Exit Blood (Barefield Book 2)

by Trey R. Barker

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to agree with the admiral,” Charles said.

  “Oh, certainly Zakharov had been routinely checked out a number of times, as I’m sure you’re well aware, Mr. Fox, the FBI’s most conservative estimates set the number of Soviet operatives at about three thousand. Or, in effect, one in three Soviets in the U.S. are engaged in some type of clandestine activity. That requires a lot of manpower to keep track of them all.” It wasn’t the State Department’s fault Abrams was saying.

  “Yes, quite right,” Charles said, shrugging at the admiral.

  McKinley looked like he’d heard it all before and Trask noted that Abrams was now regarding Charles with a good deal more interest. He shuffled his papers and continued.

  “Over the next several weeks, Hopkins and Zakharov met several times in which no exchange was detected. Naval Intelligence was alerted. Hopkins’ record was spotless, but he was engaged in highly sensitive work. The meetings became more frequent and less covert. Parks, hotels, bars, convincing the FBI something was in the offing.”

  Everyone digested the information Abrams read out in his precise, clipped tones. Even if both were out of character, a high-ranking Soviet official and a naval officer in a sensitive job spelled just one thing.

  “At first,” Abrams continued, “the FBI thought there might be some sort of sting operation through naval intelligence. Unhappily that turned out to be negative. Finally, Hopkins was discovered lifting photo-copied material and later dropped. But the actual exchange was not detected.”

  “And the material?” Charles asked.

  “Low grade stuff,” Abrams said, smiling reassuringly. “It was obviously a first step so a decision was made to allow Hopkins to go all the way in hopes of a bigger drop.”

  What was Charles after? Trask wondered. He knew the mechanics of an operation better than anyone. Was he just trying to keep Sonny Boy on his toes or was something bothering him as well? He looked forward to a private talk with Charles.

  Abrams rearranged his notes and continued. “There was a hurried meeting before Christmas Eve, quite in the open this time. The FBI pulled all the stops, and on Christmas Eve, Hopkins made a drop in a phone booth on the New York Thruway. A few minutes later, it was recovered by Zakharov. Both were arrested immediately. Hopkins of course, will be court martialed.”

  “What’s the man’s state?” Charles asked, turning to the admiral.

  “He’s made a complete confession, claims the money was too good to pass up. His family is taking it pretty hard. His wife apparently knew nothing, but his father is also Navy, which makes it difficult. Looking at Hopkins record, well, financial problems or not, it was a shock to everyone.”

  Charles sat back in his chair and stared pensively into the fire. He only half heard McKinley’s question. “What about Zakharov?”

  “He’s being held pending further investigation, and although he doesn’t have diplomatic immunity, the Soviets have lodged the standard protest over his incarceration and accused us of withholding information. I assume, however, Zakharov will stand trial and be sentenced by Federal Court following lengthy debriefings. Returning him to Moscow is naturally out of the question and for once we can do more than simply declare him persona non grata.” Abrams paused dramatically, to ensure he had everyone’s attention. “Gentlemen, I don’t have to tell you what an opportunity this is.” His attitude was almost as if he’d single handedly brought about Zakharov’s capture.

  “Yes, well, I think John has something to add that might complicate matters,” McKinley said. All eyes turned to Trask who had been quietly absorbing Abrams’ monologue and Charles’ probing.

  “Yes, John, what’s all this about a defector coming home?” Charles sat up and faced Trask.

  “Defector? I...” Abrams was clearly perplexed.

  “Sorry, Richard,” McKinley said. “This is all pretty recent. That’s why we recalled John from Moscow. He’s senior man and talked to Mason himself.”

  “Mason? Is that the defector’s name?” Abrams was frantically searching through his papers.

  “No, Owens is the defector,” McKinley said. “Well, go ahead, John. It’s your show from here.”

