by Vince Milam
The deck cleared, our conversation reset, she came again at full bore.
“It’s a solid mission. You don’t know the details.”
“Yeah, I do.”
Her brow furrowed. She blinked again and settled back into the chair. The bartender drifted over. I ordered another Grey Goose. She ordered a diet soda, followed with, “I don’t get it. Did someone contact you?”
“No one contacted me. It’s not rocket science. JI headed here. PNG. Their neighborhood and their kind of turf. And if they found gold, they could fund their operations for years.”
She nodded and focused on every word.
“So the Company got wind of it. And crafted a brilliant plan. Offer them money, men, equipment. For a cut of the gold. Make sure and sprinkle on legitimacy. Which tells me you have a middleman somewhere.”
She was crestfallen. “In Sydney. A mining and extraction company. More of a consulting company, really, but they present solid cover.”
“Fine. So send the moron Case Lee and have him make initial contact. Report the findings. Enroll him to head back with a firm offer. And start working them.”
Now she sat deadpan, still. “You have talked to someone.”
I ignored her comment. “But someone already presented them with a similar offer. You haven’t read my report.”
“You already filed it?”
“Let me fill you in. Another team from Spookville Central—the town formerly known as Kiunga—beat you to the punch.”
“Who?”
“Plenty of options. Early money on the Brits.” I recalled the MI6 question regarding the Indonesians. “Or the Chinese, the Russians. Could even be Mossad. Or MIVD. The Dutch secret service. They mucked around here for a century or two. Take your pick. And I mean that literally. Because I’m washing my hands.”
She stared at the tabletop, lips pursed. Our drinks arrived.
“I’m through with all this, Abbie.”
“What do you mean all this?” she asked, looking up. “You’re retiring?”
“A consistent consideration. But I am through with clandestine gamesmanship. I’m out.”
“Really?”
“You should’ve known. I’d made it pretty clear when we last talked. Or at least I thought I had.”
She pushed forward and focused on her team’s mission. “But we’ve never had such an opportunity. To get this close to JI. Find who and what they are. Learn their associations with ISIS and Al Qaeda.”
“Not part of your ‘we,’ Abbie. Do us both a favor and internalize that reality.”
She chewed her lower lip, cocked her head. She’d made a mistake and assumed I’d be game. An honest mistake, but washed and tainted with career considerations. Not friendship, trust.
A realization and an understanding of the Company’s inner workings lowered my blood to low simmer instead of boil. Yeah, I’d been played so I could go play JI. Then shift into working them through a mining company out of Sydney, Australia. A terrorist organization the Indonesian government—who would have shot them on sight—couldn’t find. Get them to reveal their contacts and communication paths with ISIS and Al Qaeda. And Case Lee, man of mystery and intrigue, neck deep in the whole mess. Why, what could go wrong with that little stream of CIA consciousness?
And now, another clandestine organization with their own harebrained idea beat them to the punch. Instead of stepping back and taking the first and most appropriate measure—take the bastards out—the Company would draft plan B.
What a bunch of mullets. It drove me crazy. A considerable handful of Company people remained smart and focused and understood clean and simple was the most effective approach. But the herd ran them over. The Herd of Great Ideas.
“I have another hour to kill. Let’s change venues.”
She glanced at the room’s occupants again. I continued.
“Let’s go find a coffee. Step outside. This isn’t the right setting.”
It revealed a crack in her tradecraft. Lonely, obscure airport lounges in undeveloped countries represented havens. Havens for the weary traveler, the tourist, the tired businessman. And spooks. Add the fact an even more obscure part of PNG—Kiunga—held more spies and special operators than you could shake a stick at. An element of that would lap on the shores of Port Moresby.
Chapter 9
We walked downstairs and found a tiny kiosk near baggage claim. We both bought coffees, black, and walked outside, avoiding the bright-red spittle splayed across the ground.
“So I have sound advice. Shut this ops down. Now.”
“No can do. But it’s disheartening you figured it out. Presents the mission as too transparent.”
