DARC Ops: The Complete Series

by Jamie Garrett

“My book club’s reading this,” she said. “But I’m not.”

  It wasn’t that funny.

  “I’ve got a few minutes,” said Fiona after swallowing that big bite of pie. “What’s up?”

  “The results are back.”

  “For 218?”

  “No. For you,” said Wendy. “The urine sample.”

  The mental image was enough for her to lose her appetite. She pushed aside her slice of pie. “What is it, Wendy? You’ve got that look in your eye.”

  She did look worried, like there may have actually been a reason to be upset.

  “Well, go ahead,” urged Fiona. “What of it?”

  “I don’t how I can properly convey this, Fiona . . . But I really am sorry.”

  “For what?”

  She started to look more ashamed than worried.

  “I’m just sorry that this happened,” said Wendy. “I had no control over it. It was negative, of course.”

  “Then why are you sorry?”

  “Because, I, you know, I just feel bad . . .”

  “That’s different. You don’t have to be sorry just because you feel bad.”

  “I tried to talk them out of it. I knew they wouldn’t find anything, and that, it would just, you know . . .”

  “That’s good enough. You tried. Don’t be sorry. Don’t say sorry.”

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s just move on. Right?”

  “But they still might want to talk to you.”

  She slid her pie over to Wendy. “Want some pie?”

  She finally lightened up a little bit. “You’re always pushing sweets on me.”

  “What do they want to talk about?” asked Fiona. “Am I really messing up that bad?”

  “They seem to think so.”

  “Maybe I should talk to the union about it.”

  “You should probably just try to clear your head,” said Wendy. “Start getting some good sleep, and just take things slow. Be extra careful for a while.”

  “That’s what I’m doing, but it’s making me worse,” said Fiona, looking down to her lap. She was literally wringing her hands. “It’s like the harder you hold on to something, the harder it is to keep it in your hands.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s necessarily true,” said Wendy.

  Fiona stood and brushed off some crumbs from her lap. “Oh, before I go. What are the chances of getting Mrs. Dawes on that—”

  “Who’s Mrs. Dawes?”

  “Marva.”

  Wendy rose from her seat and followed Fiona to her locker.

  “What’s the odds of getting her on that new insulin pump?”

  “Maybe we can get her on the trial,” said Wendy, looking away as Fiona opened her locker to return her book and purse. “They’re experimenting with a new product, some new technology. She can get on that for free if she wants. They might even pay her.”

  “What are the requirements? She has full-blown Type Two diabetes.”

  “That sounds about right for the trial.”

  It was odd how Wendy was hanging around like that. Was she spying? Was that the next level of their investigation?

  “Well,” said Fiona. “I better get back.”

  Wendy laughed. “Can’t I walk with you?”

  They walked to the elevators, a growing awkwardness coming from Wendy. Her behavior. What more did she have to say? More apologies?

  “There was one other thing,” Wendy finally said as they stepped into the quiet privacy of the elevator. She said it as if it were a surprise, as if Fiona hadn't already been expecting the worst. “There’s been some rumors. Have you heard them?”

  “About me?”

  “No,” said Wendy. “Not everything has to do with you.”

  “Good. Thank God.”

  “Have you heard about this undercover person? I guess they’re sending in some secret shoppers, you know, people posing as patients. They’re trying to evaluate us in secret. The union hates it.”

  “Well, I hate it, too. It sounds . . . deceitful.”

  “There’s been a lot of oversights lately,” said Wendy. “Not just from you.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “No, really. Even the computers are having problems. Anyway, it’s just another reason why you should watch what you’re doing.”

  Their conversation died down as the elevator stopped, dinged, and then slid open its metal doors. Fiona stepped aside as two other nurses boarded. She spoke more quietly now, saying, “So, when do they expect this to begin?”

  “It might already be going on.”

