The New Guinea Job

by Vince Milam

  “A tingling on the network. Nothing definitive, as is so often the case.”

  “Who sent the vibration?”

  “Out of bounds.” Eye hard, she puffed the cigar and waited. She wouldn’t reveal the source.

  I stretched neck muscles. An unseen vent hummed cool air. It was time for brass tacks after hitting her brick wall.

  “I was played.”

  “Ah.” She sat up straight and slid the licorice into another drawer, all ears. “And the culprit?”

  “The Company.”

  “Ah.” She placed the cigar on the edge of the desk. “And might I interest you in edifying this poor creature of such a tale?”

  I did. All of it. She smiled, smirked, laughed, and shook her head. Folly, writ large, and she reveled in it.

  “This boat driver. Does he have a name and contact information?”

  She’d capture marketable information, write it down on index cards after I left, and resell it. The Clubhouse business model, and I didn’t begrudge her questions. Plus, it added credit for my account.

  “Babe Cox. No contact other than at the Kiunga docks. Or on the river.”

  “A reliable gentleman? Any weaknesses?”

  She’d tack personal vulnerabilities onto the name as added saleable value.

  “A peculiar gentleman. As for weaknesses, betel nut and personal hygiene.”

  “You just described large swaths of that part of the world.”

  “He keeps a pet jungle wallaby. On the boat.”

  She waved a dismissive hand, a prompt to continue toward the heart of my excursion. I described the four gold camps.

  “Serious efforts,” I said, wrapping up the gold camp portion of the trip. “Intrigue aside, these people were after gold. Billions of dollars’ worth. As you and I discussed at our last meeting.”

  “As per our disappeared geologist. How strange.”

  She’d heard something, a tingling or whisper. Something regarding the geologist. I didn’t expect elaboration.

  “Strange or not, they are expending considerable energy toward discovery. Even the Indonesians—clearly neophytes at the gold-finding game.”

  “Our little band of miscreants?”

  “Miscreants?”

  “Jemaah Islamiyah, so I’ve heard. You do rub elbows with undesirable crowds, dear.”

  “Not by choice.”

  I hadn’t said anything about them as members of JI. Yet she knew.

  “And what is this about a sponsor?”

  Man, she had a network.

  “Yeah. They have a sponsor. A gold partner.”

  She plucked the cigar off the desktop, tilted her head, and eyeballed me, pondering.

  “Are we sure, Lord Jim, the two are the same?”

  “The sponsor and gold partner? Why wouldn’t they be?”

  “A thought. Ruminations from afar. Possibilities dangle.”

  Wrapping my head around her fog and misdirection mind-set led nowhere. A whirling drain, and I shifted, the chair uncomfortable.

  “Then a river trip back. Spy central. Kiunga,” I said, leaving dangling possibilities behind.

  “But not before a brief pause to engage the native population. Your cultural integration skills would appear in need of improvement.” She chuckled, referencing the arrow I caught.

  “Well, they refused my offer of beer and barbeque.”

  “How inhospitable of them. Now, Kiunga. Tell me all about it, dear.”

  I did. She focused, intent, and logged marketable data.

  “Oh, to have been a fly on the wall in that poor town,” she said. “Intrigue galore, peacocks strutting in disguise. Oh my!” She laughed and shook her head.

  In the midst of the telling I paused, raised an eyebrow, and lifted a chin toward the abacus. I fed her solid information. The Clubhouse, a place of business. She scowled.

  “To interrupt our little tête-à-tête with such considerations!”

  I smiled. She flicked several balls down wooden railings, the clack loud, irritated.

  “Infatuation with filthy lucre reduces your personal appeal. Now continue.”

  She assumed her listening posture and relit the cigar. The burnt sulfur of the kitchen match overrode cigar tobacco. Mercy, she was a piece of work. I continued detailing my experience.

  “Such a weird environment. Surrounded by spooks of every stripe.”

  “The game was afoot. To be expected. Gold, terrorists, an isolated place. A warm and inviting petri dish of intrigue.”

