”
“Oh, but we are sure.” Juliet said. “The picture you sent of the guy with the mustache was compared to photos on file, and we found a match. He is Muhammad Adeem; Furthermore, he’s been identified by MI6 in London as the third in command of the Hamas led Bafra, an Islamic fundamentalist group closely associated with Osama bin Laden.”
“Well we know al Qaeda and Osama bin Laden, have ties to the Iranians, and that they’re interested in our plans. Maybe everything isn’t a total loss,” I said. “But we’ve got to find out why the Iranians backed out.”
“We’ve been in touch with our asset in Tehran, and she believes it has something to do with a French company. ‘Les concepts dans l’Acier,’ that translates to ‘Concepts in Steel’ located outside of Paris. They specialize in the manufacturing of specialty products, primarily stainless steel, and titanium products with a high degree of tolerance, mainly aircraft parts.”
Juliet handed a thick folder to me.
Juliet Kruger is not who you would expect as a CIA or NSA agent, yet she was both, and that is why she’s so valuable. She started her career in the diplomatic corps, spending time in Russia in the embassy, as an interpreter, later she was promoted to a junior diplomat, in Israel. I like to think of her as a female, 007, with sophistication, brains, and looks. She has an IQ that would impress Einstein, speaks five languages, fluently, plays classical piano, has three doctorates, and did I mention she is beautiful, with long auburn hair, great figure, eyes that are stainless steel gray. She usually wears filmy dresses. The cloth clings to every curve of her body, and her high-heels exaggerates the shape of her legs. That’s enough, you get the picture. Abe is always on her for not dressing appropriately for the office, but you don’t hear me complaining.
“We’ve got to take a closer look at this company,” Abe added. “Are you ready for a trip to France?” He was looking at me.
We arrived at my desk, and I sat down, staring at the wall.
“Sam, are you still with us?”
“Huh? Yeah trip to France. How about someone else this time,” I said, going through a stack of papers that had accumulated on my desk. “Look at me, I’ve just gotten back I’m still stuck in Malaysian time, and you want me to go East five more time zones.
I put the folders on my desk. “Juliet…how about Juliet? She needs some time in the field. You love Paris,” I said, turning to her. “August in Paris, it’s beautiful. Remember the people, the shopping. I know you love shopping. Couldn’t you use a new Paris Original?”
“Not me. I know Paris. In August, it's hot and it's humid. Sorry Sam, I’ve got things to do right here in Maryland.”
“Maryland? It’s hot and humid here; you would be trading one hot humid place for another, but that other would be Paris.”
“It’s you Sam,” Abe said. “Better get packed.”
“Okay, I know what, why don’t we send the Brits? MI6? They’re close, a short high speed train through the Chunnel, and vuala, they're there.”
“This is our gig Sam,” he said dropping a folder to my desk. “It’s you. Juliet, have Dex get the man some tickets, and new passport. You’re a Canadian now Sam, isn’t that great?”
“I need French Lessons,” I protested. “Juliet how do you say. .?”
“Now Sam lets be nice,” she interrupted. “Just act like a Canadian, but not a French Canadian, and you will be loved.” She laughed as she turned on her heel, and walked away. I turned to watch her walk toward her cubicle. “This is what we’re fighting for,” I said to myself. “Just keep this scene in your head Sam. This is what we are fighting for.”
“Go get some coffee while we get you packaged,” she said over her shoulder. “It won’t take long, and get your eyes off my tush.”
I went through the papers on my desk. “Papers, why in the world does A CIA intelligence agent need paper, shouldn’t we be working outside of the box? We should be above and outside of the tradition of paperwork.” Some of the paperwork was expense reimbursement, so I finished them up, and dropped them off at finance before heading over to Dex’s desk. “Not once did I ever see James Bond fill out papers.”
Dex, now this is a person you want on your side. She’s an artist with any document that you may need. She once was making papers for some mafia boss, got caught, spent some time in prison, was released three times using forged documents, that she made in prison, finally ended up here. She is almost the opposite of Juliet. She is overweight, walks, and talks like a trucker, and a true artist.
“Abe said I was to get a new Canadian Passport,” I said, as I approached her desk.
“It’s in your basket,” she said without looking up from her work.
“Abe just told me, how did you . .? When did you do the passport?”