  Unlike the drug test, this was something that Fiona had good reason to fear. She thought immediately of all the screwups of her past week, wondering how any of them were being documented by this team of undercover evaluators. And then she thought back to the catheter mistake . . .

  No. She was safe there. No undercover agent would go through that kind of pain.

  “So just, you know . . .”

  “Yeah,” said Fiona. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “Exactly,” said Wendy. “Keep your head up.”

  7

  Jasper

  Night had descended on Washington at the same time as Jackson’s private jet. They boarded a black limo on the warm tarmac of Ronald Reagan, and then crossed the Potomac River, Jackson and Jasper picking up Clarence Mitchell along the way. Mr. Mitchell was the venerable director of Lambert Memorial Hospital, who seemed mostly annoyed with the whole thing. From the hospital, they continued on through the snarled traffic of Capitol Hill. There seemed to be an inordinate amount of police cars that night, some with their lights flashing and parked lengthwise to block this or that street.

  “Welcome home,” Jasper teased his boss.

  “Yeah, thanks,” grumbled Jackson, not looking up from the glowing screen of his tablet.

  “Any idea what this is about?”

  “No idea,” said Jackson. “Matthias said it’s been like this all week.”

  This meant a whole slew of detours around the extra police presence. Random road closures. Checkpoints. And that meant there had probably been some bomb threats.

  “Has there been anything at the hospital?” Jasper asked Clarence. “Any security threats?”

  “None at all. It’s been quiet.”

  “That’ll change,” said Jackson.

  Clarence gave him a mild scowl through the dim lighting of the limo. “I thought you were supposed to be convincing me this was a good idea.”

  “Well, I’m not sure if it’s a good idea,” said Jackson. “But it’ll be certainly be a lucrative one for you.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

  “And soon you’ll find out just how lucrative. Don’t be afraid to haggle a little bit. Money is no object to them.”

  Clarence smiled. “So how much are they paying you?”

  Jackson lowered his gaze back down to his work.

  “Sounds like a lot,” said Clarence. “It better be worth it.”

  Their limo was held up by yet another traffic slowdown. A police cruiser was taking up a lane and officers with flashing batons were helping the traffic merge.

  “It’s already seeming like such a headache,” said Clarence.

  “It’ll look good on you,” said Jackson. “He’s as high-profile as you’re gonna get there.”

  “I also heard he’s quite the diva.”

  “Well, he’s a prince. What do you expect?”

  “I half expected they’d fly him home and do the surgery in the air over the Atlantic.”

  Traffic was moving once again, slowly, and the limo drove past the sprawling John F. Kennedy Center, its walls lit brilliantly in the night, the glow reflected onto the choppy, black Potomac behind it.

  “We could have even showed them our facilities,” said Clarence. “I don’t know why we couldn’t just meet at the hospital.”

  “You’ll see why when you get there,” said Jackson.

  “What do you mean?”


  “I mean, all the security.”

  “Well, damn,” said Clarence. “Why not just do the surgery there?”

  “Sounds like you’d be happy with it anywhere but your hospital,” said Jackson. “What changed your mind?”

  “Nothing,” Clarence mumbled.

  Unlike most of the foreign embassies in Washington, Saudi Arabia had nestled theirs right in the heart of Capitol Hill. Which meant more traffic for the DARC Ops limo. And when the road curved around into a cluster of buildings near the Saudi Embassy, there was yet another delay. The front entrance to the embassy had cars lined up in queue.

  “Looks like a busy night,” said Clarence.

  “I don’t know,” said Jasper. “I’ve never seen it like this.”

  There was an armed guard walking down the line, having brief conversations with the driver of each car. When he approached their limo, Jackson radioed to the driver to lower the privacy window so they could hear.

  Only they still couldn’t really hear. The din of the engines and the horns and all the other angry drivers back on the road was making it impossible to make out the words.

  Jasper, sitting on the driver’s side, rolled his window down and banged his hand on the roof until the guard slowly and carefully made his way there. On his way, he was intercepted by a rush of police officers, them telling him something before the guard started to holler to his fellow guards. The whole thing was way too chaotic.

