by Jake Devlin
“Shift change? Nah, that should have been at nine.”
“Daytime, more personnel?”
“Could be.”
“And look at all those cameras.”
“No, no, no, JB. Look to your left; don't be so obvious.”
“C'mon, CB, I'm just a-gawkin' lak a reg'lar ol' turista.”
“Well, swivel your head to the left, where I'm pointing. That's a gawkable manse, too.”
“Okay, okay. Ah'm swivelin'.”
“Okay, we're past it.”
“Ah. That thar war a purty lil ol' house, warn't it?”
“Jillybean!”
“Okay, okay; Ah'm done.”
“Good. Now let's get back to the safe house and analyze the video. There's gotta be some way to get in there.”
“We sho' ain't gonna be able to git inna his office at Langley.”
“Maybe not, JB. But really, you can drop the accent now.”
“Damn. I was jus' startin' to lak how it sounds. And thinkin' 'bout takin' up da banjo.”
- 3 -
June 17, 2013
9:34 a.m. local time
St. Tropez, France
“So that false-flag job helped to motivate the government down there to build up their death squads even more.”
“Not that they needed much extra motivation, from what I've read.”
“True, but we were only supposed to be 'advising' them.”
“Quote, unquote, 'advising'?”
“Right; we actually had a much more active role. Even set up a safe house in the Presidential Palace in Guat City.”
“Who was the guy they sent down to lead that?”
“It was – wait a minute – ah, right. John Langdon – no, wait – John Longon – right, Longon – was the name he used, but that was a cover. I've QH'd his real name; think he died sometime in the early '90s. Natural causes, so no star on the wall. But he and I never worked together; I just did that one job down there … at least while I was in training.”
“So when did you graduate?”
“From the Farm? June '66. By then, I'd been tagged to go to work in one of the Company's private security businesses as my primary cover.”
“The one with the initials?”
“Nah; that's the FBI's low-end residential biz. That one's grown a lot since back then; I doubt that any of their subscribers know that the feebs can monitor anything and everything they do in and around their home, piggybacking on and bypassing the legitimate monitoring biz. That was one of the things they set up at the very beginning and still maintain, right up to today.
“Later on, of course, the NSA tapped into that and into ours, as well, and later got into all that surveillance stuff that Snowden guy leaked last week.”
“I read about that; gonna be a lot of fallout from that, I'll bet.”
“F'sure. Hope it doesn't spread out and get into O-P's biz.”
“You're on top of that, I trust.”
“Yup; got both Wes and Amber's sides of the biz working on it.”
“So what happened next with you?”
“After I finished college, the Agency gave me a job in their new high-end residential and commercial security biz, as a salesman slash consultant, traveling mostly in the US and Europe to meet with potential clients and plan their installs, which could cost upwards of ten thousand dollars. Remember, this was in the late sixties, when that was a lot of money, and what we had to offer was fairly primitive. Today, in O-P, it'd be maybe ten million dollars, minimum, for a high-end system, but way more sophisticated than we had back then, and we'd always put in our own monitoring systems, video and audio, all surreptitiously, of course; the clients never knew … or know.”
“Like the feebs' systems?”
“Better, full duplex; we can not only monitor, but send audio and video in, even take over their communication and control systems.”
“Really? Wow.”
“Yup. The Agency built a whole cover identity for me in that job, so when I got an assignment, I'd go into a nearby country for a sales pitch or to consult on an install, and I'd just pick one of my other legends and use that to cross a border to do the job. Over my six years in the Agency, we built up over a hundred covers, with full backgrounds, documents and disguises hidden in safe houses all across Europe. In the US, of course, I only used a cover for backup or if I had to fly commercial.”
“Did you have a code name?”
“Yup; Chameleon 17.”
“Wait. YOU were one of the Chameleons?”
“Yup.”
“Wow. You people were legendary. We heard all about you at the Farm.”
“We did what had to be done, and most of us had acting training and experience, so it kinda came naturally – well, not naturally; more easily, I guess. And we were all so bland-looking, we could blend in almost anywhere, hardly noticed.”
“Didn't you ever confuse your covers?”
“Only once, down in Sydney, 1972.”
“Where we visited after that job in Ballarat last – oh, when was that?”
“Last November, I think.”
“Right.
“Where you got that knife wound?”
“Yup. Right before I left the Agency and started O-P with Wes and Amber.”
“What happened?”
“I lost my concentration, just a split-second, but it was enough for her to get that knife into my thigh before I took her out. Taught me a good lesson on compartmentalization, though.”
“I'll bet it did.”
“Haven't had any lapses on that since, either way.”
“Yeah; I had no inkling you were anything but a retired beach bum until I saw you on the yacht. And even then, I couldn't find anything when I looked back over our time in Bonita that gave me more'n a few vague hints. And you covered those so easily.”
“Years of practice, Pam; years of practice.”