“Not a matter of transparency. A matter of my experience. Experience gained through not getting killed. You may want to give that a thought.”
“I’m not worried about me.”
“Maybe. But others are. Your partner, for example.”
We found shade under a large tree near the airport parking lot. “It’s a good plan,” she said.
“No it’s not.”
Here came the Abbie express. She stepped into my personal space, ignored everything I said, and pressed forward.
“Let’s start with the fact these are the bad guys.”
“I know.”
“And a great opportunity.”
“Take them out. Send Delta. We were designed for this type of operation.”
“It was considered. Believe me. But let’s talk big picture.”
“No. The big picture in your world—the Company’s world—involves global chess playing, pulling strings, lighting fuses.”
“So?”
“So that isn’t what the real world is like. Folks by and large try to get along. Take care of themselves and their families. They want to be left the hell alone.”
“But this is JI. Terrorists. Have you seen the photos? The aftermath of their bombing in Jakarta, in Kuala Lumpur, in Bali. The blown-apart bodies? Or maybe you don’t keep up on current events.”
Her excitement-driven anger manifested as snark. Fine. But she and I were trained in different worlds. Hers—considerations and probabilities and gamesmanship. Delta taught distillation. Winnow things to their essence. Occam’s razor. Go with the simplest solution.
“Take them out, Abbie. Just take them out.”
“Maybe later. But not yet.”
“Fine. Stay on the train wreck express.”
“So you’re not going to help?” she asked, locking eyes.
“No. Send Delta.”
“And we aren’t going to work together on this project?”
“No.”
She chewed her lower lip and stared at the ground. Several cars and taxis flowed past. Even in the shade, we carried a sweat sheen. While Abbie cogitated, rubbing the tip of a pointed ear, I scanned the area. And there he stood. One of the upstairs bar patrons, near the kiosk where we bought our coffee. Dark glasses, head turning as if looking for, waiting for, somebody. His ride. But head movement didn’t mean those eyes weren’t locked on us behind tinted shades. European. Or Russian. Or American. For all I knew, he worked for the Chinese. Or maybe I was too paranoid. Too on edge among my fellow travelers on this earth. A million-dollar bounty will do that.
She’d taken a step back to think but edged into Case space to talk. “So who do you think got to them? I’m serious. Let’s work the problem.”
“We’d best go find a whiteboard, Case Officer Rice. I’m lost without one.”
“Little bit of attitude there, James Bond.”
I smiled. She’d made a sincere request. I’d help her out.
“Don’t have a clue. And I’m serious,” I said. “Early suspicion of the Brits. But who knows?” As accurate as I could get. The clandestine world, where nothing was as it seemed. “One thing for sure. JI’s partner came bearing gifts. New AK-47s. It’s in the report.”
She digested that tidbit. “Could be the Chinese,” she said. “But they don’t have a major
issue with terrorists. Closed state and iron fist. But they’d work with a terrorist group if it fitted their plans.”
“Maybe they want the gold. They double their odds teaming with JI’s claim. Plus keep a friendly terrorist group in their back pocket.”
“So you think it’s them?”
“No. And I only say so because the gentleman who followed us from the bar, now standing near the coffee kiosk, doesn’t look Asian.”
She put on a big smile, erupted with laughter, and stretched both arms over her head. While still smiling and laughing at some clever thing I must have said, she performed a complete circle as part of her stretch. And took a hard look at the man at the kiosk. Helluva move on her part. Well done.
“So you think it’s either the Russians or the Brits?” she asked as she turned to face me, still smiling.
“Or us.”
“Us?”
“How do you know a second ops isn’t going on? From our side?”
“Like military intelligence?”
“Or another operational group you and I don’t know about.”
“Seems unlikely. Now what about the guy in the sunglasses. Sweating his ‘where’s my ride’ tail off.”
“Keep an eye on him. Watch your back, Abbie.”
“He’d better watch his.” She tugged her ear again and plowed ahead. “What’s in it for the Brits?”
Man, she was a pit bull. She’d taken a grip on the operational bone and wouldn’t release it.