  Trask got up and stood in front of the fireplace. “I guess I should start from the beginning. Five years ago, in late 1974, Robert Calvin Owens, an employee of Triton Industries in Sunnyvale, California, turned up on the doorstep of the Soviet embassy in San Francisco. He was five years back from Vietnam and seemingly on the verge of a brilliant career in microchip technology, Triton’s specialty. Owens’ mother—he has no other family—was shocked and his friends, what there were of them, were dumbfounded. The Soviets, of course, could hardly contain their excitement. Silicon Valley is one of their prime targets, and with Owens background, they didn’t stop to ask questions. He was on the first plane to Moscow before anything could be done. Since then, we’ve had only sketchy reports about his whereabouts, but we do know he was assigned to Bureau T in Zelenograd, the Russian version of Silicon Valley.” Trask paused, aware of the attention of the others.

  “Three weeks ago, an American couple, Arthur and Joan Mason, were in Moscow, sightseeing in Red Square. Owens apparently appeared out of the crowd, brushed against them and stuffed a note in Mason’s pocket.”

  “What did it say?” Charles asked.

  Trask paused again, looking around the group. McKinley stared into the fire; Abrams clutched his briefcase and listened open-mouthed. The admiral reached for another cigar.

  “It was a simple message: My name is Robert Owens. Can I come home?”

  “Extraordinary,” Charles said. He searched Trask’s face for some sign.

  “And you interviewed Mason?” McKinley asked, looking away from the fire.

  “Right. I have a transcript of the interview. Mason came directly to the embassy with the note. He was quite sure it was Owens. They had worked together briefly at Triton, but he said Owens seemed to be almost making sure he was recognized. I have the note also.” Trask opened his case and took out a sheet of paper. “This is a photo copy,” he said, handing it around. “We’ve done a preliminary hand writing check but it will get a full analysis.”

  “Any report yet?” Charles asked, looking at the note.

  Trask lit a cigarette and nodded. “This is either Owens’ hand or an excellent forgery.”

  “Forgery?” Abrams was sitting on the edge of his chair. “But why would you suspect forgery? I mean...”

  “I didn’t say we suspect anything,” Trask shot back. He looked at Charles and saw the realization already spreading over his face. Only Abrams and the admiral didn’t know, he guessed.

  “But I don’t see the connection between this and the Zakharov arrest,” Abrams said. “This...” His voice trailed off as if he suddenly realized his own execution was known to everyone and he was just finding out for himself.

  “Tell him, John,” McKinley said.

  Trask stared for a moment at Abrams. Time to drop the bomb and send this whiz kid back to State with his tail between his legs.

  “Moscow wants a trade,” he said evenly. “Owens for Zakharov.” He threw his cigarette into the fire and listened to the silence. Charles, he noted, was smiling.

  Abrams began to stuff papers into his briefcase. “Oh really, I mean how can we even discuss this. A defector, a traitor for a top Soviet caught in the act. I’ve no doubt the Russians would like Zakharov back. Of course they want a trade.” Abrams ignored the admiral, but looked imploringly from McKinley to Trask to Charles.

  “Well, I’m afraid that’s the way it has to be worked out, Richard, and we’ll expect full cooperation from State on this. Thank you for your part. We’ll take it from here,” McKinley said, clearly dismissing Abrams.

  Abrams nodded and was joined by the admiral as McKinley accompanied them out. Trask and Charles were left alone.

  “Well, John, you’ve managed to pull out another surprise,” Charles said.

  “I don’t know what
I’ve pulled out, Charles. I’m only a messenger on this one. But anyway, you’re ahead of me on surprises. Are you back in the fold or is this a special guest appearance?” Neither man would mention Prague.

  Charles shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. They keep threatening to retire me and I keep resisting. I do some consulting now and then for the Eastern desk. Still, perhaps this means something substantial is in the works.”

  Trask nodded. “I guess it will be a routine exchange, but we’ll have to see what Eugene says.”

  “Yes, I’m inclined to agree, but it does seem a bit strange, Zakharov’s arrest, I mean. Still, as you say...” Charles seemed preoccupied, drifting off before Trask could pursue him. McKinley returned and broke out a bottle of brandy.