- 4 -
August 17, 2013
10:27 a.m. local time
Bonita Beach, Florida
“So I'm like 'Oh, no, you dih-n't!' and he's like 'Oh, yeah, I dih,' and I'm like 'WTF?' and he's like 'YOLO,' and I'm like 'She's hashtag such a slut!' and he's like 'LOL,' and I'm like 'I'm hashtag so done with you!' and he's like 'Oh, okay,' all flat like that. I know, wight? So you can tell Jordan I am like so ready to hook up with him. Kewl.”
“Did you hear that, Gordy?”
“The girl there talking on her cell? The one that just walked by?”
“Yeah, in the little pink bikini. Can't be more than fifteen.”
“Yup. Kids, huh?”
“But did you hear what she was saying?”
“Couldn't miss it; she wasn't trying to keep it secret, that's for sure.”
“Where do they learn to talk like that?”
“You mean what she was talking about or how she said it?”
“Both, I guess. Sex at her age?”
“Rampant hormones.”
“And rotten parenting.”
“Got that right, Ro.”
“And all those letters, and how she can't pronounce 'cool' and 'didn't.'”
“The glottal stop, you mean?”
“Yeah. How do they do that?”
“Practice and peer conditioning. Wanna give it a try?”
“Which one?”
“Maybe try 'kewl' to start?”
“How'd you do that?”
“Let's see; been a while since I learned how to do it. Ah, right. Start with the word 'cue,' like in 'cue ball,' and then – ah – tighten your cheeks a little bit and get rid of the 'y' sound.”
“Okay. 'Cue, kue' – ah – 'kew'” –
“Good, good. Now just add the 'l' at the end.”
“Okay. 'Kewl, kewl,' like that?”
“Great. You're a quick study, Ro.”
“Kewl.”
“Yup, you got it. Now how about giving 'dih-n't' a try?
“Okay. Let's see. 'Oh, no, you didn't!' Did-n't, did-n't. Okay; it's the tip of the tongue
. Di, di, dih. Ah, just a quick blocking of the breath. Dih-n't. How was that?”
“Close. Now try the whole phrase.”
“'Oh, no, you dih-n't. Good?”
“Closer, but give the 'dih' more emphasis.”
“'Oh, no, you dih-n't.'”
“Oh, yes, you dih. You got it, Ro.”
“LOL.”
“Don't you mean 'hashtag LOL'?”
“Wha- – no. 'Hashtag'? What does that mean, anyhow?”
“I think it's just for emphasis, part of their ritual language. I think it comes from one of those social media web sites.”
“Probably be long forgotten in a couple of years.”
“Yup; fads come and go.”
“Especially at that age.”
“Got that right, Ro. Short retention spans, and really short attention – oh, look at that cloud.”
“What? Where?”
– “spans.”
“Where? Oh, you.”
“Gotcha.”
“Oh, no, you dih-n't.”
“Oh, yeah, I dih.”
“Gotcha, Gordy.”
“What?”
“Gotcha backatcha.”
“What? How?”
“I was just practicing.”
“You – oh. I thought” –
“Yeah; practicing, not arguing.”
“Good one, Ro.”
“Thank you, suh.”
“Uh – wait a minute; that's Pam's style.”
“Oh, right. Sorry; never mind.”
“Okay; unminded.”
“Thanks; forgot myself for a moment there.”
“No problem, Ro.”
“G'morning, Gordy.”
“G'morning. How ya doin'?”
“Good. And you?”
“Good; thanks. Have a great day.”
“Who was that, Gordy?”
“I don't know. They look familiar, but I have no idea what their names are.
“Think I need to get back in the water; getting pretty hot out here. Eyeballs are sweating again.”
“I'm ready for some water time, too.”
“Well, grab your noodle and let's go.”
“Can I grab yours, too?”
“Maybe once we're in there, if you want.”
“Kewl.”
- 5 -
June 17, 2013
9:41 a.m. local time
St. Tropez, France
“My second kill was the one that hit my conscience. It was late '66, had to skip a couple days of classes to go off and do that one; told my profs and frat brothers I had to visit a sick aunt in Milwaukee. Flew to DC for a quick briefing, then down to Miami for the job.
“He was a Cuban Commie spy, according to the dossier, but when I first saw him, he was with his family; wife, two boys and a little girl, three kids between maybe five and seven years old. They were having some kind of dessert in a small cafe in Little Havana, and it was obvious that he loved them and they loved him; they were all smiling and laughing and giggling when he tickled them. A real Leave-It-To-Beaver family, much like my own back in the Midwest.
“When he got up, kissed them all and headed off, I followed him and caught up with him about six blocks away, just as he headed into the alley where our intel said the meet was going to happen. I turned him around and stuck the silencer under his throat. He knew what was about to happen and he didn't struggle at all, just looked me in the eyes and sighed. I pulled the trigger and the back of his head blew off and his brains scattered all over the alleyway. I dragged his body between two dumpsters, crouched down and waited for his contact to show up. Less than a five minutes later, he did.
“I barely had to move as he walked past the gap; I just aimed and fired, got him in the ribs, then another to the head. Dragged him in, searched him, found the documents he was bringing to the meet, stuck them and the gun in my bag, made sure I had no blood on me or my clothing and headed further into the alley and out onto the next street. Seven blocks away I grabbed a cab and took that to a corner six blocks from the safe house, walked the rest of the way, dropped everything there, changed clothes and headed to the airport. Got back to Minneapolis the same evening and back to classes the next day. That weekend we had a frat party and I got drunk and hit on a sorority girl, took her up to my room and we screwed our brains out.
