by Alex Ryan
“Thank you.”
“Godspeed to you, and my condolences to yourself and the family.”
“Much appreciated.”
Although only two city blocks away, the route to the Nottingham General Cemetery was somewhat convoluted. Then again, the roads of Leeds were only slightly less chaotic in layout. It was a warm and clear day, and the greenery of the cemetery rendered a fragrant, peaceful atmosphere as the motorcade slowly progressed to the location of the family plot. It signified change. Rebirth. Arthur was right. One part of Simon Bowe needed to be here, in the town of Nottingham, to pay his last respects, but it would also be a parting. He knew in his heart that the only way to resolve himself was to move on, and never look back.
The cramped Triumph was a bit uncomfortable to drive in, but Simon Bowe was fortunate enough to have the use of his nephew, Warren, to drive him back to London. A quick hop to the M1 expressway made for a direct, fast route. “Join me at the cinema tonight, will you?” Warren inquired. They made good time.
“Perhaps I should. It would do well to keep my mind off of present events.”
It was opening day of the release of that new American movie about the Vietnam War, ‘Apocalypse Now.’ The cinema was packed. Blood, guts, military, and craziness in general did not do well to calm his nerves. It was, however, a tribute to the creativity of some of the best minds in Hollywood.
Some of the best minds in Hollywood.
“Good morning, Rex,” the tall, blonde receptionist, doctor, and identity broker said as he walked through the door.
Rex. Rex Muse. Get used to it. It will save your life. “Reporting for duty, ma’am.”
“Good. I do have a name, Carly Logan. You may address me as Carly.”
“Your stage name?” Rex laughed.
“No, my stage name is Velvet,” she replied, without changing her tone or expression. She pulled out a manila envelope from under the counter and placed it in front of Rex. “Merry Christmas.”
It was a passport, a fresh, new passport, with his photo on it, and the name Brian Rexall Muse. And the signature he got so used to writing, a certified copy of Muse’s birth certificate, and a replica of an original issue Social Security paper card. “What about a driver’s license?”
“You’ll have to get that on your own. From here on out, you start with this packet, and build from there. Welcome to the other side. There is one thing though,” Carly said.
“What’s that?”
“Your fingerprints, rather Alex Dahl’s, are in the NCIC database. You’ll just have to be careful from here going forward. Oh, and by the way, he’s dead.”
“What?”
“That’s right. A burned up body was found in a stolen car in Portland. That’s where the Ford Bronco stolen from Fort Lewis was found by authorities. They identified you by the fingerprints found on the vehicle.”
“How did my fingerprints get on a stolen vehicle?”
“You will get ample opportunity to learn how that works.”
“I see.”
“Simon is ready to see you.”
Rex walked in to Simon’s office.
“Welcome to Arrow Services, Mr. Muse. Have a seat.” Simon Bowe said. He was wearing the same leisure suit he wore the previous week. Carly too, for that matter.
“What is my job title?”
“We don’t have job titles. Generically, you are an ‘operator.’ Your mission is to infiltrate groups, companies, organizations, and even governments, and gather information. Without getting caught, of course.”
“Just gather information? Am I expected to take people out?”
“You aren’t specifically an assassin, if that’s what you mean, but situations could arise where it may be necessary, and you would be expected to respond accordingly. Do you have a problem with that?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Take a look at your passport. Your legal address of record is on there. It is an apartment complex in Redondo Beach. No, you will not live there, but your mail will be received there. You could probably stay there a night or two if you needed. Consider it your safe house. Your first order of business will be to obtain a driver’s license, and a bank account where you can receive and withdraw funds. You don’t want that to be in the United States. I would recommend Singapore. Thirdly, ditch those god awful peasant clothes and dress decently!”
“Will do.”
“You have three days to get your affairs in order. Report back here three days from now, and you will be sent on your first assignment.”
“May I ask what that will be?”
“Knowledge is assigned on a need-to-know basis. You will be assigned that knowledge when and where you have the need to know it. That is how we operate in this business.”
“All right.”
Simon Bowe reached under his desk, this time with his left hand, and pulled out a rather thick stack of one hundred dollar bills. “Here is an advance. I wouldn’t recommend traveling with ten thousand dollars of cash in your pocket, but there will be the occasional need.”
“See you in three days.”
“Oh, and one more thing. Don’t buy stuff. Big stuff, that is. Like houses and cars. You’re never going to be in one place for very long, and the less of a history you leave, the better. Renting is better than buying. Cabs are better than renting. Hotels are better than apartments. Cash is better than a check. Are we clear on that?”
“Yes sir.”
Rex walked out the door, and closed it behind him. There was a large framed man with thick red hair and a full red beard sitting in a chair next to Carly. She spoke to him. “Mr. Macleod, please go in the room over there, will you, and have a seat. I’ll be in shortly.”
Rex’s eyes bulged out as he watched the huge man enter the exam room and close the door behind him.
“What?” Carly asked, staring at Rex.
“Never mind. See you in three days... Okay, I have to ask. What if he, you gets, you know, excited?”
“Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t. They never seem to mind it too much.”
“Ever have one of these guys get out of control?”
