by Trevor Scott
COVERT NETWORK
A Jake Adams International Espionage Thriller #14
by
Trevor Scott
United States of America
Also by Trevor Scott
The Jake Adams Cold War Espionage Short Story Series
Reykjavik Sanction (Mission #1)
Napoli Intercept (Mission #2)
Wueschheim Imperative (Mission #3)
Jake Adams International Espionage Thriller Series
Fatal Network (#1)
Extreme Faction (#2)
The Dolomite Solution (#3)
Vital Force (#4)
Rise of the Order (#5)
The Cold Edge (#6)
Without Options (#7)
The Stone of Archimedes (#8)
Lethal Force (#9)
Rising Tiger (#10)
Counter Caliphate (#11)
Gates of Dawn (#12)
Counter Terror (#13)
Covert Network (#14)
The Tony Caruso Mystery Series
Boom Town (#1)
Burst of Sound (#2)
Running Game (#3)
The Chad Hunter Espionage Thriller Series
Hypershot (#1)
Global Shot (#2)
Cyber Shot (#3)
The Keenan Fitzpatrick Mystery Series
Isolated (#1)
Burning Down the House (#2)
Witness to Murder (#3)
Other Mysteries and Thrillers
Cantina Valley
Edge of Delirium
Strong Conviction
Fractured State (A Novella)
The Nature of Man
Discernment
Way of the Sword
Drifting Back
The Dawn of Midnight
The Hobgoblin of the Redwoods
Duluthians: A Collection of Short Stories
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and not intended to represent real people or places. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author.
COVERT NETWORK
Copyright © 2017 by Trevor Scott
United States of America
trevorscott.com
Cover image of shooter by abishome
Background cover image by author
1
Buenos Aires, Argentina
A lone woman stepped gently along the waterfront in the gentrified Puerto Madero region of the capital city. Being close to midnight, she was nervous walking in the darkness. Considering this area was supposed to be one of the most exclusive areas in the city, she thought it could have used more lighting, instead of these subdued, ethereal green glowing orbs that made the narrow sidewalks along the canals seem like landing strips for alien aircraft. Most of the businesses were closed already, save a few restaurant bars, which didn’t seem too busy on a Thursday night.
She was on edge, no doubt, because she was unarmed—a particularly stupid idea, but a calculated risk. After the mysterious disappearance of two young girls from Barcelona two weeks ago, and her Spanish government not getting anywhere diplomatically, her agency, the National Intelligence Center, or Centro Nacional de Inteligencia (CNI), had sent her to get to the truth. But even she was getting nowhere. Part of that, she knew, was the secret nature of her work. She had pretended to be the sister of one of the girls that had disappeared. There was no way that CNI wanted the Argentines to know she was looking into a simple report of two missing college girls, who could have simply met a couple of boys and were off smoking pot and having casual sex. This was generally a case for law enforcement and not intelligence, but she was working on her own vacation time. Not exactly sanctioned, but also not disallowed to investigate.
As she stood at the edge of the canal, she thought of her appearance and wondered if she looked young enough. Although she was only thirty, she was constantly asked to pose as a college woman in her early twenties. It was frustrating to always be confused for a young woman, but the alternative would have been worse, she guessed. Eventually chronology would catch up with father time. She ran her slim fingers through her long straight hair, streaked with shades of reds, black and platinum. Most would say that her greatest feature were her green eyes, but that was because her breasts were only average and she wore more bulky pants to hide what she thought was her best feature—her hard posterior, which had gotten that way only through constant exercise. Tonight, though, she wore tight black yoga pants that left nothing to the imagination. Honey for predatory bears, she thought.
Her investigation so far led her directly to the last place the two young women had been seen, The Puerto Madero Bar, which she had just left moments ago. From what she could tell, the bar was a place where older men escaped from overpowering wives and searched for younger models. She had been served three free drinks in just a half hour, and could have stayed there all night until she could no longer walk. So, maybe that was the problem. The two young women were provided enough free drinks to make them pliable, and then they went home with a man. Or two.
She found her phone in her pocket and texted a friend, who was the only person outside of CNI who knew she was even in Argentina. But she trusted this woman with her life and needed to bounce ideas off of her shrewd mind. She was, after all, in the same business, but with far more experience.
After she quickly explained that the bar was just a pickup joint, her friend texted back saying she might be on to something. What better place to kidnap two young women?
There she went again, calling this a kidnapping without really knowing for sure. She shook her head and smiled as she texted a response.
As she waited for an answer, she noticed a man leave the bar and glance about. He had been one of the older men who had bought her a drink. When her phone buzzed, she looked down at the screen and smiled. But her smile quickly turned to a feeling of misunderstanding. The words on the screen seemed blurred. She blinked and tried to bring the words into focus, but she couldn’t.
