by Sam Black
Astone faced lady, wearing a red jacket, with short black hair melted to her scalp, stood in the doorway. She carried a small, brown handbag. “I’m sorry, but we were asleep. Please come in,” I said, knowing my face was still flushed from the sexual encounter, not three minutes ago. The bulge in my pants disappeared instantly once my eyes fixed on her face.
She walked into the room with authority. Her shoulders straight, head back and her heels dug into the carpeted floor as she moved across the room. She opened her handbag and pulled out a cloth measuring tape, along with a note pad and pen. “My name is Rene. I need your measurements.” Her head spun around the room. “Where is the other person?” Her voice matched her face—hard, colorless, and expressionless.
“She, she is in the bathroom.” I looked in the direction of the still-closed bathroom door. “Jo, the lady is here to take our measurements.” No response and no expression on Rene’s face. Jo never answered.
“Raise your arms,” Rene instructed me, never making eye contact. She had measured my waist before Jo entered the room. “Lower your arms.” She measured my sleeve length and my chest, expanded and relaxed. She stood me against the wall and marked a spot where my head leaned against the wall. She ran her tape and wrote it down.
Jo walked over to Rene, who was measuring my inseam. Rene had her right hand in my crotch and her left hand below my ankle bone. Everything fell limp in my pants, shriveling even more when Rene’s fingers touched my privates. I stood in my bare feet and glanced at Jo, who gave me a quick smile. Jo’s hands were folded in front of her waist. I winked, but never smiled, as I felt Rene’s eyes on me. “Stand on this tape, right leg first,” Rene ordered, as she knelt on the floor. She wrote the size down in the note pad and measured my other foot. She measured the width of each foot, noting them as well. Rene stood and wrapped the tape around my neck. Her fingers were ice cold, just like her face. She then ran the tape across my shoulders, writing down the number on the pad.
“Okay, lady, you’re next.” Her eyes gazed downward at the floor as she spoke. I stepped back and Rene began to measure Jo. She needed to measure Jo’s breasts. “Take off your blouse.” Jo responded by quickly unbuttoning her blouse. She raised her arms out to her side. “Stand up straight,” Rene said, as she reached around Jo’s breasts, holding the tape across her nipples. “What’s your cup size?”
“C,” Jo said, dropping her arms to her side and slipping her blouse back on. Rene finished measuring Jo and packed her things into her handbag.
“I will be back tomorrow at the same time with your clothes and everything else you will need. You must have all your personal belongings together, except for what you are wearing. The clothes you are wearing tomorrow will also be taken. You will change into the new clothes while I wait.” She pulled her note pad out of her handbag and wrote down some other information. It was probably hair color, eye color and any other features. “Do any of you have any birth marks, scars or tattoos?” Rene asked. Jo and I shook our heads. “Do you have your own teeth?” We both nodded. “What about pacemaker or surgical procedures requiring artificial parts?” Jo and I both shook our heads. She looked at our fingers and toes to make sure there weren’t any missing. “You ever been pregnant, miss?” Jo shook her head. Rene tossed the note pad and pen in her handbag and picked up a camera. “Okay, miss, you stand over by the wall. I need your picture for your driver’s license.” She took my picture right after Jo’s and then headed for the door. No one spoke another word.
When the large metal door shut against the metal door jam, the ringing in our ears told us we were alone and safe at least for another day. We hoped, anyway.
Chapter 34
OCTOBER—LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
John Conrad slammed the phone down on the solid, cherry desk he sat behind. With his palms against the edge of the desk, he pushed himself away in his high-back, black, leather chair, raising himself out of his seat. His heart rate had reached 140 beats per minute. The rage in his veins, if not controlled soon, would burst. His blood would cover every wall in this mammoth office, which overlooked the Potomac River. Conrad took a deep breath. He felt his face flush. His doctor had informed him last week his blood pressure had risen drastically, so they increased the dosage of Norvasc.
The chair he’d been sitting in slammed against the window casing, as Conrad raced toward the closed, solid, mahogany door. He opened the door, slamming it shut behind him and raced down the hall toward Travis Shear’s office. With every step, he felt his chest swell.