“Ever have fifty thousand volts applied to your nethers?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“You have no idea how close you were to experiencing it.”
The 757 touched down at the Frankfurt Airport just as the light rainfall let up. The passengers were a mix of vacationers, businessmen and women in suits, and a fair amount of GIs reporting or returning to their posts. Rex, himself, was the oddball. He looked about right to be a junior NCO, but he was dressed a little bit better than the typical soldier or airman in civilian clothes, but not in formal business attire either. Nor did he quite fit the mold of a young traveler hopping his way across Europe from halfway house to halfway house. But he could, however, be some average German. That’s actually what he needed to be, despite not having much of a command of the language and customs.
Just don’t talk to people unless there is a real need. His unaccented English revealed that he was American, despite the five days of beard stubble and stylish Euro-dress. The airman seated next to him, in his blue dress uniform, couldn’t help but to describe, in exquisite detail, how the cryptologic equipment aboard an E3 Sentry aircraft, otherwise known as ‘AWACS,’ was arranged and operated. A recording of the conversation probably would have been worth a decent amount of cash on the other side of the airport terminal.
They call them ‘freelance assets.’ These guys carry around a pager, and a ‘broker’ contacts them via the pager with an assignment. The broker is the intermediary between the client and the asset. He may be an agent, a double agent, or even an independent, trusted by the agencies. They might do a job for the CIA one week, MI5 the next, maybe even a gig with Mossad. And then there are the privates; the job shoppers that work with all three plus others. That’s where Arrow Services comes in. Maybe the CIA doesn’t want the exposure. Or MI5. Or Mossad. There is a
conversation by mouth that never happened, followed by a suitcase full of cash to make someone or something go away.
Or in this case, come back, as Rex was to learn. Delmar Lane was one of these so called assets. Except that he had a connection with Simon Bowe and worked directly for him on assignment. It was understood their partnerships were not to go through any third parties. Lane could be trusted, and Bowe paid well enough to make an exclusive arrangement worthwhile when it was expedient.
He wasn’t hard to spot. A large, round black man with a short afro and a bit of beard growth stood out like a sore thumb outside the confines of the air bases and army kasearnes. But that was Lane’s background. He was a staff sergeant, infantry at that. When his term was up, he stayed in Germany. It was either that or go back to Alabama. He was dressed in dark clothes, including the scarf and some kind of tactical boots, although nothing GI issue. He would have been non-descript in Chicago.
“Rex Muse?” Lane spoke as he approached Rex waiting by the baggage claim area.
“Delmar Lane?” Rex replied.
“I thought I might find you here by the baggage area. For future reference, try to keep everything on carry-on, if you possibly can.”
“Sorry.”
“Secondly, don’t always be sorry for shit.”
Rex grabbed a full duffle bag off the conveyer several minutes later, and walked with Lane out to the terminal. The Polizei were already standing behind the Ford Merkur and pulling out a ticket book.
“Entschuldigen Sie,” Lane said, as he brushed by the officers and opened the door. “We need to get out of here. I’m not supposed to be parked.”
“Nice car” Rex said.
“Thanks. We call it a ‘Rad-Ford’ here. Rad is short for comrade. The GIs call German nationals ‘Rads.’
“So, what is the mission?”
“This isn’t just a training exercise. This is the real deal. What we have going on is a rescue mission. There is a military intelligence officer that was snatched across the border by the East Germans. Both the East Germans and the Soviets claimed to have no knowledge of him. But we know he is. And we know where he is. They are holding him captive in a town called Frankenheim. It’s just across the border, near where Hesse and Bavaria meet. In fact, we’re going to go there and take a look at the wall, so you have an idea what you’re going to be faced with.”
“So... I’m breaking into East Germany?”
“Yeah, but that part of it isn’t going to be that bad. Here’s the plan. We can get you across the border; there is a spy ring that will get you across. What they do is pay off guards to make sure they aren’t patrolling the wall in the section where you’re going to cross, as well as the nearest tower guards to make sure they aren’t paying attention. Then, they’re going to basically guide you to and over the wall. On both sides. Now, what’s going to happen after that is you’re going to ditch them.”
“Ditch them?”
“Right, ditch them. You’re going to be taken to a small town called Birx. It’s a farm town. They think that whatever is going down, is going down in Birx. But it isn’t. It’s in Frankenheim, which is only about a klick away. We can’t trust them, so you need to lose them. Escape and evade. Then, you need to find out where this man is, spring him, and we will have a civilian helicopter waiting, when you give a signal, it’s going to fly across the wall, land at a predetermined spot, pick you and the intelligence officer up, and fly back over before the East Germans even know what’s going on. You up for that?”
“Fuckin’ Hooah Lane. Why me?”
“Look at me. I’m heavy, not that mobile, and I’m black. It ain’t happening if I go in. You are passable enough you can blend in. We’ll dress you right. You’ll look like any other farm hand.”
The Merkur wound through a series of country roads, and parked on the edge of a plowed field. “Get out and take a look,” Lane encouraged.
“Holy fuck. That is one protected zone right there,” Rex said, a little awestruck.