“But that family of his haunted me. I'd taken their father, their bacon-home-bringer, their emotional grounding, away from their life with one twitch of my trigger finger. Sure, he was an enemy of our country and a threat to our way of life, but still ...”
“I went through the same thing with our second hit, Jake. So did JJ.”
“Took me about a month to get past that. You?”
“About the same; saw one of the Company shrinks six times.”
“Five for me. And JJ?”
“Seven, I think.”
“Seems like it's always the second kill that hits you in the gut. Sure glad we've got Doc Logan working for O-P.”
“He worked miracles with Josh last November.”
“Yeah; he got him compartmentalizing with the best.”
“What's he done, six since then?”
“Uh, five, I think. Whatever; he's done 'em all well. Clean kills, bodies never found, no collateral damage.”
“So seven or eight in all.”
“Right; 35 or 40 million euros in his account. And he's on another job right now.”
“Really? Where?”
“Philly, that blood diamond smuggler. And Becky's heading up to work with him.”
“How's she doing with Blake?”
“Good, last I heard. But they're all having trouble dealing with Cam's death.”
“That really sucked. And Armando turned out to be such a shallow asshole.”
“Didn't he, though. Arrogant punk.”
“But he is gorgeous. Did you see the picture Cam sent before that mission?”
“Yeah; he'd never be a Chameleon, that's f'sure.”
“Got that right, Jake.”
“Anyhow, after that second hit, I did maybe a dozen a year until I graduated from the U in '69, and never had a twinge of conscience. Then I went to work in that sales slash consultant job, split my time between the New York and Paris offices, and did twenty-some hits in my first six months there, mostly in Europe, but a few in Asia and South America, three in the New York area and one in Montreal. At the same time, I boosted sales to over a million dollars in security installs, again mostly in Europe, and all with our hidden duplex surveillance systems. A lot of those were for high officials in governments, and I got the average price up to 22K by the end of '69.
“Now, this was at the height of the Vietnam war, and the Agency pulled me and a lot of other young-looking agents back to the States to infiltrate the anti-war movement. From January of '70, they had me travel from university to university, mostly in the Midwest, staying a few weeks at each and passing whatever intel I found back to the Agency, with the understanding that they were passing that on to the FBI.
“It wasn't until I left in '72 that I found out the truth; they kept it all in the Agency and used it for infiltration and false-flag ops of their own, not unlike COINTELPRO, which was Hoover's baby and was still in operation. When Hoover died, I was on the team that ransacked his files and got them back to the Agency, but not before I made a lot of copies. Took 'em with me when I left in September.”
- 6 -
June 17, 2013
11:48 a.m. local time
Washington, DC
“Back it up, JB. Yeah, right there. See that?”
“I don't know, CB. My eyes are getting fuzzy; we've been at this for almost two hours.”
“Back up the earlier pass, too; the camera in the door jamb and the one on the rear deck. Find the same point.”
“Okay; hang on. Jamb cam and deck cam. Got 'em. There?”
“Back a little bit. Right. Right there, just as we come abreast of their first camera, the one on the top cor
ner of the wall.”
“Okay. What am I looking for?”
“Now hit Play. See that?”
“No. What?”
“Their camera immediately – and I mean immediately – moves to follow the car, and it's so smooth, it has to be on auto. A human would have a longer reaction time.”
“So it's on a motion sensor.”
“Right.”
“Now play it again and watch the lens casing.”
“Okay. I don't – oh. Ah-ha, it's twisting, zooming in.”
“Right; focusing in on the license plate.”
“Glad we rotated it.”
“Got that right, JB.”
“So what does that tell you?”
“Well, first, I'll bet they're keeping a database of all the cars that go past, cross-checking the license plates, and that means we can't use that car or either of those plates again. Then I'll bet they're tapping into all the surveillance cameras across the city, tracking where those vehicles that seem suspicious to them might – oh, shit! You think they might have tracked us here?”
“Not with only two passes, an hour apart, different faces, different plates, common car, common color; doubtful.”
“You sure, CB?”
“Maybe 90 percent.”
“Wait a minute; lemme – dashcam. Hang on … okay. Look there.”
“At what?”
“The middle camera, the one right over the gates. The casing is swiveling, too, zooming in from the front. Faces.”
“Back up, play that again.”
“Okay.”
“Yup; I see it. And the one from the first pass?”
“That is the first pass.”
“Oh. Then the second one.”
“Okay. Um – okay, got it. Here goes.”
“Yup, same thing.”
“Think they're using facial recognition?”
“Sure. But again, with only two passes, so far apart, I don't think it'd trigger that.”
“90 percent again?”
“Yeah, about there.”
“And those guards were looking pretty hard at us both times.”
“But they weren't the same ones.”
“I'm not – let me check the jamb cams again. Okay, first pass, second pass – oh, shit. That one is still there, and he's looking even more closely on the second one.”