John Conrad, fifty-eight, with thinning gray hair and a trim build, stood six feet three and wore contact lenses. Mr. Conrad joined the CIA, or Central Intelligence Agency, twenty eight years ago last month. He plans to retire in twenty three months and ten days from today.
Mr. Conrad, director of the CIA, runs a tight ship, with zero tolerance from any of its members since the many debacles of the past. He has held this position for three years. A far cry from the Company’s past encounters. Mr. Conrad had been a Captain in the United States Air Force before joining the CIA. A family man, he has three daughters attending Ivy League schools. He is a member of the Methodist Church in Arlington, Virginia, where he resides with his wife, Carol.
Travis Shear sat in his office, which is half the size of Conrad’s, with his feet on top of his cherry desk, talking on his cell phone to his mistress, Barbra. He’d been having an affair with her for three years. Barbra is twenty four and works for a travel agency in Arlington, Virginia. Shear is married with three children and also lives in Arlington. Shear, at six feet three inches, weighs a few pounds more and is nineteen years younger than Conrad. Travis Shear spent eight years in the United States Air Force before joining the CIA. His father, a US Senator for many years, helped him get appointed to the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, Colorado. Travis had been a pilot and flew sorties with Randy Abbott, Sam Abbott’s brother, during the Saudi War.
Travis sat with eyes closed, about to explode from the phone sex he was having with his mistress, when Conrad flung open the door with so much force it slammed against the wall, jarring the hanging pictures. Travis’s eyes flew open on the bang. Conrad, in a rage, forgot to close the door. He turned quickly and, with his right hand, grabbed the door and slammed it against the door jam, rattling the entire wall a second time. Conrad’s chest tightened with every breath.
Travis dropped the phone, mouth agape, with his heart pounding faster than Conrad’s. Shear’s size thirteen shoes hit the carpeted floor, flinging his head forward. Shear’s eyes looked like two blue saucers; his trembling hands lay on top of the desk. Realizing the cell phone he’d been talking on had dropped to the floor under his desk and he hadn’t shut it off, Travis, thinking security, bent down to grab the phone with his right hand. Lifting his body before he should, he cracked his head on the desk drawer. He shut the phone off before Conrad blasted him, verbally. The stars in his eyes bounced off of Conrad’s face. Travis placed the phone on the desk.
“What in God’s name have you done, Shear? I just got off the phone with Jim Kelly.” Jim Kelly is the director of the FBI. “Damn it, Shear, if you have anything to do with this SAWWS catastrophe, I-I will see to it, personally, you fry in hell.” Conrad’s face went from red to white. “Who the hell is behind this mass murder? My God, Travis. Travis, why?” Conrad took several deep breaths as his hands clutched his chest. “Oh GOD,” he cried. He winced and collapsed to the floor in front of Travis’s desk. Travis quickly got up and went to the aide of his chief. Travis put two fingers on the left side of Conrad’s neck. No pulse. No pulse. Travis rolled him over and started pushing on his chest, counting to thirty. After ten pushes, Travis realized he should’ve called 911 first. After reaching 911, Travis continued pushing and counting. NO RESPONSE!
Two paramedics arrived within twenty minutes of the 911 call. They checked Conrad’s vitals. The skinny one said, “We’ll take him to the hospital, but this guy is dead.” Travis nodded and sank into his desk chair.
He looked down and a small wet spot lay on his tan slacks just to the left of his pant zipper. Travis shook his head.
Chapter 35
ON THE HOT SEAT
Seconds after Conrad’s body was removed, Travis’s office filled with several members of the CIA wondering why, and how, their leader could have died so suddenly. Jim Brewer, the number two man in the CIA, directed all questions to Travis. Jim Brewer, forty-nine, has been in the CIA for fifteen years. He served as an Army Colonel before joining the CIA. Brewer would command the CIA, until the President of the United States appointed someone else, or elected Brewer to the post. The Senate must put their stamp of approval on whomever the President selects. Travis attempted to answer all the questions as best he could. In most cases, one word answers were given. Brewer asked all the other members to leave the office. Brewer stood looking out the window. Travis remained slumped in his leather chair. “Travis, why was John so mad? What the hell happened this morning to trigger John’s rage?” Brewer’s voice remained calm, yet crisp. Brewer had heard the door-slamming earlier. In fifteen years, he had never seen Conrad slam anything.
