by K. T. Tomb
Judge took a step back, stunned at Ed’s rage. “What happened to you, Ed? What turned you into such a blue-flame psycho?”
Ed sat back down and said nothing for three minutes, his head bowed and his eyes focused on his desk. When he looked back up, Judge really saw him for the first time in years. He wasn’t the bald, rotund, playful man who had guided Judge through his first year in the CIA anymore. Judge realized that Ed’s baby fat was gone, making him look gaunt. His eyes had sunken into his head, and bags had formed under them. What had remained of his hair had finally given up hope, and age spots were now taking over the man’s hairline.
“What happened to me, Judge?” Ed repeated. “I’ve been paying attention to what is going on in the present, while you’ve been playing in the past. Now, get out of my office. I will call when I need you, and if you don’t answer, I have plenty of Agent Smiths to send after you.”
Judge walked out of the office and made his way out of the building. With every step, he glanced at the people around him. Many of them had the thousand-yard stare he saw on Rangers who had been in the field for too long. Judge had escaped that fate through what he thought was bad luck at the time. Now, he had a different opinion.
“So, what’s next?” Judge asked himself as he sat on his motorcycle in the main parking lot of the CIA building. His heart told him to go find Sara, explain everything that had happened and beg her to forgive him. Judge’s brain thought that was a good idea, and had a plan to make that happen.
Ninety minutes later, Judge rolled to a stop in front of the American Museum. He walked straight to Michael’s office and sat down uninvited in front of his other boss’s desk.
“Hey, Mickey! Miss me?” Judge said, faking a jovial smile.
Michael didn’t look up from the ledger book he was writing in. “Judge Foster, presumed dead, contract terminated. One of those still stands, I’m afraid.”
Judge forced his face to remain in a smile. “C’mon Mickey, you knew I wasn’t dead and I’m good to have on the payroll.”
“Yes, I knew you weren’t dead,” Mickey said, turning to face the other man, “and yes, you are good for the museum’s bottom line. But there is something else I have to consider, and that is the impact you have on the other people who work for me. Your sudden disappearance disrupted their work and emotional well-being.”
Judge knew who Michael was talking about. “How is she? Where is she? She’s the reason I’m back. I need to explain to her what happened.”
“Sara is fine…now. She was ready to go on a rescue mission for you. It took a visit from me, to the dig, to calm her down. You know how much I hate traveling,” Michael said.
Judge knew it all too well; it was Michael’s infamous quirk. He supervised work crews all over the world, but hated leaving D.C., let alone the country.
“I am sorry, Mickey. Truly, I am. I had no choice in the matter,” Judge said, his smile finally slipping. “I just got done trying to hand in my letter of resignation to the CIA. The bastards wouldn’t take it. It appears I am CIA until the day I die. I only want to apologize to Sara, patch things back up, and get back to work.”
Michael shook his head in sadness. “You don’t understand. Sara doesn’t want anything to do with you. While I was in Egypt, I explained what had happened.”
“How did you know?” Judge asked, refusing to let his brain focus on the idea that Sara hated him.
“I have my contacts in the agency,” Michael said. “I found out what was going on, and I told Sara the basics. It calmed her down for a second, and then, she became quite enraged. She is sure you lied when you left her. I actually argued on your behalf.”
“Thanks, Mickey, I appreciate it. Where is she now? I’m sure I can straighten this whole thing out,” Judge said.
“No, Judge, not this time. She told me, in no uncertain terms, that she wants nothing to do with you on a personal or professional level. She was quite adamant. Sara threatened to quit and go back to work for the Israeli Museum of History if you step foot on her work site,” Michael said.
Judge felt defeated. He’d known it would be an uphill battle to get back in Sara’s good graces, but he didn’t expect the hill to become Mt. Everest. “Okay, let’s put that on the back burner. Is there any way to get back to work with you on something else?”