“Maybe they also have a room full of bright, earnest, and committed spooks. Same whiteboard. Tea instead of coffee scattered about the conference table. And scones instead of the day-old doughnuts someone plopped on your team’s table.”
She chewed a lip and stared up the shade tree.
“Plus the gold. They don’t have your budget,” I added.
“And the Russians?”
“Different motivators. The Russians have no problem working with terrorist groups when it suits them. When it meets their global aspirations. You know that. Plus the gold. Our buddy Vladimir is big on gold. You know that, too.”
“We have to go back into the bush. Meet with JI again.”
I sighed. She’d contact the Langley team lead, and a gaggle of earnest spies would craft plan B. Another horn honked, and voices called in Tok Pisin from across the road. Sunglasses dude still stood there, waiting for his ride, sweating. Or waiting for Abbie and me to finish.
“Call it off,” I said. “Call it off or someone’s going to get killed. One of ours.”
“We have to go back in.”
“You’re not demonstrating tremendous listening skills at the moment. Call it off.”
“It’s too big an opportunity.”
“Fine. I’m through butting heads with you over this. The Company will do what it wants. But promise me this.”
She cocked her head. “What?”
“Promise me you won’t try to take my place.”
“Fundamentalist Islamists. They won’t negotiate with a woman. I’m not that stupid.”
Her anger flared. I pressed. “Make this as close as you get. Port Moresby. And this may be too close.”
“I can take care of myself.” She raised and lowered on the balls of her feet.
My turn to invade personal space. Nose-to-nose, I said, “We are a long way from whiteboards and donut crumbs. Those were hitters in Kiunga. Heavy hitters. A combination of special operators and spooks.”
“I get it.”
“Then get this. It’s a toxic mix. People die with that brew. I speak from experience.”
“I’ll talk with the team lead. Figure a path forward.” She’d moved on, disregarding the requested promise.
I’d tried. The wound ached and a throb started behind my eyes. “I’ve got to get going. You head back to Langley. If you can’t make yourself do that, go to Sydney. Hang with your mining company. Give yourself a layer of cover. And think long and hard about the very real possibility this one didn’t pan out. Someone beat you to the punch. It’s over.”
She cracked a wide grin, exuberance on display. “To quote the famous Yogi Berra, it ain’t over till it’s over.”
I backed off. Home turf called, pulled. I fired a final salvo, weak and tired and filled to the brim with enough. “Innocent people are going to die if the right fuse gets lit. It’s not worth it. You know the best solution.” We headed toward the terminal. A sadness, a loss, tainted my departure. I’d lost Abbie as a true friend. My final comment rang hollow.
“Call me sometime. Next time I’m in DC I still owe you and your partner a bottle of good wine. Take care, Abbie. And I mean it from the bottom of my heart.”
We walked past Mr. Sunglasses. I locked eyes with my reflection in his Ray-Bans. His head wasn’t pointed my way, but his eyes were. I’d bet good money. I’d bet my life.
Waiting to board, I canceled the last leg. The San Francisco to Portland leg. A long added drive. So be it. I’d planned on visiting Bo and Catch in Portland. And now I’d rent a car in San Francisco and weave about, ensuring no one tailed me. Hit lonely roads, Pacific Northwest bound. I wasn’t dragging any remnants of this mess into my blood brothers’ backyard.
Chapter 10
Home turf. I used a fake driver’s license and associated credit card—tied to a Cayman Islands account. Selected the most benign rental car available. Four-door sedan, dull silver, low profile. Once away from San Francisco the road opened up, heading north. I took the long way and let Catch know I wouldn’t show until tomorrow.
“Taking back roads. East side of the mountains. Dry out.” Soon after entering Oregon, the main highway entered the long green stretch between the coastal range and the Cascades. Where it rained. A lot.
“Rent a sports car. Live large,” Catch said.
“Four-door Toyota.”
“You wuss. Then stomp the accelerator. Pedal hard. And get your ass here.”