“Three weeks ago,” she said still looking into a magnifying glass attached to an articulated arm. “It’s in your basket, the one on your desk.”
“Thanks Dex. Anything else?”
“Your driver's license, library card, credit cards, a speeding ticket, picture of wife, and daughters, and a Safeway Store membership card all under the name of Stephen Doolittle.”
“Stephen Doolittle? Where did you come up with that name?”
“You want S.D. you get S.D.” she said smiling. “And never change, this is fun.”
“Do I need to sign any of these documents?”
“No bother, I signed them, they’re all legit. The third floor wants to see you. They have some toys for you.”
“Thanks Dex. Why didn’t you guys just put the package on my door step and save me the drive in from town?”
“Pay check. They don’t pay dead people. We need to see your face to make sure you’re still alive,” Juliet said as she walked towards the computer room. “Susan has dug up some information on ‘Les concepts dans l’Acier’ there isn’t much.”
I followed her into Susan’s domain, a room full of whirring, fans, and spinning disks.
“Susan, fill Sam in on Les concepts.”
Susan turned on her swiveling chair. She is our resident computer expert, and like Dex, started her life on the wrong side of the law. She had hacked her way through the CIA, NSA, Pentagon, and half dozen other agencies, by the time she was out of high school, and if she hadn’t been so proud of her accomplishments, she probably would have never been caught. She had posted her accomplishments on a “Hacker’s Blog” and had been brought down by the FBI. However, instead of jail, this eighteen year old genius was offered a job at all the agencies she had hacked. The NSA got her, but she was eventually transferred to our division, and given whatever resources she needed. She was Queen of the Hill. Her room was cutting-edge, high tech; she had a wall full of computer monitors, with enormous water cooled computers, doing whatever it is they do. She was now twenty-two, and had a staff of computer experts, hand-picked by her, and mostly young geniuses.
Susan is special, and I mean in a special way. She has a tattoo of a tear drop under her left eye, tattoos on her arm; one is a phi, φ=1.618033988749895 around her right biceps, a ring in her nose, and you never knew what color her hair will be from one day to another. Today it is orange.
When she saw me, she jumped up and kissed me on the cheek. Sam, glad you’re back. Everyone around here is so dull; you bring a bit of danger to the place. Have you killed anyone lately?” She looked at Juliet, “and she brings glamour.”
“And you?” I said kissing her cheek.
“I bring chaos, wonderful, wonderful beautiful chaos, except for phi, which brings perfection,” she said pointing to her tattoo.
“What about Les concepts dans l’Acier,” Juliet said, trying to bring us back to the subject.
“Okay, let’s see. This Les concepts, has, for a long time, made precision parts for the aircraft industry, and did some work for “European Sea World,” made tanks and pumps but not much else. The ownership is a not French though, it’s owned by a Mr. Alexander Abrams Atreus. Not much on him, until he purchased Les concepts dans l’Acier a little over than two years ago. Before that, there’s nothing on him, and nothing about him. Nothing.”
“Atreus? What kind of name is that?”
“Greek,” Juliet said, sitting in a swivel chair and crossing her legs. “It’s actually the name of a legendary king of Mycenae, and father of Agamemnon. Funny anyone would use this as their name.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because Atreus is notorious in mythology. To avenge the treachery of his brother Thyestes, Atreus served Thyestes’ children to him at a banquet.”
“He killed his nephews and or nieces, and cooked them, and served them to his brother?”
“Yeah, to avenge his brother's treachery. Kind of gives us a clue as to who and what this guy is,”
“Do you think it’s a family name or did he pick it up?
“Had to pick it up, it’s not a family name, actually in Greece it’s avoided.”
“Where would a weirdo come up with a moniker like that?”
“Perhaps he was betrayed, and it’s payback time,” she said straightening her back. “Be careful what you eat, could be a relative. I understand it’s like pig, the new white meat.”
“I’ve put together a print-out on this place,” Susan said, handing me an envelope. “Not much, but could be helpful.
“By the way,” I said turning to Juliet. ”What does ' concepts dans l’Acier' mean?”
“Concepts in Steel.”
“See ya, beautiful,” I said as we walked to the door. “Keep up the good work.”
“You betcha, keep coming home.”
“Betcha?” I said looking back at her.
“Palin fan,” she said smiling.