Michael studied the younger man. He was still a brilliant archeologist with a set of skills that put him in a category above most of his peers. Plus, Michael had to admit to himself, he had great name recognition because of his adventure novels.
“I’m sure we can work something out,” Michael said, “but we need to work out a code for when the CIA comes calling for you.”
Judge’s impish grin returned. “I have just the phrase in mind.”
Chapter Seven
“You want me to tell Mr. Steward what?” Judge’s assistant asked. Kelly loved working for the world-famous Judge Foster, but he had some strange habits.
Judge threw his go-bag into the battered Jeep he used to get around Dalla, India. “Tell him I’m going to Nekhel. He’ll understand.”
Over the two years since Judge had ‘resigned’ from the CIA, he’d been called back into service six times, this being the seventh. Most operations had taken only a week or two, but the missions were taking a toll on what he now considered his true calling. As he drove on the jungle road that led to the ramshackle airfield where a C-130 was waiting for him, Judge once again swore to put the CIA behind him. When he pulled into the hangar, he once again knew that wasn’t going to happen.
“Judge Foster, reporting as requested, what’s the plan?”
A female Agent Smith answered, “We’re going to Iraq, Foster. There’s a gentleman there who we think is financing an operation against U.S. interests.”
“What? In Iraq? You’re kidding,” Judge said sarcastically. “Please tell me you have a little more to go on than that. What’s your name?”
“I’m Operative Angelica Ferris, and yes, we do have more intel than that. The man we’re after is using an archeological operation as a front for funneling weapons into Iraq under the guise of supplies for the archeological dig. That’s where you come in.”
Judge turned white under his well-earned tan. He had kept his distance from Sara over the last two years, but he made it a point to always know what she was up to. “And the person in charge of this dig is Sara Goldstein, right?”
Angelica’s smile turned predatory. “That’s right. And as her former love interest, you’re the perfect person to get the inside scoop.”
“Sorry, Angie, your intel is faulty. Thanks to your higher-ups, Goldstein wants nothing to do with me. In fact, my mere presence in Iraq could cause Sara to pull up stakes and leave the hemisphere. That will make your alleged smuggler more than a little suspicious.”
Angelica bristled at being called Angie, but she knew that was Judge’s intention, so she ignored it. “So, what do you suggest?”
“Surveillance, first. See exactly what is going on. Once we have proof, I’ll take it to Sara. It will be a tough sell, but if we have something concrete, she will be more inclined to help.”
Angelica didn’t like the idea of waiting, but Judge Foster had a reputation for being right. Her superior, Ed Veering, had recommended following Judge’s lead, but told her not to let him know he was leading.
“Fine, we’ll try it your way first,” she said, “but at the first sign of trouble, we’re switching to the fast lane.”
“Understood,” Judge said.
***
During the first week, Judge, Angelica, and the rest of the team kept an eye on Sara’s operation around the clock.
She was cataloging relics and artifacts that had been pilfered during the sack of Baghdad. The Iraqi police had spent countless hours hunting down the items, and now, Sara’s team was helping to identify each piece, and deciding where they should be sent next. The Iraqi government wanted to loan out as many of the artifacts as possible, in hopes of both k
eeping them safe for a while until things had stabilized—and also, make some money for the country at the same time. It had only taken a couple of days for Judge to determine that someone was adding a little something extra to each crate. The shipments of dig supplies arrived in Iraq with either cash or guns and left the cataloging site with explosives.
“How much are we talking about?” Angelica asked when Judge informed her.
Judge shrugged his shoulders. “Enough to take down a plane or level a museum, depending on how long the detonator is set for.”
Angelica whistled. “So, now we go to your girlfriend?”
Judge rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so. Can I get an armed backup?”
“What’s the matter? Afraid of facing the music?”
Judge fought the urge to yell, and instead whispered, “Not when I’m the one who is playing the tune. But the music you’re talking about comes from the CIA, and I was forced to dance to it.” He walked out of the surveillance room and back to his hotel. For an hour, he sat in the dark, trying to decide on the best way to proceed. In the end, he decided on good old-fashioned honesty and directness.