“Vistas, bud. Country where I can see more than fifty feet.”
And lose anyone tailing me. East of the Cascades, Oregon consisted of high desert. Rolling hills, sagebrush, and shades of nut brown and hazel. Big country, few people, and fewer gas stations. Where no one hid behind the trunk of a vine-covered jungle tree.
“You all right?” Catch asked, delivered with his best “tell me what’s going on” intonation. He’d glommed onto my tone, my verbal demeanor.
“Fine as kind.”
“You hurt?”
“Nah. Caught an arrow. Upper chest. So no bear hugs.”
“Clean?” Catch asked if it started healing.
“As your mama’s kitchen. You still sporting that mess of a beard?”
“You hate me because I’m beautiful. In oh so many ways.”
“True and well put.”
“Now stop being a wuss and get here.”
“What’s the weather?” Early spring in Portland. I knew the answer.
“Touch of liquid sunshine. You sure you’re all right?”
“Tell Willa dinner’s on me tomorrow. Her choice.” Willa Johansson. Catch’s girlfriend, lover, partner.
“The bottle of Grey Goose I bought isn’t going to drink itself.”
I laughed. “Roger on that. Tomorrow. How’s Bo?”
“Being Bo. Full-time job.”
Man it was fine and good and cleansing having Catch’s voice fill me. Native turf. Home turf.
“I’ll give a shout when I get there.”
“We might be at work. You have the address.”
“Do indeed. See you tomorrow. And take a bath.”
“Washes off the pheromones. I may get randy tonight.”
“It’s the insect life occupying your beard that has me worried.” Catch had gone full-on Portland. Big beard. Short-cropped hair. Plaid shirts. He called the look lumbersexual.
We signed off after I reiterated again it was Willa’s choice for dinner the next day. And received more assurances he, Willa, and Bo were in fine fettle. Windows lowered, I flew alo
ng the interstate. Reset the mind and calibrated the soul. The weather, fine. Five hours later Klamath Falls, Oregon, where I hung a right and headed east. The aroma of sagebrush and wide open rushed through the windows. Wagontire and Riley, where I bought road food. Coke and peanuts and Slim Jims. Hampton to Brothers to Bend. Eleven delicious hours of tires on asphalt and sparse population. I’d paid for satellite radio and cranked it up. Lyle Lovett sang about bears, Gillian Welch mourned Elvis. Ol’ Case croaked personal renditions, the sound whisked away by dry, rushing wind. Cruising. And mulling ideas and thoughts and emotions wrapped like a tetherball around a central fact—all in all, life was pretty fine.
I stayed the night in Bend after visiting a gun shop and acquiring another Glock. And called Mom, letting her know an approximate itinerary for a Charleston visit.
“Where is the prodigal son at the moment?” Mary Lola Wilson asked.
“Out west. Going to visit Catch and Willa and Bo.” No definitive locations. Mom knew the drill.
“Right there is proof positive.”
“Of what?”
“Proof there is someone for every man. If that unknown and long-suffering woman can put up with, much less love that large, gnarly piece of work, then hope springs eternal, son of mine. Hope for you.” She loved Catch. And in the past told him, several times, how she prayed for him. Prayed for his transformation into something other than wild and blunt and bullheaded. “Heavy lifting for the Lord, admittedly,” she’d told him. “But miracles happen, Juan. Yes they do.”
She slurped coffee and loaded another round of her recipe for the happiness of Case Lee. After Rae’s murder, Mom waited eighteen months before slipping into matchmaker mode. A Charleston visit guaranteed a blind date with a lady deemed appropriate after Mary Lola’s vetting process. A process unclear and variable, but the dates were pleasant and uneventful and ended with no follow-up action. It drove Mom crazy. I changed the subject.
“How’s CC?” My younger sister. Given name Cecile, but she wouldn’t respond to it. Born with an intellectual disability, she was capable of simple health and safety skills and participating in activities. She was also my polestar and inspiration and source of grounded wonder. When I skimmed over the minor miracles, she embraced them. And ensured I shared. My special CC.