“That’s right. See that wall there?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not the actual border. They call that the three meter wall. It’s ten feet high. That’s the easy one. Behind it is a higher chain link fence with concertina wire. In front of it is the big clear zone. See those poles over there, the square red, black, and yellow painted concrete post and the blue and white round one?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the actual border. You can just walk across. Set your foot inside that space and the East German Gaks will snatch you. Getting the visual?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, good. We’re going to head back to Fulda and hole up in a gasthaus for the night. It’s sort of a bar and restaurant with hotel rooms. I’m going to brief you more and show you some maps. We’re going to be looking at performing the operation either tomorrow night, or no later than the next night. We need to get him out while we can.”
The gasthaus was empty, save for the bartender at the massive wooden bar. It was constructed of brick and massive rough-hewn timbers. “Jesus, how old is this thing?” Rex asked.
“Probably more than four hundred years old. Come on” Lane said. “Zwei bier, bitte” Lane said to the bartender.
“Certainly.” the bartender replied in nearly perfect English. “Can I get you some food?”
“Yeah, a couple orders of Jagershnitzel. Hey, you got a set of Bundhosen that will fit this man here?”
“Probably. Just the Bundhosen?”
“The whole outfit. Something that will make him fit right in. On either side of the border.”
“I see. I think I know what you want. I will go check.”
The bartender poured two beers in large ceramic liter mugs, set them on the bar and went back to a stockroom. He returned a short while later, with a stack of clothing and some shoes.
“Here is the key to your room.” Lane said. “Try this stuff on and make sure it fits.”
Lane moved the beer mugs over to a remote table in the corner, went to his own room, and returned with a satchel. Rex returned several minutes later.
“I feel goddamn ridiculous in this outfit” Rex said.
Lane chuckled. “You look goddamn ridiculous too. But that’s the look you need. It will work. Grab a seat. Let me show you some maps and photos.”
You certainly had to admit, Rex thought to himself. They used to come up with some goddamned whacked out training scenarios back in Ranger battalion, but this takes the cake.
Rex studied the map. The crossing point, the small town of Birx, the larger town of Frankenheim, the field; it wasn’t a large area. That was both good and bad. One thing was clear, things are going to have to happen quick and furious.
Then there was the man himself. He had thick, jet black hair. He was almost Middle Eastern in appearance. He was a major. Major Kincaide. He had access to a lot of highly sensitive information, such as the entire strategic plan for USAEUR forces in Western Germany.
Lane pulled out a metallic object, and pushed it to Rex, eyeing the bar to ensure no one is watching. “This is your issue weapon. Hopefully, you won’t have to fire any shots. When you’re done with it, wipe it clean and toss it.”
“A Makarov?” Rex asked.
“Yeah, if there has to be gunplay, it needs to be with an East German gun. That will confuse the Soviets. They are on their way to take him. And um, there is one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“If this mission goes south, and you can’t get him evacuated, you have to ensure that he is not alive to fall in to Soviet hands.”
“Jesus. You want me to shoot him?”
“We’d rather have him safe and alive of course, but you signed up for the big leagues, so you better be prepared to hit hard and deep. We’re talking about the big picture here. We’re talking about saving American lives. That man has knowledge that could get a lot of people killed if they manage to force it out of him.”
Lane looked somber as he dr
ained the last of his mug, and signaled to the bartender for two more. “And there is one other possibility that you will have to consider. And that is the possibility that he might be there voluntarily.”
“In which case, he gets terminated just the same?”
“You got it.”
“What constitutes success for this mission?”
“The prevention of mission critical information being transmitted to either the East Germans or the Soviets. Period.”
“How do we know that hasn’t already happened?”
“We don’t.”
The two liters of beer went straight to Rex’s head, as he stood in front of the open window of his room, which happened to face the east, towards his objective. The fact of the matter was, this mission had failure written all over it. Trust goddamn enemy spies to be corrupt enough to corrupt the border command guards that may or may not be sufficiently corrupt? That’s stupid. The second he loses them, they will gladly instigate a massive search effort. No, this whole thing stinks. There will be no element of surprise.
Something did dawn on him. A HALO mission. A night HALO mission. High altitude, low opening parachute mission. They probably couldn’t overfly the border, but they didn’t need to. The prevailing winds were to the east, so he could drift towards his target in silence, and navigate using night vision goggles. It wouldn’t be the first time. There was that one time at the National Training Center in Fort Irwin, California where they used that same exact tactic to get a man behind OPFOR lines. Nobody noticed the falling chute, because nobody was looking for it; those things are hard to see at night, almost impossible unless they are silhouetted by the moon. Hell, it’s hard enough to see a jumper in the daytime until he pulls his chute.
He studied the maps. The areas surrounding the towns were sparsely populated. Unpopulated, really. They were in the middle of a large farming area. You couldn’t ask for a better landing zone.
The following morning, at breakfast, Rex outlined a modified plan to Lane. “What do you think?” Rex asked, as he sipped on a small cup of espresso coffee.
“I don’t know. There are a couple of small issues. One, I’m not sure if I can come up with a parachute rig and NVGs on such short notice. Secondly, how high do you need to be?”