by S L Shelton
Barb smiled at the memory of the door opening on the cargo container and seeing Scott standing there with a rifle strapped across his shoulder. He looked so amazing and heroic, even the thought of it made her weak in the knees again. The fact that she hadn't known at the time that he’d been burned, stabbed, and shot had turned her into a guilt-ridden wimp, second guessing everything about how she treated him. His tendency to get quiet and sullen when she insisted on something for his own good had made her uncomfortable taking the lead on his recovery…very unlike her usual “in-charge” self.
“I know how he was,” Barb said, her eyes tearing up again. “I'm having trouble figuring out how he is.”
“Awww, sweetheart,” Bonny cooed, comforting her. “It'll be alright—look. I'm gonna be here. I'll keep an eye on him. If it looks like he's about to melt down or something, I'll send him home. I think between the two of us, we can steer him back to being the boy we know and love.”
“I hope so, Bon. I'm just worried he won't be able to find his way back,” she replied and then lowered her voice to a whisper. “I caught him looking up guns and tactical information on the web again.”
“He went through a lot,” Bonny offered supportively. “He’ll come around. The new section will be good for him. It'll challenge him. You know how much he loves a challenge.”
“Yeah,” Barb muttered, clearly unconvinced. “You know where he is this morning?”
“Where?”
“He woke up at four a.m. and snuck out to go climbing,” she said incredulously. “That’s two days in a row!”
“What?!” Bonny exclaimed. “Won't his doctors be pissed?”
“They cleared him for outside exercise on Monday,” Barb replied with accusation in her tone. “But I don't think they had that in mind.”
“Maybe he'll take it easy,” Bonny replied supportively and then paused a second. “Maybe you should call to see how he is.”
“I'm afraid to! That's what I'm talking about. The last time I questioned him about his recovery, he didn't say a word to me for twenty-four hours…exactly twenty-four hours…to the minute.”
“God-damned, computer-brained geek,” Bonny said in disgust. “Even his subconscious, passive-aggressive bullshit is digitally executed.”
“He disappears up to the loft to do push-ups and sit-ups, thinking I can't hear him moaning in pain,” Barb continued. “He was doing it in the bedroom in the morning until I got on him about it. He just grabbed his towel and left the room.”
“Hey, at least he's trying to keep that hard body hot for you,” Bonny offered.
Barb chuckled. “It wouldn't be so bad if he'd tell me what was going on in his head,” she said, and then immediately realized that the last few times he had done that, she had overruled him anyway and insisted on her own course of action.
Maybe it's me who needs to adjust. She shook her head. SHIT! There I go second-guessing myself again. Damn you, Scott Wolfe.
“I'll set him straight the next time I see him,” Bonny declared.
Barb panicked at the thought. “No,” she said quickly and then softened her tone. “Let's see how he handles going back to work before we get nuts. You're right; it may be just what he needs.”
“Maybe.”
“What does Storc say?” she asked, knowing Scott was actually closer to him.
“It's not important,” Bonny muttered, diverting.
“Seriously. What?”
“He said he's surprised Scott’s coming back at all,” Bonny said cautiously. “That you can't just go back to the way things were after a life-altering event like that.”
That statement made Barb's stomach churn.
“But I wouldn't worry about it,” Bonny quickly added. “Storc’s got some sort of a man-crush, hero-worship thing going on. I think he secretly hopes Scott is gonna be an Agent or something, and take him with on his next adventure.”
The statement should have been funny, but it just left a cold feeling in Barb's gut.
“Well, that's not going to happen,” Barb said. “I'll make sure of that.”
“I'm right there with you, doll,” Bonny replied. “Hey. I've got to go to work now, but let's get dinner one night this week and go over a plan for next week… If you still think he's coming to work next week.”
“I'm pretty sure he will,” Barb replied. “He's been chomping at the bit and begging his doctors and the psychiatrist to release him for work. I'm pretty sure Monday is the day.”
“Okay,” Bonny replied. “You, me, and a girl's night out. We'll figure it out. Okay?”
“Sounds good, Bon. Thanks,” she said.
“That's why I'm here,” Bonny said in a sing-song voice. “Gotta go. Chat later.”
“Okay. Bye-bye.”
Barb grabbed her keys and headed for the door.
Damn it, Scott. One way or another, I'm going to drag you back to health…even if it kills us both.
**
10:30 a.m.—CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
JOHN TEMPLE was in a heated discussion with a group of analysts.
“How could we just lose them?” John asked. “We had eyes on them in Turkey.”
“No,” replied Ruth, one of the analysts. “We had eyes on the Serbs. There was never any guarantee they had the devices with them.”
John considered her point, jutting his jaw and holding it tight so he wasn’t tempted to take his frustration out on her. They had recovered two of the warheads from the Serbs in the Czech Republic during the hostage incident—but two were still out there.
Without their leadership in place, the remaining Serb mercenaries appeared to be trying to unload them, but try as they might, the most well-funded intelligence organization on the planet couldn't seem to discover their location—and John took it as a personal reflection on his abilities.
