SAFE HAVENS: Shadow Masters (A Sean Havens Black Ops Novel Book 1)

by J. T. Patten

  Havens shook his head in utter disbelief. “No way. No frickin’ way. What are you guys thinking? A black passport? You are handing me an official diplomatic passport? How did you get this so quickly and with the name of someone I have never heard of and one that singles me out as official? I have a blue regular guy passport that I am using. Are you kidding me?”

  Havens started to pace the room. He started flipping through the passport that typically indicates those traveling for strictly diplomatic purposes and who hold diplomatic immunity. A nicety, but not for those who are not looking for scrutiny and identification as U.S. government.

  “This passport you got here is even brand new. It cracks when I open it. Thread is tight. No stamps. Cover isn’t creased from any use. It is dated last year. Where did you get this and who the hell put this shitty ass kit together for me? I trust you have nothing under organizational cover or a cover organization?”

  “Say, Mick, may want to not shout this to the whole country if you are so worried about being clean. I’m just sayin’.”

  Disregarding the warning, Havens continued his rant. “If I am a traveling government official with regional diplomatic activity in this area, do you really think I never traveled anywhere before as it shows on this flippin’ brand spanking new passport? God forbid I encounter biometric scrutiny!” He threw down the passport. “What the fuck?”

  John backed up, raising his hands defensively. “Not me, man. I am just delivering the goods. One of your dudes at the blue building downtown here gave it to me to give to you. So don’t bring your shit on my shoes.”

  “Blue building? What blue building?”

  “Yeah, right. You know, where all you…you…c’mon, you know…your kind comes when they are in Yemen for action. I ain’t a shooter, man. I street lurk, but ain’t no hunter killer. I just stop by the blue building if I have to drop something off or get a kit to stash at a house so you snake eaters have their toys ‘n shit. You really don’t know?”

  “John, look. I never heard of a blue building. To the best of my knowledge there are no shooters in some place I don’t know about. If you are in the game you know I can’t play this hand unless I know who this guy is, what he does, why he is supposedly here, where he entered the country from and when, does he have a physical and digital or virtual footprint. I could get burned real quick.”

  “Look man, I feel ya. Here is the bottom line from where I am standing. There is a ticket, a passport, some cash, and probably some other stuff. We’re understaffed here at this station. Sometimes the dudes that come in here to help are just contractors or old military dudes with the right tickets punched for clearance. They ain’t smart, Mick. They just cleared. Doesn’t mean they know what they are doing just because they were lucky enough to have a full scope lifestyle and CI poly, but chances are this will get you seventy-five percent of the way. Up to you to fake the rest. They train us Farm chickens like that. You do know the Farm?”

  Not needing to be convinced and not willing to indulge the snarky question, Havens was already trying to solve the problem. “Where is this blue building? I will take care of things.”

  John started backing up towards the door, and with his hand on the knob said, “Yeah, right. Man, if you don’t know where the blue building is, you ain’t supposed to know where the blue building is. It ain’t even really blue. Anyway, I said too much, so forget I said that. See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya. Write your congressman and get some funds appropriated if you don’t like what’s going on here in the Yem. Continuing resolution just boinked you in the ass, Pops. Don’t miss your flight. Gotta go. Leave your shit here and someone will come get it after you leave,” John’s voice slowed and trailed while now eyeing the pistol Havens was tucking in his waistband.

  With that, John exited the room to go back to the streets he worked each day for the intelligence community. Low man on the totem pole caught shit from all sides. Today was just another day. He thought about having a qat chew, but now he had one more task before Havens could leave town. He’d have to move quickly. A text message would save time, but it would also leave a trail. No trails.

  Fuckin’ cowboy shooters. How can you not know the blue building if you are a hardcore. All the hardcore ones go there. Shit, they own the night here.

  As soon as John left, Havens briskly walked the room as if in search of something, hands on hips with a constantly shaking head. The risky cover legend was compounding the stress. Havens wanted to kill someone but knew John had done his part and was not at fault. John was right. He was trained to adapt and make the best of it. Carry on. He never got rattled. But with today’s news about Maggie, he was.

  Havens opened the ticket, figuring he had a better than a fifty-fifty chance of pulling this ruse off. He had to get home as fast as he could. No time to bitch and moan.

  Four more hours before his flight left.

  Havens scanned the ticket, hoping that he would see a lucky mid-point transit that could give him some hope of passing checkpoints and the scrutiny of his background.

  C’mon Dubai, c’mon Dubai.

  His gaze stopped on the destination.

  Kuwait. Well, that’s going to have to work.

  Chapter 7

  Havens called Christina again to inform her of his basic itinerary and that he was expected to be home in two days. It was the best he could do and she never challenged it. She knew her husband would pull out all the stops to get home as soon as possible.

  He asked to speak to his daughter. Although she was sitting in the other room just socializing on her computer, his only child refused to talk to him.

  “Give Maggie her time,” Christina had told a disappointed Sean. “She has been through a lot, and in fairness to her, you were not here when she really could have used you. We have to rethink this whole travel thing while she is still with us at home. I’m not throwing this in your face. It’s just what we are dealing with.”