In the morning, he walked into the building where Sara and her team were working. The front office was decorated with several artifacts that showed the importance of the operation. The woman at the front desk asked how she could help him.
“I need to talk to Sara Goldstein. My name is Judge Foster.”
The woman’s eyes shot up and then she blushed a little. “Uh, I, um, I mean, I’m supposed to, um, say some rather rude things to you, but I’m not really comfortable with that kind of language.”
Judge smiled. “She left you with some colorful instructions, did she? Well, I promise to tell her you said them all, at high volume, as long as you go tell her that I refused to leave and threatened to start breaking things if she didn’t get out here in ten minutes.”
“You wouldn’t!” the woman exclaimed. Judge smiled and pulled a hammer out of the loop in his carpenter’s jeans. She shot out of her seat and ran out of the room.
Five minutes later, Sara and the woman returned. To Judge’s eyes, Sara was as beautiful as ever: a little tanner, a few streaks of white in her hair, but still an amazing woman.
“You hit anything with that hammer, Judge, and I’m going to take it from you and smash your testicles with it!” Sara barked at him.
Judge’s smile got bigger. “Love to see you try, sweetheart.” He thought the replay of their first conversation would jolt a smile to the surface of Sara’s face, but no such luck.
“I don’t have time for this, Judge. What do you want?” Sara asked.
“Can we go somewhere and talk?”
Sara rolled her eyes. “Fine, let’s go to my office. Noora, please come wake me in ten minutes. Judge normally bores me to sleep.” Sara then walked out of the room and down a hall, with Judge in tow. When they got to the office, Sara sat behind a desk that barely looked like it was being used. There were a few papers in nice, neat piles, but there were no pictures of loved ones or signs of actual work being done.
“What do you want, Judge? I was absolutely clear with Michael that I never wanted to see you again. I don’t care if you were working with the CIA; you lied to me, and I can’t abide that.”
Judge said, “I want to know how you keep your office so clean? Do you have a maid?” His voice went up an octave. “Little tiny elves? What is your secret?”
Sara still didn’t crack a smile, so Judge got serious. “Sara, I’m here because of the CIA. There is concern that the crates full of artifacts you are sending out have explosives in them. I need to know how many you’ve already sent out, and to where. I’m not screwing around.”
“Are you accusing me of terrorism, now?” Sara asked, her face darkening further.
Judge said, “No, I’m not. I would never think that of you. Someone from your financier’s group is doing it.” He pulled out a photo of a man. “This is him. What is his name?”
Sara took the photo. “That is Jamir, but he doesn’t work for Asa Rama. He works for me. When Saddam Hussein was in power, Jamir worked for the Iraqi Historical Society. He would never endanger the artifacts of his country.”
“Time and war changes people, Sara. I watched him place IEDs in those crates with my own eyes,” Judge said. “Where are you sending them?”
Sara kept looking at the photos and the crates they showed. “Those are going to the countries that helped the U.S. in 2003: England, Australia, and Japan, as well as the U.S., of course.”
“How many have you sent out?”
Sara crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. “None yet. The first shipment is going out to the airport right now.”
Judge jumped out of his chair. “That’s great, then we can stop it all. Where is Jamir?”
Sara put her head in her hands. “He’s overseeing the loading of the crates onto the plane at Baghdad Airport.”
“Okay, great,” Judge said as he grabbed the doorknob. “Thank you, Sara. We’re going to save lives today.”
“That’s great, Judge, but I have a more important question. Why does this keep happening to me? Why do I always pick the jobs that criminals flock to?”
Judge let go of the doorknob and walked over to her. “This is not your fault, Sara,” He bent down and kissed her forehead. “You are trying to do good in the world. Some people don’t want to see good done. They only want vengeance.” Judge locked eyes with hers and then he kissed her lips, lightly. Before she could say anything else, Judge left the room.