“They wouldn’t have pulled in that much security for no reason,” John said finally. “And shielding like that doesn’t come standard on Range Rovers.”
“It was pretty amateurish shielding…hospital radiology gowns and hand poured lead sheets over ceramic tile,” Ruth pointed out. “It's not like they were using IAEA-approved transport.”
“You can’t just hide nukes in the backseat of your car,” John said, exasperation rising in his voice. “They must've had the devices in mind when they installed the shielding.”
“True,” came the reply from another analyst. “Or it may have just been a decoy.”
John shook his head in frustration. “We know the path of the two we captured, so we need to go back to the beginning—at some point they were all together.”
“Sir,” Ruth replied carefully. “There's been no chatter or a conspicuous absence of chatter from anyone who might be interested in a buy…and there was no back trail indication of a hand off. We should consider the possibility the Serbs are just sitting on them and testing our ability to track their movements.”
“No,” he grunted plainly.
“Why not?” Ruth asked.
Annoyance spread across his face. “Because if we assume that, then it means we are accepting we don’t know anything. Accepting that is the same thing as saying, ‘I give up.’”
“That’s not what I meant,” Ruth replied defensively. “Look—”
She pointed at her computer monitor indicating the flag locations on a map.
“These are the twenty-two movement hits we’ve tracked and responded to,” she continued, zooming out to show them all, spread out across Europe, the Middle East, and Africa. “Each one ended up being conventional weapons or a wild goose chase.”
“What’s your point?” John asked.
“If you were underground, being hunted, and had lost your leadership, would you be wasting resources on creating wild goose chases?” she asked.
He saw that she was hoping he’d put the pieces together.
“They are expending a lot of resources to give the impression they are moving the devices,” he answered finally, satisf
ying her gaze.
“Right!” she replied enthusiastically. “That means one of two things: either they already have a buyer and have gotten fresh funds to make the move, or they think they have a buyer and are using their remaining resources to cover it.”
“Show me just the pins that were a zero net gain on INTEL,” John ordered, leaning toward her computer screen.
She clicked her mouse on a filter tab and removed the conventional weapons caches. John looked at it for a second when an idea struck him.
“Now toggle back to just the conventional weapons deliveries,” he added.
She did as he instructed.
“What’s unusual about this group of flags compared to the wild goose chases?” he asked, now testing her.
She toggled the screen back and forth a couple of times before it dawned on her.
“The delivery radius for the conventional arms transactions are fixed in a repeated, predictably defined limit and the phantom deliveries are all random,” she acknowledged finally.
“And on how many of those arms deliveries do we have buyer info?” he asked.
She clicked a few more links and overlaid the data on the map. There were only four she blinked in confusion for a few seconds.
“That’s odd.”
“Yeah,” John replied with a smile as the insight opened a new possibility for tracking.
Just then, his phone rang, and he walked a few feet away from the analysts before answering.
“Temple,” he answered.
“Mr. Temple,” came a woman’s voice. “This is Charlie Branch, up in the HUMINT Coordination Center.”
“Hey, Charlie,” John said, turning his back to the analysts. “What can I do for you?”
“We just got an all-agencies hit on one of your section’s cover IDs,” she said. “It’s flagged to notify you.”
“Which ID?” he asked, suddenly very interested in the conversation.
“Dominic Tranum. It looks like it’s an old travel ID,” she said. “It was just an inquiry, but it still sets off a flag.”
Mark Gaines. Now, why would you be using an Agency travel ID?
John paused to think about it for a moment. Gaines had left the Agency more than a year before. Technically, the ID should have been closed out with his departure—but as with any government agency, details often get missed. He decided to play it cool.
“Just an inquiry?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “Homeland Security.”
John thought about giving the order to release the information, but at the last second, he decided to give Gaines the benefit of the doubt. The Tranum cover was just a travel ID, not a deep cover—any serious probing and it would fall apart anyway.
“As long as it’s just an inquiry, I don’t see a need to blow the cover,” he replied. “Unless there’s a warrant attached to the request, leave it buttoned up.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “Thank you.”
“Yep,” he said before ending the call.
He stood there for a few seconds after he hung up, trying to figure out why Gaines would be using one of his old travel covers.
“What are you up to, Mark?” he muttered.
“Ahem.” It was one of the male analysts, wanting to finish their discussion.
John turned back to the group and headed straight to the computer monitor in front of Ruth.
“Okay, dig deep and follow them all the way back to before their first movement,” he said pointing at the two sets of data. “Stay on the conventional arm deals with no buyers. Maybe you're right. Maybe they are the real test and the empties were the decoys.”
All of the analysts nodded and went back to work as John walked toward the elevator. As the doors closed, he got an overwhelming desire to call Mark and ask him what was going on. He toyed with the phone in his pocket before deciding against it.