  “And then finding out the Company played me.”

  “This warrior companion of yours. The fierce tribesman. Did you return with him?”

  “No. And what the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  “Joyous musings, nothing more.”

  “I got played, Jules.”

  “Stop emanating shocked hurt, dear. Unbeknownst to you, you were hired by the Company. An occupational hazard.”

  “Did you know about it? Before I left?”

  She smiled, puffed, blew smoke. And remained silent. Another brick wall and possible BS on her part. She sat as a Cheshire cat. Welcome to the Clubhouse. I plowed ahead, intent on finishing the informational dump and hoped for return information pertaining to a specific aspect of my personal well-being. The staying alive aspect.

  “Abbie Rice,” I said. “Met me in Port Moresby.” She knew of Abbie after my Suriname job debrief.

  “How is she?”

  “Fine. I suppose. The Company had grand plans. Team with JI. Swim upstream and infiltrate their organization. Stupid.”

  “It’s what they and the others do.”

  “So any idea who teamed with JI?” I teetered at the edge of her dangling possibilities but sought the core player. It irritated—the grit in my personal oyster. I sought closure—a final period at the end of the New Guinea job.

  “No. I don’t.”

  I believed her. Knowledge of that relationship offered little value for me, other than filling an informational void. She had little to lose sharing and would gain a reduction in the monetary credit she owed me.

  “But I do have one tidbit for you,” she continued. “Blowback and vengeful memories. A Slavic mind-set.”

  “Okay.”

  “You will want to avoid Russians, dear. Your Suriname engagement. They remain quite bitter.”

  Her cigar hand flicked an abacus ball upward. Her eye never left mine.

  “Appreciate the information.” I did. If the Russians remained big-time pissed at me—insignificant me—I’d avoid interactions with them down the road.

  “And a corollary to that little tidbit—perhaps—is one other item of interest.”

  “Okay.”

  “You were made in Kiunga, dear. Unfortunate, truly. But a reality.”

  “Who?”

  “Unknown. But word filters, signals sent.”

  “I was already made by the Company.” Straws grasped, useless.

  “Not the Company,” she said, her voice empathetic. “Another player.”

  ID’d in PNG. Mr. Man of Hidden Identity, exposed. Surreptitious photos taken, zipped, sent off. Facial recognition software utilized. Man, I’d like to know who did it.

  Another abacus ball slid up a rail. “Brush away discouragement, Sherlock. Those people have their ways. And consider. You meandered among a virtual cavalcade of spies. Not an unexpected development.”

  So the Chinese or Russians or Brits ID’d me. And given the other wandering players—hotel owners, salesmen, waitstaff—it could have been the Israelis, French, Germans, or God knows who. I washed in resignation and committed to leave it, the whole mess. With one final encounter to set that expectation. Marilyn Townsend. I tossed tonight’s meeting on the table.

  “I’m meeting with the director of clandestine operations. Tonight.”

  “Again, not an unexpected event.” But something else spoke—her tone and body language indicated irritation or hackles of the possessive variety. “Just remembe
r. You engage along different avenues.”

  The CIA was a client of Jules’s. That wouldn’t change. But the Company procured particulars—provisioning was outside their realm. A one-way street.

  I was a paying client as well, but one who also delivered information. I fed the Clubhouse. Jules considered me her source, her contact. The meeting tonight with the director held earmarks of encroachment on Clubhouse turf.

  “And tonight I’ll let her know I’m not part of their game,” I said.

  “A wise strategy.”

  “And don’t appreciate being played.”

  “A considered approach, dear.”

  Our meeting was over. Time to move on, rent a car, and make the three-hour DC drive. Close the New Guinea job down. I stood.

  “Well, I’m off. And hope our communications continue.”

  The cryptic nature of “gears turn” aside, her messages provided warnings, extra awareness. They helped.

  “You maintain a substantial credit,” she said. “I shall endeavor a reduction of such.” She smiled.

  “I appreciate those little missives. Look forward to them.”