Travis felt a cold shiver climb over his skin. His stomach now climbed towards his throat. Thoughts of his family entered his head, along with thoughts of Barbra. Travis knew something went bad, really bad with project, “Underground”. Several seconds elapsed while Travis deciphered the past six months.
Brewer, with his hands planted on the front of Travis’s desk and staring holes through Travis’s eyes said, “Travis, answer the damn questions.”
Travis never looked at Brewer. “I-I don’t know.”
“You bastard, Shear, I’ve never liked your sorry ass since you became a member of the CIA. The only reason you’re here is because of your goddamn corrupt father.” The veins in Brewer’s neck came alive as he spoke. “I don’t trust you or your father. Your father has the CIA’s hands tied and you know it. But when I get to the bottom of this, and I will, you’ll wish you never had your daddy get you a job here.” Brewer’s eyes stayed on Travis for a good minute. “Remember, asshole, I’m not afraid of you or your father.” Jim Brewer turned slowly and left the office, leaving Shear sitting in his chair. Travis stared into the past several months with the pit of his stomach on fire.
Chapter 36
THIRTY MINUTES LATER
Travis Shear tried to digest what had just happened. His head pounded; mouth parched. He needed to leave the office and see his daddy. Daddy would have the answers to these questions that were stirring around in his head. Travis was scared.
It took Travis thirty minutes to drive to Senator Shear’s office. Travis walked past Rachael’s, Sterling’s secretary, desk and barged into his father’s office. He found Rhonda on her knees in front of Sterling, while he slouched, eyes closed, on his leather sofa. Travis did an about face and headed toward the closed door. Travis left. Rhonda and Sterling never knew he had entered the office.
Rhonda left out the back door and Rachael called the Senator’s desk. “Yeah, Rachael, what is it?” the Senator said, standing in front of the mirror, straightening his tie and making sure his perfectly styled hair was not out of place.
“Senator, I have your son out here.” Rachael paused a few seconds. “Would you like for me to send him in?”
“Yes, Rachael, send him in.” Sterling took a hanky from his rear pants pocket and wiped the remaining sweat off his forehead.
Travis walked into his father’s office with weak legs, dry mouth, and a lump in his stomach. “Father, we have serious problems.”
The Senator looked at him with puzzled eyes and leaned back in his chair. “What kind of problems do you have?”
“Conrad died in my office less than two hours ago. He had gotten a call from Kelly and he wanted to know what the hell I had to do with SAWWS Inc.”
“What did you tell him?” Shear asked quickly, leaning on his desk with his forearms.
“I said nothing,” Travis answered, as he paced the floor.
“So, don’t worry about it.”
“You don’t get it father. Kelly knows who did it. I need to get the hell out of the country.” Travis headed toward the window.
“Are you sure Kelly knows, or are they bluffing?”
“Believe me, they know.”
“What the hell went wrong?” Sterling stood.
“I don’t know father.”
“What the hell? What do you mean you don’t know?” Sterling’s face turned bright red.
Travis remained quiet for several minutes, pondering what to say or do. He has always been afraid of his father since he was a little kid. His father would lose his temper and throw things and beat on him until he was black and blue. Several times Travis had to be taken to the hospital. Sterling had broken Travis’s arm once and his nose three times. He also had been knocked unconscious several times.
Travis had learned from his Aunt Rita, his mother’s sister, that his grandfather, his father’s father, Peyton Shear, had beaten up Sterling when he was a kid. The Senator would take his frustrations out on Travis. Afterwards, he would buy expensive things for Travis, or take him to places like Disneyland, or exotic beaches. The beatings stopped when Travis entered the Air Force Academy. Travis has never touched his children in any harmful way.
“Travis, speak to me, damn it.” Sterling stood inches away from his son.