She turned her head when she heard the small boat coming up the canal. But the boat also seemed out of focus. Panic streaked through her body. Glancing at her phone again, she was able to text only ‘ayud’ before her mind reeled out of control and her fingers no longer worked. For some reason the normal smells of the sea turned to something akin to a baking extract. But what kind?
She sunk to her knees and shook her head. The last thing she saw was the man from the bar coming to her quickly, asking if she was all right.
Now she fell to her side and saw the scene in front of her from a strange angle. The glowing green orbs seemed to melt like a Salvador Dali surreal painting. Two feet turned to four or more. Muffled, indistinguishable voices came across as whispered laughter.
Then she blacked out.
2
Iceland
The light display this December evening was spectacular, with swirling apparitions of green and purple and a variable palette of cool colors turning the chilly night into nature’s ghostly fireworks. The snow had come late and sparsely to the barren landscape, where sheep and horses could still find tufts of grass poking above the surface among the jagged volcanic rocks.
Jake Adams had become accustomed to these nearly nightly Arora Borealis hauntings. It had come to the point that they were now routine, and he didn’t even have the strength to chastise himself for not paying much attention. He simply stood at the large window and occasionally switched his view from the swirling lights t
o his own reflection. His beard, about half gray now, was two months long and scraggly like that of a Viking. He sipped on his third glass of rum and shifted his attention away from himself again, casting his gaze upon the fire in the stone fireplace.
It had been about two months since the death of his long-time girlfriend, Alexandra, at their seaside Calabrian home. He had dropped his daughter Emma off with his siblings in Montana and only called once to make sure she was doing all right. Part of him wished Emma had fussed and looked for him, but that had not happened. Jake guessed that an eight-month-old had very little recollection of parental permanence. Soon she would not even remember Jake, he thought. Maybe that was a good thing. She was better off without him.
His eyes wandered about the reflection, observing the wooden structure. All of the walls were slotted pine. Above the smooth stone fireplace was a large stuffed salmon. The back of the brown leather sofa was covered with a nearly white reindeer skin. The slate floor was covered with a creamy white 8-skin long-haired sheepskin rug. It was so nice that Jake refused to step on it.
He heard movement behind him, so he glanced at the reflection of a woman coming his way. She had her black hair back in a ponytail, just like she had worn it some three decades earlier when Jake first met her.
Hildur Hilmarsdóttir had been a Varðstjóri or Inspector with Icelandic Police back then. Now she had risen to the top of the heap, where she had been appointed the head of this force that controlled all law enforcement in Iceland—the FBI of this land of fire and ice. When Jake had gotten on the private jet of billionaire Carlos Gomez in Montana and they had asked him where he wanted to go, Jake had hesitated only briefly. There was no better place to hide from the world than Iceland, where nothing much happened and he couldn’t even spell most of the words in the language. But Jake also knew that he didn’t need to speak Icelandic, since everyone spoke perfect English.
Hildur moved next to Jake, her constant cup of coffee warming her small hands. “What are you thinking, Jake?”
Jake sipped on his rum and shrugged. “Nothing. That’s kind of the point of this place.”
They had talked often for the past two months about everything and nothing. She had given him time and space, leaving him at her second home in the isolated country setting some 100 kilometers from Reykjavik often as she went back and forth to work. Now, with Christmas a week ago, she had been with Jake for an extended stay.
“This is why I bought this place years ago,” she said. She let out a deep breath and then sipped her coffee.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said.
“No, you don’t.”
“You’re trying to figure out when I’ll either leave or eat my gun.”
She shook her head vehemently. “Not even close. I was wondering when you would get restless and leave this sedate setting.” She hesitated and then added, “Are you thinking of killing yourself?”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “If I were to do it, I would have the courtesy to walk out into the tundra.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ve just felt a bit introspective these past two months.”
She rubbed the back of his arm. “You have every right to be a bit morose. You’ve lost a lot.”
True, he thought. But he also had a beautiful daughter that he had abandoned in Montana. What kind of father did that?
“So have you,” Jake said.
“It’s been ten years,” she said, referring to the death of her husband, who had died at sea as a commercial fisherman.
“Time doesn’t matter,” he said, thinking about all those whom he had lost over the years, from his parents to the three women he had loved. Recently he had even considered all of those he had killed over the years—all of whom had deserved it, but they were dead nonetheless. Their loss had probably impacted someone.
She finished her cup of coffee and set the empty cup on an end table. Then she glanced at him in the window and asked, “Do you feel guilty for having sex with me so soon after losing Alexandra?”
Jake turned to her and said, “That’s not a problem, Hildur.”