  I gripped the door handle and waited for the release click of the electronic lock. The Clubhouse ledger still tilted in my direction. The amount, unknown. Jules drove home a final point.

  “And do remember. She is not of our tribe. The director.”

  I nodded back.

  “She does not regard you as I do.”

  “I know.”

  “She will endeavor to recruit you.”

  “Not sure about that.”

  “Don’t you see? A level of separation. Not one of them, yet doing their bidding.”

  I sighed and shook my head.

  “Not a chance, Jules. Through with that.”

  She smiled and pressed a hidden button. The door lock clicked.

  “You are a dear boy. Do watch your back. Always.”

  I tried. Mercy, I tried.

  Chapter 28

  The Francis Scott Key Memorial Park lacked nighttime tourists. The dark figures sprinkled across the postage stamp–size park—each armed and paranoid—were positioned to protect the world’s most powerful spy. A warm night, and traffic noise from the Georgetown area drifted across the scene. Spookville, with the head spook resident.

  Two CIA officers stood sentinel at my approach. The slight bulge of submachine guns under jackets and a disapproving stance defined their silhouettes. Muted pathway lighting led through a small garden and a bust of Francis Scott Key. I’d find Marilyn Townsend on one of the benches near the wisteria-draped limestone pergola at the center of the park.

  As I approached, one of the Company officers held up a hand. Stop. I did, five paces away.

  “Lee?” he asked, voice low.

  “Yeah.”

  “Pat down.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  A ten-second stare down ensued. A car horn beeped from nearby traffic; pedestrian voices called from M Street. The officer’s job—protect the global spy world’s biggest fish. But she’d asked for this meeting, and it would take place on my terms. The Glock stayed with me, Case Lee, private citizen.

  Then he spoke, low and unclear, into his lapel. The coiled earpiece wire discernable in the faint light, he waited for a response. His message sent to an officer near Townsend, who would relay it to her. Several seconds later he gave a tight, angry head nod toward the garden path. He and I wouldn’t exchange Christmas cards.

  Twenty-five paces into the garden area and there she sat, the wooden cane propped alongside her. Marilyn Townsend was a fighter. I’d put good money the walking cane was weaponized.

  “Director. Good to see you.”

  “And you, Mr. Lee. Forgive me if I don’t stand.”

  Neither of us offered a handshake.

  “No problem. What is a problem is him.”

  I head-signaled toward a flower bed behind her, occupied by one of her people. He’d be at my back when I sat. That wouldn’t do.

  “How melodramatic,” she said, and signaled the officer. He shifted position over toward the walkway. I sat.

  “Coffee?” she continued. “It’s quite good.”

  A thermos and two Styrofoam cups occupied the bench space between us. One of them gave off steam.

  “No, thanks.”

  I wouldn’t eat or drink anything her cadre had touched. My own personal paranoia, maybe, but sound tactics. You never knew.

  She shrugged, sipped from her cup, and said, “A fresh start, you and I. Do you agree?”

  “Okay.”

  “A fresh start where you overcome misguided hurt feelings.”

  “Where I overcome being played like a puppet.”

  “And a fresh start whereby I no longer hold you responsible for the abuse of my people.”

  Hood River and her messenger boys.

  “Played like a puppet, Director.”

  “A matter of discussion. Without rancor. Are you capable of that?”

  She sipped coffee. She still wore her now-gray hair short, and this meeting showed no sign of breaking tradition of her never cracking a smile, much less a laugh. I knew nothing of her family, marital status, friends. Rumor had it she was a gold-star cribbage player. The sum total of my Marilyn Townsend knowledge base.

  “Without rancor, yes. Not without expressing my position on the matter.”

  “Understood.” She took another sip. The repositioned officer to my right maintained a stone stature and stare. “Our starting point. Your latest mission.”

  “Not a mission. A job. A contract.”

  “A contract under our auspices. Therefore a mission.”

  I smiled and stared at the bust of Key. If you chose someone to head your clandestine services, you’d pick a person of Marilyn’s ilk. Laser focused, a hard-ass. I shook my head. The smile remained.