Abe was waiting near my cubicle. You’ve got your new ID, and your flight is booked. The info is on your secure web site, go see Stanley Boy, pick up your toys, and you had better hop along. Mr. Doolittle, your plane awaits you.”
“First class?”
“Economy," he said, we're having some budget problems. All set?”
“Budget problems? Get serious, I just found new customers for the plans, that’s ten million dollars for the company, and I fly economy?”
“We don’t have the money yet. We were supposed to have it by now, and even if we did you know we don’t see any of that money anymore. It's doled out by Homeland to all the agencies. Stop your whining and fly economy.”
“Yeah you stay here, home; nice beds and I fly economy. Small seats, large man, no comfort. Maybe I should retire, and enjoy my old age. I can’t even upgrade with frequent flyer miles. How the hell do I get frequent flyer miles when I fly under a different name every time I fly?"
"It's all in your mind, think First Class, and sit in E and it will seem like business class.”
I feigned a grin, took the envelope from, Juliet, picked up the rather bulky envelop Dex had left for me, and headed to the third floor, and Stanley Boy.
Stanley Boy is our “Q,” he's our link to the future, and develops all the goodies we take into the field. He thinks I'm Bond and he's Q. He's young, and into all the gadgets, and he shows absolutely no respect for me or anyone else, except of course, Juliet, who he follows around like a puppy.
Stanley Boy was leaning over a small camera, and his image, well mostly his nose was distortedly displayed on a monitor.
“Stanley Boy.”
“Oh hey dude. Glad you’re here. I’ve got some stuff for you, some that are awesome, and some that goes boom.”
“Goes boom? Like buttons that I yank off and throw like a grenade?”
“No, not that dangerous you’d blow your little Wang-Wang off if I gave you anything that didn't have an on and off switch. No, just bundles of go bang, stuff you can carry on a commercial flight without going to prison or worse yet, Camp Gizmo.”
“This stuff will blow your hands off, so be careful,” he said, holding up a pair of shoes and a wrist watch. “The detonator is inside this watch. You just turn the stem counter clock wise, and a needle pops out. Just push the needle into the heel of the shoe, set the dial for the time you want and pull out then push in the stem until it clicks.”
“They make you take your shoes off and put them through the x-ray machine,” I said. “Don’t you think I’ll get caught with this stuff?”
“That’s the beauty of these. The heels are one hundred percent explosives and have exactly the same density as the rubber heels. Nothing will show up on x-rays.”
“So, I’m walking, running, and jumping on explosive shoes. It doesn’t sound too safe to me.”
“Not to worry. You can burn them, electrocute them, compress them, and jump on them; they will only go off with this watch. Remember though, you only have one watch, and only the right shoe is explosive. If you push the needle into the wrong shoe you will be very disappointed.”
“You guys are developing some great stuff,” I said as I switched the flex camera on.
“Get serious, we didn’t make this stuff. We bought it downtown. Most of this is off the shelf, except the explosives. That we cook up here.”
“Do you know the last time I used some of this stuff?” I said pointing to the table of gadgets.
“When?”
“Never. You people don’t have a clue what goes on out there. We aren’t Maxwell Smart and Ninety-Nine. Sometimes I tinker with it when I’ve got nothing else to do. You know the camera that looked like a candy bar wrapper?”
"Whatever ever happened to that?”
“I put it on the floor at the airport and was looking up ladies dresses while I waited for my flight.”
“And?”
“And the janitor swept it up and put it in a big trash bin just as my flight was called. Sorry.”
“No wonder you fly economy,” he said. “This isn’t cheap. You let some janitor sweep up our budget.”
I smiled and thanked Stanley Boy, took the brief case of goodies back down to the tenth, grabbed the stickies off the wall, got the envelope, and headed for the elevator.
Juliet was waiting. “Enjoy Paris Sam.”
“I love Paris in the summer when it sizzles.” I sang. She kissed my cheek, and I took the elevator to zero level. I love it when she does that.
The Hummer was like an oven as I headed up the Parkway towards DC.
It was starting to get dark, by the time I reached my apartment, but it still hadn’t cooled off. My flight was for eight a.m. to Paris, so I had time to get mentally alert. I called the Airline and upgraded to Business out of my own pocket, and laid down on my couch for a nap. I loved this couch; it was a bulky soft leather couch, great for naps, but lousy for sitting. I never have any house guests so it doesn’t matter much.