  “I wish I had woken her before I left. I don’t even think I kissed her goodbye.”

  “That makes two of us you neglected to kiss goodbye.”

  “Shit. Sorry. Well, at least you’re talking to me.”

  “This time. Just leave her be for now. You are making it more about you than her.”

  Sean was hurt, but understood. In truth, he really didn’t have anything to say to the poor girl. He was ashamed that he had let her down and was simply trying to extend some sort of olive branch. The travel thing came up again. He would have to make some changes again for both of his ladies. If Christina was asking this of him, he knew it was important. She was a more than fair wife and would not impose undue demands unless she really needed his help. He would oblige her request without another thought. They were a team although she shouldered the brunt of the responsibilities, and he recognized this.

  His daughter received the message loud and clear too. While she refused to get on the phone and put up her distant angry face for her mom, she was typing on her Facebook wall, “My dad is coming home tomorrow : ) I am so happy.”

  Somewhere in cyberspace, the message was received on another computer’s pop-up display. The user opened a software program with secure instant messaging capabilities. He clicked on one of the usernames and typed, “HE’S ON HIS WAY.”

  Christina had informed her husband that the police were now downplaying the threats. They believed the texts were likely just a time saver for the rapist to stall any investigation and an attempt to hush his victim. There had been no other text messages, threats, or indications of further aggression. It was an eerie but welcome calm. The police stated that they would continue the rape investigation. The local television stations even showed a three-minute feature story on the attack during the evening news with a sketch and a hotline number for any information that was potentially available on the attacker.

  Christina had said the lack of additional threats had calmed her down some and the police’s rationale of why a rapist would have made such a threat now made more se
nse. She told her husband that they should discuss it when he got home and to hold off on sending his own band of merry men to the house. “I don’t want a bunch of your friends here, Sean. I want you.”

  Christina loved her husband and respected his work, but he was a bit different from some of the other men that he associated with. She had heard that those sorts of men were called “rough men” in some circles. Not her circles. But it made sense. Most of the guys were not big muscular Stallone or Schwarzenegger types. They are more like that Jason Statham guy, she’d think to herself. They were nice, quiet, and good looking, but they had an edge. A rough edge specifically.

  They were respectful to her but struck her as having a certain indiscernible look. A look about them and a way they would actually look at her. The look was not an uncomfortable sexual look like one she would receive from admiring eyes on the street. These men were looking at her or rather inside of her with more of an introspective probing. Sometimes she felt as though they were cyborgs constantly scanning, assessing, and ready to react or attack at a moment’s notice. They reminded her of a big dog you trust but would never leave unattended near a child, and yet the dog would probably save the child’s life in a moment of danger.

  Then when the men would go downstairs to the man cave, she could hear their laughs, chiding, and camaraderie that could only be described as a fraternity or, in some cases, a family bloodline.

  As the night would go on, the laughing would get louder, the empty bottles would clank more often in the garbage can, the profanity would increase, then hush down in a constant flow of party party shhh shhh party party shhhh.

  By two in the morning, they would be gone.

  And oddly, so would all the trash. It struck her on more than one occasion that when Sean would hand a man a beer, they would take it from the bottle cap, slide it into their own coozie, open the top and put the cap in their pocket. It was as if they never wanted to touch the bottle or leave them behind. It would have been easier if they just wore gloves.

  She never asked her husband much about it as it was indeed a rarity for him to have these men over. Her husband was not really like them. Most had military training. He did not. Not formally. Not that she knew of. She knew he had been to a number of trainings over the years that could extend beyond a week but never more than two.

  Sean didn’t have that same look either. He was much more casual and had much more levity about him. He didn’t have that hawkish look for prey; he had a constant look as if he wanted to make a new friend. Anywhere the Havenses would go as a couple, he could chat someone up. Weddings, restaurants, taxi cabs, Sean was chatting away. He was interesting to others and yet exuded that he was more interested in others and in their interests. She liked that about him, knowing that really he was an introvert.

  Every now and then Sean would even surprise her as she eavesdropped on the conversations he was having outside of her likely earshot. He would throw out some foreign language phrases to the person he was speaking with—often of a foreign heritage. When she asked him about it, he would reply it was just a different type of Arabic but basically the same. She was a speech therapist and had an ear for subtleties in language. It was not always just a different Arabic dialect. Sean knew stuff that he didn’t share with his wife, and she was OK with that but never gave him too long of a leash.

  He said that he was more of an intelligence analyst, who would help the military on some out-of-the-box plans and stuff, or so he would describe to her when he could, so she let him keep his little secrets so he could play James Bond with the big military boys.

  He was her little Cliff Clavin know-it-all geek. A geek that was trim and chiseled with lean muscle mass—athletic but not brawn. Even his “martial arts training,” as he would call it, didn’t seem like the tough guy type. She would sometimes tease him when a Mixed Martial Arts commercial would come on the television.

  “Sean, isn’t that what you do, oh, no sorry your cage matches are with cranes and tigers and snakes. Do you guys hissss and grrrr when you make animal hands? Do they turn out the lights so you can make shadow characters?”