  “I wasn’t aware humor had entered our conversation,” she said.

  I straightened up, got serious.

  “I was played, Director. I don’t appreciate it.”

  “A mission best performed without your knowledge of the details. I believe Officer Rice debriefed you on strategy.”

  “Did she debrief you about the price on my head?”

  A marker laid early. A potential leverage point. Or not.

  “We have no knowledge of the funding source, Mr. Lee.”

  A possible lie. She may have known who funded the bounty but kept the information as a carrot, dangling in front of her mule. Not an ounce of quid pro quo was evidenced with the director. The curtain began to fall on this entire peculiar play. A strange assignment’s final act. An act with one-way-street indicators. The Company Street.

  “Can we skip to the bottom line?” I asked.

  “Your version. I have my own.”

  “Fair enough. I’m a contractor. Private investigator. I don’t participate in Company endeavors. Period.”

  “Now my version. This world is a dangerous place. More than you will ever know.”

  She detailed the state of terror around the globe. I absorbed it as I would an interesting lecture. No personal buy-in, no fascination, no thrill at the inside scoop.

  “JI, or Jemaah Islamiyah, is part of a larger fabric. One draped across the world. We’ve confirmed JI has ties to Al Qaeda, ISIL, and others. Ties, not partnerships or coordinated efforts. They are associated as the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

  “Got it.”

  “In some ways they despise each other. But their overarching position remains the same. Destruction of their common hated enemy. Western civilization.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Not a minor thing, Mr. Lee. A bit of an absurdity on its face, I would admit. But the attacks, the violence, are real and present. And it is these actions we must stop.”

  “You’ve tossed me in the ‘we’ category. That would be wrong.”

  She ignored my statement. “And JI is of particular interest. No clandestine service has inroad
s into their organization.”

  “Like you do Al Qaeda and ISIL.”

  She stared, didn’t deign an answer, and poured herself more coffee. A CIA officer stepped forward to assist. She waved him off. The officer’s movement caused three others within sight to shift, prepared. Then they returned to scanning the immediate area.

  “You represent a valued asset,” she said.

  “Not interested.”

  She ignored me, played her hand, while Jules’s words echoed.

  “A contractor. No Company ties. Working alone.”

  “You’ve got Delta.”

  “True. But for more extreme missions. Missions with direct organizational ties.”

  “Fine.”

  “You, on the other hand, offer separation. A solo player, a private contractor. A large advantage.”

  “No, thanks. I’m plain vanilla now.”

  “We’d like you back in Kiunga.” She plowed forward, a person very used to getting her way. “Use our Australian mining partner as cover. Reengage JI.”

  “You’ve read my Global Resolutions report. Remember them? The outfit you went through to play me?”

  She sipped coffee, blinked once, and stared.

  “And you’re aware someone got to JI first,” I continued. “A working partner.”

  “A higher bid will work wonders. You intimated as much in your report. They are cash-strapped. Cashed-strapped terrorists.”

  “I’m not going back. I’m going home. And hope my next gig involves chasing stolen heirlooms for a wealthy Swiss family.”

  “We will, of course, pay a premium rate for your services.”

  She fired on all cylinders. A sense of mission, working for the Company, money.

  “Or maybe chase down a pirated yacht for a Silicon Valley billionaire.”

  She ignored my statements, again, and collected her coffee cups and thermos.

  “Do give my words thought, Mr. Lee. The larger picture.”

  “I will. And do give thought to not requesting my services again, Director.”

  “We are intertwined. Separation may not be possible.”

  A threat? Remnant glue as our talk ended? Hard to say. But plenty uncomfortable.

  She signaled the nearest officer. He swept in and helped her up, then collected the thermos and cups. I stood and placed a hand at my waist, the Glock nearby. She gripped her cane and poked the ground twice as if checking its functionality. An affectation, a signal for her people, or a loading mechanism for the cane’s hidden weapon. I’d never know.