  When he finally reached the window, the guard sounded slightly frantic. “What are you here for?”

  “What’s going on?” asked Jasper.

  “The embassy has been closed and we’re turning everyone away.”

  “Why?” asked Jackson.

  “Did you have an appointment?”

  “Yes, with Prince Saif and his security team.”

  “I’m his security team,” the man said, pulling out a radio. “Hold on.” And then he started speaking into it very quickly. After a reply crackled in, he returned to the window and said, “DARC Ops?”

  Jasper nodded.

  “Your meeting’s been moved across the street.”

  Jasper didn’t have to turn his head to know what across the street meant.

  “Fucking Watergate,” Jackson grumbled. “I have the worst luck there.”

  “So have a lot of other people,” Clarence drawled.

  The three of them left the limo and prepared to navigate the traffic and the chaos on foot, a decision that probably saved them an hour. They were met at the front entrance of the Watergate Hotel with some spillover crowds. Gawkers, mostly, men in suits staring out across the road to the unfolding chaos. They heard murmurings of bomb threats, of it all being just a drill.

  Drill or not, their meeting had been moved, as was confirmed by the receptionist.

  “They’re in the Oak Room,” she said, too busy for eye contact.

  “Damn it,” grunted Jackson.

  Clarence shot him a quizzical look as they stepped off the elevator. “What, you’ve had bad luck in the Oak Room, too?”

  “No, I forgot my tablet in the limo.”

  They marched quickly down one of Watergate’s long curvilinear hallways, away from the crowds and the bomb threats. It was finally quiet enough to have a conversation without yelling, or without worry of it being overheard by the innocent-looking bellboy in the elevator.

  The Oak Room’s door was shut when they approached. After Jasper’s knock it was opened by another surly looking guard. He was growing a little tired of these surly Saudi Guards. But then, as usual, Jackson knew the man. A senior guard. They’d worked with him before.

  He showed them into the room, which was even quieter than the hallway. And sitting at the far end were three men in white thawbs, their faces looking quite serious. It wasn’t clear which one was the prince. Perhaps all three?

  Clarence whispered into Jasper’s ear, “Which one is he?”

  Jasper shrugged and then watched him ask the same to Jackson.

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen,” one of the Saudis said, startling them out of their spot-the-prince contest. “Sorry about the . . . disturbance.”

  “Don’t be,” said Jackson. “It’s not your fault there was a bomb threat. Right?”

  The man gave Jackson an odd look. “What bomb?”

  Someone, in Arabic, asked, “What the hell’s he talking about?”

  And then, in English: “Where is Mr. West?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Vice President West was in charge of keeping the Saudis happy. And they were quite unhappy that he wasn’t present. Much eye rolling and gesticulating was done about it, white garments swishing about.

  “I thought he would be here with you,” said Jackson.

  “We thought he was with you,” they said all at once.

  “Then I imagine he was turned away at the embassy,” said Jackson. “We almost just turned around and went home.”

  They spoke in Arabic amongst themselves, the tone becoming more and more heated. Jasper picked up on their struggle to convince someone to do something. But that someone was refusing. More gesticulating, and then arms crossing.

  “Can you get him?” one of the Saudis finally asked.

  “Huh?” said Jackson. “You want me to . . . call his office? I have no idea how to get in touch with Mr. West.”

  “Come on. You’re the cybersecurity man. Surely you can trace his whereabouts.”

  Sure, because finding out the immediate whereabouts of the Vice President of the United States was simple, easy. Jasper realized belatedly that for someone with Jackson’s contacts, it probably was.

  They ordered someone to bring a laptop into the room, and when it arrived, they waited for Jackson to work his magic in setting up a conference call.

  “I’m sorry to ask,” broke in Clarence. “But which one of you is the prince?”