Thirty minutes later, Judge and the rest of his CIA team pulled onto the Baghdad airfield, racing toward the hangar where a cargo plane was being loaded with priceless artifacts and enough C4 to turn them all into dust. As their caravan of Hummers stopped at the entrance of the hangar, Judge was the first one out, his M9 in its holster on his hip.
“All right, no sudden moves, people. Let me do the talking,” Judge said as they walked into the building. He counted six people inside, working together to put the crates on a conveyor belt leading up to the plane. Judge had learned the plane had a busy route planned. It would first land in Japan, then head to Australia for refueling and rest. From there, it would fly to Los Angeles and New York, before heading across the Atlantic to London.
The men in the hangar didn’t react at first to the intrusion, they just kept loading the crates one by one. When Judge asked in Arabic for the man in charge, the work stopped.
“I am! Who are you?” a man said in English from inside the cargo hold of the plane. Judge recognized him from the surveillance photos. His eyes were wilder in real life, his forehead sweatier, and his belly bigger.
Judge smiled. “Are you Jamir?”
Jamir nodded. “I am. And you are Judge Foster, correct? The bint who put these crates together speaks of you often. What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to make sure these crates fly without anything extra attached to them. Come down here so we can talk about it. Whadaya say?”
Jamir’s expression didn’t change, but more sweat formed on his forehead. “You have no authority here. This is Iraq, not the U.S.”
“True,” Angelica said behind Judge, “but the bullets in these American guns can’t tell the difference between nationalities. So, come down here now or die up there.”
“Typical American aggression! Willing to shoot anyone who looks different from you!” Jamir said. “Well, we were hoping to set an example by sending our history to destroy yours in payback for the illegal war against Iraq. But I see that won’t happen now.” He then pulled his phone out of his pocket and punched a few buttons on it. “It is a good thing I have a backup plan. At least I can take out a few CIA agents and Judge Foster!”
Judge pulled his gun and fired at Jamir as the man pressed a button on his phone. Jamir died just as the first explosion went off behind him in the plane. The CIA team ran out of the hangar at full speed, hoping to outrace the destruction. More than a dozen
explosions ripped apart the plane and brought down the hangar’s roof. By the time Judge stopped running, he was three hundred yards from the burning building and he could still feel the heat. All of the CIA agents had made it out, but several were down, with pieces of shrapnel sticking out of their bodies. None of the workers loading up the plane had made it out alive.
In the days following what the press dubbed the “Iraq Hangar Tragedy,” Judge found himself at the center of a shit storm. Several network reporters who were still in the country reported rumors that the famous archeologist and novelist was in town when the explosion had happened, and speculated about his role in the destruction. Sara blamed him for letting Jamir destroy all of the artifacts she had cataloged. Angelica threw him under the bus with her bosses, blaming him for forcing them to wait too long. The CIA recalled him to Virginia for a complete debriefing and then, had him decommissioned.
“You wanted out?” Ed asked at their final meeting. “Well, you’re out, buddy. All you had to do was get five men killed, six operatives injured, and dozens of Iraqi artifacts destroyed. Congrats, now get out. Your country doesn’t need your kind of help.”
Chapter Eight
Even two years later, Judge found it ironic how he had finally managed to gain his freedom from the CIA.
The explosion did more than just cut him off from the agency; it had also shattered his pride. All throughout his career, Judge had been so sure in his ability to solve any riddle or tense situation. Now, that was all gone, and he had relegated himself to logging the finds of other archeologists.
“This is not what I expected,” Judge said to himself as he sat in the middle of his little crate apartment in the museum basement.
A voice drifted over the walls. “What did you expect, Judge?”
“How long have you known I’ve been living here, Mickey?” Judge asked.
Michael knocked on the wall behind Judge’s head. “About two minutes after you moved in, Judge. This is my museum. Nothing happens here that I don’t know about. Why don’t you come out of that cell and talk to me?”