  She would start to giggle, mocking his Kung Fu. Some days he would give her a protective glare, defending his hobby. Other times he would play along and start to go after her. Sometimes when he would come up from the man cave she would jump out at him in a karate stance and caw like a crow with hand pincers or meow like a cat and gesture slapping a pretend air toy. She would playfully slap at his face.

  “C’mon toughie. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Of course, there was that time when he actually did do some crazy whirlwind move that ended up crossing her arms, twisting her around, and putting her on her back with him bracing her fall before she knew what had happened. She was a bit taken aback. Not sure if she was scared or impressed. Maybe there was something behind that quiet, friendly husband of hers. Soft power, she thought to herself as he gently kissed her lips and released her wrists.

  But despite that one incident she knew the real action heroes in the basement left when the drinking was done. They would cut through the shadows to their cars, usually pickup trucks and rental SUVs. She assumed they drove or flew back to their lairs with their bags of empty bottles and trash, while her husband came up to bed drunker than he should be at that age.

  He probably had a harder time keeping up with his ‘bubbas’ who didn’t have so much family baggage. Although she was secure in herself that Sean never saw his family as baggage. He was genuinely happy to be at home.

  And on those nights that he would stumble up the stairs after a night with the boys, she would kiss his forehead and let him snore it off as she nestled on his arm and rocked as his chest rose and fell in deep slumber. She would whisper to him hoping he may wake and take her. She felt so secure in his presence.

  As her mind raced in sleeplessness she would shift to wondering what she was thinking. After all, he was a consultant, a volunteer coach for the Park District, and a guy who just reads a lot and makes a bigger deal about traveling to third world countries than he probably should. She wondered if he even knew how to shoot a gun.

  Hurry home, Sean. I miss you.

  You also left a sandwich downstairs just sitting out. But you will never know that I find that endearing about you and it makes me feel that you are still here with us when you are away. We have a lot to talk about and a young woman who really misses her dad. Safe travels, my love.

  Chapter 8

  Havens had consolidated his non-travel gear in the apartment and left it for the cleanup crew who would sanitize the safe house sometime after his departure. They would not come too soon in the event he had to return for some supplies or safety. Someone else would run the countersurveillance and technical security checks this time to make sure the hide site was reusable for the next dark pilgrim.

  Sean was bugging out and would be all eyes in front at this point.

  He would mail his other passport to an address by his home in the event he was detained for some reason. In his experience, it was never good to be found with another passport depicting another identity. It was much easier to get out of a situation by having too little information than too many identities.

  As a business consultant, his best weapon when confronted was Joe Average attitude, frustration, and open threats. An individual acting too calm and too patient under duress was a red flag to those looking for behavioral clues of deceit and subterfuge.

  Havens had identified a FedEx location where he would send off his triple wrapped contents. It was lucky for him that UPS and FedEx had lifted their recent ban on package service from Yemen. It had been suspended after two explosive devices originating from that country were found on cargo planes.

  After his conversation with Ethiopian John, Havens didn’t feel comfortable going to the U.S. Embassy in Sana’a and having his creds sent back home in a diplomatic pouch. It sounded like they were having an interagency human resources mess.

  Hell, th
ey will probably tape another guy’s picture over mine and give the passport to him for a quick fix cover for action or status. Unbelievable.

  He made a quick call to a friend who did not pick up the phone. He’s probably in a SCIF and left the cell in the car.

  Havens left a message asking a small favor to keep an eye on the house for a day or two until he got home. Christina may be opposed, he had said in the message, so if she doesn’t let you in, camp out until my return. Please park out front and you will be graciously rewarded in the future. Please get this message.

  Sean grabbed some small benign items that he would need, showered for the first time since his arrival, and put on the clothes John had brought for him.

  My belt, where’s my belt? I need my Bat Utility Belt so I am not completely screwed if I get pinched.

  A friend and colleague who had spent a career in DoD special projects and a bit of a gadget guy, thus earning himself the name of “X” (a dirtier James Bond “Q” he would say), had sent Havens a present for his fortieth birthday.

  Havens had opened the shipping box to find a nylon-ish belt with nice leather detailing to dress it up a bit beyond completely camping casual. The leather trim in the front made it appropriate for slacks or casual khakis. It was a nice belt. But it was a belt. Who sends another man a belt?

  At the time it seemed odd that he would just receive a belt with a note ‘Happy Hunting,’ but a nice gesture nonetheless. Maybe X realized that Sean liked to travel light and may need a belt for all travel occasions. Doubtful. There had to be more to it. Was it from a country that X was in? No, it had a little white tab near the buckle that read ‘Made in USA.’ What was he missing?

  He had pulled the tissue out of the box. Nothing. Shook out the tissue. Nothing. It was like shaking an opened Hallmark Happy Birthday card from Grandpa and Grandma hoping money would fall out.

  Shake the card like there is money hidden. Shake the belt. Rub the buckle and the genie will come out. X didn’t just send me a cutesy GQ Orvis belt.