When they met before the Reagan and Gorbachev summit, they had had a brief relationship, which consisted strictly of sex with no strings attached. She had to know that a relationship with Jake at that time was useless. She was on the move with her profession, and he was a CIA officer assigned to Germany. Not exactly a formula for a healthy union. This recent foray into their sexuality had been tender and great, but he didn’t suspect that it was going anywhere. Was he wrong?
She put her hands up. “Don’t look at me like that, Jake. I’m not asking for anything more from you. The sex is great. And I enjoy your company.”
He smiled now. “I’m a bit old for a boy toy.”
“I don’t want a young man. And the men in this country have become far too sensitive. I usually have to check them for balls. You’re different.”
“So, what you’re saying is that you’ve checked a lot of young men for balls,” he said, holding back a smile.
“Not in the literal sense,” she said. “But through questioning.”
“Soft interrogation?”
She nodded and turned away, glancing at the swirling Northern Lights. “I think I’m too old to worry about things anymore.”
This subject had come up many times recently. Especially around Christmas. “Such as?”
“Relationships. Maybe we are only given one chance on this Earth.”
Now they had reached détente. Perhaps Jake had tempted fate after Toni by moving on with Anna. By the time he had gotten to Alexandra, his destiny had been set.
“Then let’s agree to agree,” he said.
Suddenly, Jake heard something out of the ordinary. A few seconds later, Hildur also heard it. The road to this cabin was far enough away so as not to ever disturb them. The fields surrounding the place was grazed by sheep from Hildur’s neighbors. And even those weren’t present much now, with the ground lightly covered with snow. But this noise was manmade.
Jake set his glass down and picked up his Glock on his way toward the front door.
“It could be work,” Hildur said, right on Jake’s side.
He shook his head. “They know how to get in touch with you. The boss is always on her phone.”
There was no cell service out here, but Hildur had a land line and a SAT phone. No, this was something else.
Opening the front door, Jake saw the source of the noise—a chopper with retractable landing gear, which were lowered now as the craft approached from the west.
He stepped out into the driveway wearing only a T-shirt, blue jeans and wool socks.
The chopper landed and Jake’s eyes tried to discern any threat, his gun at the side of his right leg. The engine immediately shut down and the rotors started to slow until they barely swirled around anymore.
A man stepped out of the passenger door, his head lowered as he came toward Jake. Instead of pointing his gun at the man, Jake shoved the Glock into his pants at the small of his back.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Jake asked. “I could have shot you.”
His old friend and associate, Kurt Jenkins, tried on a smile and then immediately embraced Jake. The two of them had worked together for years in the CIA. Eventually, Jake left for the private sector and Kurt rose to Director of the CIA. Then he retired from the Agency not too long ago and recently joined the private employment of the Spanish billionaire. Kurt was the only person who knew where Jake was hanging his hat.
The two men pulled apart and Jake checked over his friend. Just like Jake, Kurt Jenkins sported a beard. But the former CIA director trimmed his smartly.
“We need to talk,” Kurt said.
3
Jake glanced at his old friend and reasoned that it had to be pretty damn important for Kurt Jenkins to disturb Jake’s self-isolation.
“Don’t tell me my country needs me,” Jake said. “I’ve done en
ough for God and country.”
“Can we get inside out of this cold,” Kurt said.
“Sure. After you tell me why you’re here.”
“It’s Sirena. She needs your help.”
“Who did she kill?” Jake asked.
“Nobody yet. At least not this time. Please, this beard isn’t helping with the cold.”
Jake grabbed onto his own beard and stroked the end into a point at his chin. “This is a Viking beard. Yours looks like it was glued on for a production of Shakespeare in the Park.”
“Still a smart ass,” Kurt said.
“Till human voices wake us, and we drown.”
“Wow, you have had some time on your hands if you’re quoting T.S. Elliot.”
Jake said nothing.
“What’s up with Sirena?” Jake asked.
“Why don’t you ask her?”
Jake was confused.
“Who do you think flew me here? I figured you would trust her with your location.” Kurt waived to the chopper and a woman stepped out, closing and latching the door behind her.
Sirena had worked with Jake a number of times over the years. She was Israeli by birth with American citizenship courtesy of one parent. She had flown helicopters in the Israeli Defense Forces before working for the Mossad briefly. Then she had been recruited by the CIA and had worked for the NSA and FBI on loan many times. Now, Jake guessed, she was eligible for early retirement.
Jake gave his old friend a hug. She kissed him on both cheeks just above his beard.
“This is new,” she said, touching his scruffy facial hair. “I like it.”
“Let’s go inside,” Jake said.
Hildur was waiting for them at the door. Jake introduced them all around and then the guests removed their shoes.
Kurt glanced down at the massive long-haired sheep rug and said, “I’m not sure if I walk on this or roll around on it.”
Hildur stepped onto the soft fur. “It’s fine. Jake refuses to step on it, though.”