Travis’s eyes watered; his lips munched together; his hands clammy. “I hav-I haven’t talked to anyone since October 12th.” Travis’s eyes looked down at the plush carpeted floor to his right.
“Travis, you have your mother’s spine and her brains. If this operation in any way leads to me, I will personally see to it that you rot in hell.” Sterling pointed his right index finger in front of Travis’s nose. “You bastards were supposed to kill and destroy all of SAWWS Inc. employees, including Abbott and his wife.” Sterling’s eyes widened—widened as in scary. “Now, what the hell happened? I paid you sons-of-bitches a lot of money to get the job done and it was supposed to be done right,” Sterling screamed.
“I-I don-I don’t know.”
“Get out of my office and find out. I want answers, boy, and I want them fast. Do you hear me or do I have to draw you a map?” The Senator picked up a $2500 bronze statue from an end table and fired it across the room, striking the walled book shelves. Books and parts of the cherry bookcase scattered everywhere upon contact. Sterling turned around and screamed vulgarities at his son until he left his office.
Chapter 37
THE FBI IS HERE
Two hours later Senator Shear plopped into the leather chair behind his desk and put his hands over his face. The phone rang. He jumped. His hands fell to the desk. He stared at the phone. It rang three more times before Shear pushed the speaker phone button. “Yeah, Rachael!” Shear spoke with a dying breath.
“I have Jim Kelly, Director of the FBI, here to see you.” Rachael paused. “He says it is urgent.”
Shear’s heart tightened quickly. His stomach froze and dryness struck his throat. Thoughts slammed into his head like two trains hitting head on. An explosion hammered between his ears. He looked out the window and wanted to run. He and Rhonda could escape to some small island in the Pacific. “Ah, Rachael, ah, send him in.” His voice trailed off.
Director Kelly stood six feet three inches and weighed 210 pounds. At forty-nine, he had a body of a professional athlete. He’d been appointed Director of the FBI five years ago by the previous President. Shear didn’t fear any man, except Kelly. Kelly didn’t fear anyone, not even the President of the United States. Kelly has been with the FBI for twenty one years. He has an impeccable record. He is married and has two sons in college.
The door to the Senator’s office opened and in walked Kelly, along with two FBI agents. Kelly wore a navy blue, two piece suit. His hair showed some graying around his temples. The other two members of the FBI were also dressed in two piece suits similar to Kelly’s. Shear knew if he tried to stand up, his legs
would buckle. He stayed put. He made eye contact with Kelly and then dropped them to his cluttered desk. Looking down, he noticed his still-opened fly from the encounter with Rhonda. He quickly zipped it up and continued to stare at his desk.
“Senator, this is Agent Becker and Agent Stanton. We are here to inform you we have proof you and your son, Travis, along with several of his CIA buddies, are responsible for the massacre of the people at SAWWS Inc. Your son and ten of his buddies at the CIA have already been apprehended and are in our custody. We also have the Presidents and CEOs of three drug companies, along with the officers of Mallory, Pittman, and Herrington, in custody.” Agent Becker pulled handcuffs from his coat pocket. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law.” Shear never moved; his body paralyzed; his eyes glazed. “Stand up, Shear. We are going to take you to 935 Pennsylvania Ave.” The J. Edgar Hoover Building, FBI headquarters, sits at this address. The FBI has occupied this building since June 1977. The building has over 2,800,000 square feet of floor space for over 7000 employees. The FBI has an annual budget of over 3.8 billion dollars, with an additional 28,800 employees scattered all over the world.
Shear never moved, so Agents Becker and Stanton pulled his limp body out of his custom built, leather chair. “Shear you can walk out of here with or without cuffs. If we walk out of here without cuffs and you cause any disturbance whatsoever, we will not hesitate to make a scene in front of the public and many of your constituents.” Shear stared at the floor, saying nothing. “Did I make my self clear, Senator?” Kelly barked. Shear nodded. It was the first time Shear moved a muscle or did anything since the FBI interrupted his life.
The four men walked out of Shear’s office. “Rachael, hold all my appointments for the rest of the week.” Shear spoke in a very slow, soft tone, without making any eye contact with his secretary. Rachael sat there with her mouth wide open.