No girl, or lady friend, no children, and the way my life is going, I won’t have any. A fifty-year-old man who travels across the world under assumed names really doesn’t have much of a chance to meet nice girls or even wild women. I don’t think I’m ugly. I'm a descent guy, full head of dark hair, graying at the temples. Not much hair beyond that, it’s the Cherokee blood, not enough to get any casino money, but enough to play havoc with my beard. I keep myself fit. It's a perk when you live in hotels, they usually have great exercise equipment, and swimming pools. It’s really like living in a big house. When I'm not on the road, I spend some time at the CIA farm. It’s a training facility at Langley. It’s nice to keep in shape, and to test yourself against the kids that are coming into the service.
My alarm went off at four a.m.. I had time to make an egg sandwich, get dressed, grab my bag, switch wallets, and get a taxi to Reagan International. I got to the airport at six o’clock. I checked in and was surprised to find that the reservation was in Business Class. I had two hours to go through the hell of security. I really don’t mind the full body scan. I’m a bit of a voyeur, if I have anything they want to see then let them look.
I settled down in my business class seat, grabbed my Bose head phones, pulled blinders over my eyes, and settled back for a sleep with the classics filling my head. The last song I heard before I fell to sleep was the Es lebt’ eine Vilja, Hanna’s areia from Die Lustige Witwe……..
Vilja, o Vilja, Du Waldmägdelein,
Fass’mich und lass'mich.
Dein Trautliebster sein!
Vilja, o Vilja, was tust Du mir an?
Bang fleht ein leibkranker Mann!
, and I didn’t wake up until seat belt time at Charles de Gaulle International in
Paris.....
6
(Paris in August)
August 30
I was right. Paris was hot. Why can’t these things ever happen in the spring or fall? Paris in the spring time… Not bad, Paris in the fall, even better, but here I was arriving in the hottest month of the year. My taxi, is a Peugeot Citron, and it smells like an ash tray, a very dirty ash tray. The driver wore a leather cap with a small bill that shaded his eyes from the glare on the wind shield. A try at conversation indicated that he was pissed because I didn’t speak French like a Frenchman. From the time we left Charles de Gaulle, he smoked one cigarette after another, flicking his ashes out of the window, half of which blew back into my face.
“No smoking in the back seat,” he warned. “I don’t want holes burnt in my taxi.” He stretched the “i" in the word taxi. “You Yanks think everything in the world that isn’t American is shit.”
He should have stayed down town. What did he expect, picking up passengers at the international terminal at the airport, a Frenchman?
We traveled without further conversation through the streets of Paris. He rolled up his window and cranked up the air conditioner. He kept on smoking to the point where my vision started to blur.
Paris is a beautiful city, a city that kept the ancient skyline by forbidding high rise buildings from being built. It’s a city full of granite and marble faced buildings, with statues commemorating every meaningful event that has taken place in France for the last 1,000 years, and of course Gustave Eiffel’s monument to the nineteenth century, the Eiffel Tower, the singularity that stabs into the city's skyline.
Dex had booked me a room in a small hotel in Saint-Denis, near Les concepts dans l’Acier. It was a typical French hotel from the middle of the last century. The lobby was the size of a small bathroom, and elevator was just large enough for me and my carry on, with a porter who spoke passable English. English in this country was a definite welcomed, and to top that I had a private bath, another big plus.
A woman in her sixties, maybe seventies, with gray uncombed hair, and a cigarette hanging from her lips, showed me to my room, the elevator wasn’t large enough for both of us, so she went ahead, to the third floor, fourth floor in the U.S., since they start counting the floor above the ground floor. She sent the elevator down, and I forced my bulk into the wrought iron cage, and pushed the button. The elevator jerked and clanked, and ascended through the floors, and came to a sudden stop. I slid the folding wrought-iron door open. The woman was waiting in the hall.
“Mind your step,” she said.
The elevator had stopped eight inches above floor level.
“Shut de lift door, so other’s can use it,” she said through her cigarette smoke.
I slid the door closed, and followed her down the hall.
“The room, she is okay huh?” the old woman said, as she pulled the curtains open. The facilities are in dat’ room, de Tely, she doesn’t work, let me know if you want TV, we get another for you. Okay? De Café down there,” she said pointing out the window, “la Petit Bistro, they be good food, you enjoy ha? You need anything, phone is in hall.”