  “The prince is not here. But I can speak for him. My name is Bandi.”

  “So, you want to Skype with the Vice President?” asked Jackson.

  “Yes,” said Bandi. “If you can secure it. Can you secure it?”

  Jackson sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “We want to ask about another hospital,” said Bandi. “In Bethesda.”

  “Walter Reed?” asked Clarence.

  “Yes,” said Bandi. “The hospital where the president goes.”

  “If you want Walter Reed, then why did you ask for me?”

  Bandi scowled. “Jackson, what is this man talking about?”

  “I’m from Lambert Memorial,” said Clarence. “That’s my hospital. Isn’t that where the prince is going?”

  “Can you give me a second here?” Jackson, sounding clearly frustrated, was still trying to set up a web call with the Vice President.

  “What’s wrong with Lambert Memorial?” Jasper asked the Saudis.

  “No, no,” said Clarence. “It’s fine. If they want Walter Reed . . .”

  “We want what’s best for Prince Saif,” said Bandi. “Surely you can understand.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” said Jasper. “Because you want the best. Forget about the hospital. It’s our security team that’s going to get this done. It doesn’t matter where—”

  “If you want the Walter Reed Medical Center, then give them a call.” Clarence’s face had turned a shade of red. “I’d just as soon be done with this whole—”

  “No, they won’t take him,” said Jackson. “Not there.”

  “No Walter Reed?” asked one of the Saudis with a bewildered, almost childlike expression.

  “Gentlemen,” said Bandi. “This is the prince we are talking about.”

  “Take him wherever you want,” said Clarence. “Jackson, I think I’ve had enough of this.”

  Jasper felt Jackson’s glare upon him, and then his head nodding toward Clarence. Help me, he seemed to say.

  “Um, Clarence,” Jasper said. “Why don’t we just relax for a minute so we can figure this all out.”

&n
bsp; “What’s there to figure out?”

  “Well, there’s been so much confusion, with the bomb threat, and—”

  “What bomb threat?” asked Bandi.

  “I mean . . .” Jasper looked back at Clarence, putting a hand on his shoulder, and then saying quietly, “Why don’t we just figure this out?”

  “No, it’s simple. My hospital’s not good enough for the prince.” Clarence looked over to the Saudi men, cocking his head. “Right?” And then back at Jasper with, “You tell these guys to make up their mind right now.”

  “Jasper,” called Jackson. “Talk to them.”

  “I am.”

  “In Arabic,” said Jackson. “And tell them to forget about Walter Reed.”

  Jasper turned to the unhappy-looking Saudis. He smiled warmly. “Gentlemen,” he said in his best and most polite Arabic. “Lambert Memorial Hospital is the prince’s only option. It is a fine facility.”

  “Our mission is to secure the best care for Prince Saif,” said Bandi. “The very best. Or else we’ve failed. It’s not good to fail Prince Saif.”

  “I can assure you . . .” said Jasper, looking at Clarence, “Lambert Memorial is the best option for the prince. Right, Clarence?”

  Clarence shrugged and looked down at his phone. “I hardly care at this point. Just tell them to make a decision so I can get on with my weekend.”

  “Is there a problem?” asked Bandi.

  “I’ve got Mr. West,” said Jackson, sounding happy to steer the conversation away from Clarence’s grumpiness. He walked toward the men, and then placed the laptop on the table so they could see the screen.

  “Can you hear me?” asked Vice President West. “Can everyone hear me?”

  “Loud and clear,” said Jackson. “We’re at the Watergate here with Saif’s people.”

  “Is this a secure connection?”

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” Jackson muttered.

  “My apologies for not being present,” the Vice President said. “I had some pressing matters to deal with.” He looked unusually casual. Golf shirt. White hair not-so-combed to the side.

  “Mr. Vice President,” said Clarence. “What the hell’s going on in the city right now?

  Vice President West seemed not to have heard the question. Instead he said, “Where is Prince Saif?”