It hadn’t ended well when Gaines left the Agency. The fact that he trusted John enough to use one of his travel IDs was signal enough the blood wasn’t as bad as it had seemed. John would let it play out.
I hope you’re alright, Mark, John thought.
That thought made him think of someone else. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed, but instead of calling Mark Gaines, he dialed Scott Wolfe’s number.
**
I was sore from two days of climbing and had spent most of the morning soaking in the tub after Barb left for school. I had waited for her to leave before coming back to the condo—I wasn’t in the mood for more lectures about overdoing it.
My phone rang just as I was easing myself into my favorite green chair. I reached back and placed the ice pack on my shoulder before answering.
“Hello.”
“Hey, Scott.” I immediately recognized the voice as John Temple’s.
“Hey, John. How’s it going?”
“I’m doing well,” he replied, but I heard tension in his voice. “How about you?”
“A little better every day,” I said optimistically. “I actually climbed yesterday for the first time since Europe.”
“That’s great,” he responded enthusiastically. “I know it felt good to be back on the rock.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I muttered jokingly. “But it was good to get out of the house.”
“Still a lot of pain?” he asked.
“Not until yesterday,” I replied through a chuckle.
“I get it,” he muttered. “Are you back to work yet?”
“Not really,” I replied, feeling a tug of guilt for not being back in the office. “I’ve been working on projects from home, but I haven’t been into the office yet.”
“So, have you heard?” he asked.
“About the Agency contracts?” I confirmed. “Yeah. Bonny told me.”
“Good. I hope you're okay with the contract set up,” he probed cautiously.
“I haven’t seen it yet,” I replied. “Should I be worried?”
“Your boss seemed to be on board,” John said with amusement in his voice.
“Who? Habib?”
“No. Bernard Evonitz,” John replied.
“Bernie is the owner,” I corrected. “I’ve met him all of twice and only seen him a dozen times since I’ve worked there.”
“Well, don’t be surprised if you see more of him,” John said with a warning in his voice. “He seemed thrilled that you were responsible for the extra business.”
“How much ‘extra?’” I asked, suddenly concerned about a change in my role at the company.
“I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” John offered dismissively. “When are you going back?”
“Monday… But I started wrapping up old projects last week.”
“You're a better man than me,” he said. “I’d be squeezing every minute out of my R&R, seeing how many hula girls I could get delivering my drinks at the same time.”
“I’m climbing the walls here, John. If it hadn’t been for Dr. Hebron, I would've started last week,” I said, referring to the CIA psychiatrist John had set me up with. “She insisted I have at least a full week of physical health and a green light from the doctors before going back.”
“If you were an Operative, she'd probably make you wait a month after you're cleared physically,” he said, making me feel a little better.
“Okay,” I replied in exhaustion. “I give up… Did you need something from me?”
“Nope… We’re golden. I was just calling to check in.”
“Thanks, John. I appreciate it.”
“No problem. I’ll check in again in a few days,” he said before ending the call.
I relaxed back into the cushions of my chair and let the ice do its work on my shoulder. I couldn’t help but wonder what was driving John to be so proactive in his contact with me. I didn’t get the sense he was normally a social butterfly, but he’d called at least once a week since I got back from Germany.
I suddenly wondered if he was grooming me for recruitment.
&
nbsp; “Good luck with that,” I muttered with a chuckle.
Though, maybe working for the Agency wouldn’t be that bad.
three
Thursday, July 15th
Afternoon—Dr. Rachel Hebron’s Office in Langley, Virginia
In the weeks since I had returned home from Europe, I had slowly begun looking forward to my sessions with Dr. Hebron. Today was not one of those days.
She had given me homework to do in our last session and I had been unable—or unwilling—to focus enough to complete it. It had been a simple question: What sort of adult is created when someone is bullied as a child?
She had only managed to open up more emotional pain with that question, creating broader insecurities in my dreams. Instead of just reliving the trauma of killing and nearly being killed, I was now having dreams about everyone who I cared about being taken from me.
I wasted as much time as I could as we sat in her office today, describing the events of the past week and my nervousness about returning to work.
She finally interrupted me.
“What happens to a child who is bullied once they become an adult?” she asked, repeating the question that had been my homework assignment.
I grimaced.
“It’s a simple question, Scott,” Dr. Hebron pushed, smiling softly, waiting for me to engage.
But it hadn’t seemed a simple question. There are too many unknown variables to predict an outcome like that. I ignored the obvious target of the question—it was specifically about me.
“You didn’t work on it, did you?” she asked accusingly.
Dr. Hebron was a woman of about forty. She had thin, angular features and the light cocoa-colored skin of a Pacific Islander. My first guess would be that she was of Filipino descent, but I didn’t care to offer that guess. She was an attractive woman, but she went to great lengths to appear all business, keeping her hair pulled back tightly and donning the most unattractive, heavy-framed, half-rim reading glasses she could find.
“I worked on it,” I replied. “The question kept popping up every time I stood still for five seconds. Thanks for that, by the way.”