  “Now then,” he said, sitting down and filling three glasses. “Let’s get down to business. I’m afraid our young man from State is a bit miffed. The Zakharov case was his baby and he’s been liaison with the FBI. I couldn’t resist letting you break the news, John. The president has already been advised, of course, so I think Abrams can stand a little feather ruffling.”

  “So,” Charles began, “I can understand Moscow wanting Zakharov back, but why are we so keen to welcome Owens home?”

  “Owens could be invaluable,” Trask answered. “Technology is the Soviets highest priority these days, and according to our sources, Owens has been at Zelenograd all this time. Someone who’s been on the inside, even a defector, will have a wealth of information. Then, there’s also the possibility Owens was recruited much earlier, maybe while he was in the army, for example. A kind of reverse sleeper. Don’t forget, we’re well ahead of the Soviets in development. Owens could confirm that.”

  “Yes,” McKinley said, “or refute it. If only we could stop the insane student exchange program. We send our students to Moscow University to study Russian fairy tales and they send us older graduate students to study physics and laser development.” McKinley sighed. “The main thing is to ensure Owens’ attitude is going to be cooperative.”

  “And,” Charles said, “that he is indeed Robert Owens. Which makes it difficult for us if I’m correct in assuming that, with the exception of this fellow Mason, nobody’s seen Owens for what, five years?”

  “Exactly,” McKinley said. “I believe John has the only viable plan if we’re to go ahead with this. To positively confirm Owens, we’ve got to come up with someone from his past—college roommate, co-worker, army buddy—someone who could ask questions only the real Owens could answer. Even with intensive background briefings, there are certain details of a man’s life that can’t be anticipated, especially if you go back far enough.” McKinley paused a moment. “I don’t like to think about it, but there’s certainly a consideration Owens could be a ringer. Find someone who looks enough like him, plastic surgery, well you both know how it works.”

  Charles nodded and then said. “What about this fellow Mason he contacted in Moscow? If Mason worked with Owens, surely he could make a positive identification.”

  “No, Charles. It was seven years ago, and besides, he didn’t know Owens very well. In any case, I don’t think he’d be a willing candidate.”

  “Well, suppose we find such a person. What then?” Charles asked. “Even assuming Moscow will agree, won’t it mean sending an inexperienced man into a potentially dangerous situation?”

  “How do you mean?” Trask asked.

  “Moscow will certainly stipulate any such confirmation be made on their home ground won’t they? They’re certainly not going to let Owens just walk away while we still have Zakharov.”

  McKinley allowed himself a smile. “As usual, Charles, you’re absolutely correct. We want you to find this man for us and convince him a trip to Europe would be a grand experience. With the help of our computer records of course. We’ll iron out the details after we see what we have to choose from. I can think of no one more qualified, right, John?”

  Trask nodded. It was true of course. Charles Fox had recruited and run agents all over Eastern Europe under the worst conditions. His natural, persuasive charm would be perfect. People talked to Charles. Trask had seen it time after time.

  “Well, it’s settled then,” McKinley said. “John will go back to Moscow and work out things there. Charles, I’ll authorize all the computer time you need starting tomorrow, but we have to work fast. We’ve pulled Owens’ file already, there isn’t much to go on, I’m afraid.” McKinley drained his glass. “In fact, what I’ve seen makes me wonder if Robert Calvin Owens even existed.”

  Charles caught McKinley and Trask exchange an almost imperceptible glance.

  A shared secret? I wonder, he thought.

  Back to TOC

  Here’s a sample from J.L. Abramo’s Gravesend.

  PROLOGUE

  1

  Mid-January. Well past midnight.

  He moans in his sleep.

  His wife tries to wake him gently; using soft, steady pressure to his shoulder.

  Her efforts interrupt a bad dream.

  Another terrible dream.

  The dreams have been recurring more frequently as more time passes since the day he lost his job.

  Bad dreams.

  Nightmares, manifesting the fear, have crowded his waking hours as well; the terror of not being able to provide for and protect his family.

  He wakes gasping for breath, for words.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, choking on the question.

  “It’s Derek. He’s been vomiting all night and he’s burning up with fever,” his wife answers. “I called the doctor. He said we should rush Derek to the emergency room. He said that he would meet us there.”

  “Get the boy ready. I’ll take him over myself,” he says, throwing off the bed sheet and blanket. “You need to stay here with the baby.”

  2

  Coney Island Hospital is a fifteen-minute drive; there will be little traffic on the Belt Parkway at this hour.

  His wife straps the five-year-old boy into the child seat in back as he climbs behind the steering wheel of the relic they call an automobile.

  “Call me.”

  “I will,” he promises, and pulls away from the curb toward the parkway entrance at 65th Street. He gazes across the underside of the Verrazano Bridge as he races past the Fourth Avenue exit. The boy has cleverly managed to free himself from the restraining belt of the child carrier.

  The other car comes from out of nowhere, barreling into the right lane from the Bay Parkway entrance, smashing into his right quarter-panel. His car spins a hard ninety degrees. He desperately tries to brake, but he is unable to avoid crashing head-on into the chain-link fence separating the parkway from the service road. The impact bounces his forehead off the steering wheel.

  The boy lies on the seat beside him after hitting the dashboard on the passenger side.

  The boy is bleeding from a wide gash above the eye.

  The small body looks terribly broken.

  He tries to start the car with no success. He tries to locate the other vehicle. The other driver has stepped out of the second car and is slowly walking toward them. The man suddenly stops and quickly turns away. He watches in stunned silence as the other driver climbs back into the second car, rolls slowly past them and then speeds off.

  The license plate on the BMW reads TITAN1.

  He is terrified at the thought of leaving the boy there alone, but he is afraid to move the battered body. He removes his own coat and uses it to cover and protect the boy from the bitter cold.

  He viciously tears a sleeve from his own shirt and wraps it around the boy’s head, trying to slow the bleeding. He jumps from the car, runs to the exit and up to the service road. The area is dark and isolated. There are only retail businesses here, shut down for the night. He turns onto 26th Avenue and runs under the parkway toward the nearest house.

  It is nearly three in the morning; he has not shaved for two days. His shirt is roughly torn. He beats on a door for help, crying that his s
on is hurt badly, and he needs to use a telephone. The woman on the other side of the door will not let him in. She is alone she says, her husband out of town. He pleads until he can hear footsteps moving her back into the depths of the house. He cries out after her, begging her to call for an ambulance to the scene of the accident. He looks at the house address and then turns from the door not knowing what to do, where to go.

  A yellow taxicab approaches, heading in the direction of the parkway. He waves his arms wildly, like a madman. He is becoming a madman. An off-duty sign quickly lights on the roof of the taxi as the cab speeds past him.

  The number on the rear of the cab is 4354.

  His head is filling with numbers.

  He runs back to the car. The boy is still breathing. He finds an old blanket in the trunk. He carefully wraps the boy, lifts the body out of the car and begins walking blindly in the direction of the hospital.

  A panel truck approaches from behind, slows briefly and then drives on. The lettering on the side of the truck reads Addams Dairy. There is a white bumper sticker on the rear with two words in bold black lettering.

  Got Milk?

  His head is filling with words.

  He turns to the sound of another approaching vehicle. A tow truck has stopped at his abandoned car. He reverses direction and hurries back, the boy limp in his arms.

  3

  The tow truck driver drops him and the boy at the emergency room entrance off Ocean Parkway.

  A nurse rushes up and grabs the boy from his arms as she shouts for a room and a doctor.

  He tries to follow, but he is held back by another nurse.

  He asks for the boy’s physician, insisting that the pediatrician was to meet them there.

  He is told that the boy’s doctor never arrived.

  Ten minutes later he is informed that his son is gone. His firstborn has died.

  “We did all that we could do,” says a nurse. “The boy lost so much blood. It was too late.”

  His legs go out from under him; he is helped to his feet by the nurse and a security guard. They sit him in a chair, a glass of water appears and a young doctor quickly checks his blood pressure.