Dark Secret (DARC Ops Book 1)

by Jamie Garrett

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good man. Now let's get out of this young lady's hair.” He plopped his heavy arm around Chuck's shoulders. “She needs her rest. By the way, you didn't get too close to her did you? She's quite sick.”

  Chuck looked confused, as if it wasn’t a completely legitimate question.

  The senator quickly withdrew his arm.

  Chuck laughed. “No. I didn’t.”

  “No? You're not getting infected over here?”

  “Nah, I wish.” Chuck winked at Mira, thoroughly curdling the strawberry yogurt she'd had for lunch.

  It was only when they finally left her alone, Chuck and Langhorne departing the office for another media event, that Mira felt real queasiness take hold at the pit of her stomach. The kind that comes just before an employee roots around their boss' personal files.

  Her first look behind the curtain was an accident, an innocent stumble into Langhorne's dirty laundry which facilitated her playing dumb to Chuck, an easy and guilt-free endeavor. But now, armed as she was with a USB stick and the flimsiest of alibis, the cold calculation of what she was prepared to do filled her with fear and exhilaration. And a suspended angst, too, as Mira would have to wait after the act to know if it had been one of treason or valor. Given the ramifications of each, Mira wasn't sure which outcome she preferred.

  She almost preferred neither, by doing nothing. And for a moment she was content. Maybe content enough to get up and leave without putting her job, life, or liberty on the line. But when she thought about Jackson, and the rest of the world that would doubt her abilities—but mostly Jackson and that gorgeous, patronizing smile which followed her reading of the decrypted text—she suddenly warmed with indignation. It was a familiar irrationality. One which gave way to impulses such as powering up the senator’s laptop and opening a browser window.

  With the appearance of the Hart Senate System login screen, Mira had a moment of quasi-clarity. Was it vindication? Or self-sabotage? She was quickly approaching an invisible line. She knew it. It was a line that could only be straddled once.

  Just as Mira prepared to cross over, logging on as the senator to wade through the murky depths of his Africa files, her pocket vibrated.

  It was a shock. And then a relief.

  She was further relieved when reading the name of the caller, someone she hadn't spoken with in months.

  “Dad?” she answered, pulling her other hand away from her laptop.

  “Hey, little gremlin. How are you?”

  Dad had a way of making her feel anywhere from six to sixteen on any given call. Today she was six, and she didn't mind it one bit. “Ah, you know, just a little tired,” she said, slouching back in her chair. “Maybe a little sick. I'm good, though. Everything's good.”

  “Can you talk right now? You're on your break, right?”

  “Uhh...” Personal calls in the office were mostly prohibited. Then again, so was stealing secret files from a U.S. Senator. “Yeah, it's fine.”

  “Mira? You sure?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Don't worry.”

  “Hmm.” He sounded unconvinced. “I better be brief, then.”

  “Daaad,” she groaned. “It's fine, come on. How are you?”

  “I'm very good, thanks. Contract ends in two weeks, so I'll be even better then.”

  “I bet.”

  “So that's why I called. I wanted to see if you'd be around when I fly in. I'd love to get together.”

  “Me too.”

  “I mean it. And sooner rather than later. As soon as possible. ”

  “Dad, I mean it too.” Over the years she'd grow more and more unsettled with how she sounded when talking to her father. It probably wasn’t so much her tone regressing as it was the frequency of her noticing.

  She heard him sigh, and then say quietly, “Sorry I haven't called sooner.”

  “Dad, stop.”

  “You sure everything's good back there?”

  Whenever her father was away on business, especially in the seven years since her mom’s passing, Mira had become accustomed to glossing over the troubles of her life lest Dad catch the next red-eye. But today she was tempted to buck the trend.

  “Yeah...” And then she followed a lie with a truth. “I'm excited to see you.”

  “Me too. But how about work? Work's going okay?”

  Mira thought for a moment of retreating into her inner six-year-old, her inner Daddy's-little-gremlin throwing a wild tantrum about how unfair it all was. The stupid job and the stupid computers and stupid, stupid, poopy-head Langhorne. She'd cry hysterically until a lack of oxygen, and then wake up feeling refreshed and ready for more ice-cream.

  “It’s fine.”

  “Well, alright,” he said. “But don't you hesitate to call your Dad anytime you need to. Got it? We should probably talk about things when you're not at work anyway.”

  Mira laughed innocently. “Yeah, probably.” When she swiveled her chair, she noticed someone standing at her cubicle entrance. “Alright, well sounds good,” she said, watching Abram make the international hand signal for hang up, you fucking idiot.

  “Yep, sounds good,” said Dad.

  “They're coming back,” Abram whisper-shouted.

  But Mira's father kept talking. “You be good out there. Stay out of trouble.”

  Mira promised him, said goodbye and ended the call.

  “Sorry,” said Abram. “Didn’t want Langhorne to see you on your phone like that. He should be here a few minutes.”

  “Thanks, but it's okay,” she said with a polite smile.

  “Huh? Excuse me?”

  “I'm not on the clock. Just here to grab some things.”

  He looked almost disappointed.

  A second after Abram walked off, Mira logged on to her boss's account and began the scavenger hunt, searching through directories like she'd just been looking for some misplaced translation work. That's all she was doing, looking for work. She didn’t feel nervous, not even while inserting the USB stick. Just looking for some work to bring to her apartment. She was on sick leave. Didn’t you know that?

  His folders were as messy as his desktop, but she was able to weed most of it out by searching for a few decrypted key-terms. What interested her most was a file titled “mos_dan_gam,” where she found several documents that seemed to contain the infamous encryption.

  She was surprisingly calm and methodical with her search, as if she'd actually been looking for this or that nondescript work-file. And she almost began to believe the lie, until a certain booming voice reminded her otherwise.

  It finally caught up with her, the pounding heart, the profusely sweating armpits, fingers that could barely stay on a track-pad, and a dissociative out-of-body feeling that became vaguely terrifying.

  Having neither the time or mental capacity to actually read anything, she hastily dragged and dropped the entire folder into her USB.

  And then footsteps...

  And breathing.

  And Mira logging the fuck out.

  “A bomb threat. A friggin bomb threat. Can you believe it?”

  Mira spun around to see Chuck walking towards her with another man. He was black and middle-aged and in traditional East African garb – a long white shirt with gold and red embroidery atop baggy white pants. He was bald, but had curly tufts of white hair along his chin.

  “They canceled the whole thing,” said Chuck as he approached her cubicle. “Drove three blocks and they turned us around. This guy was stranded.” He was pointing to the African.

  “How do you do,” the African said to Mira, whose heart was still racing.

  “This is Hanisi,” said Chuck. “He's an aide to the Tanzanian Embassy. Hanisi, Mira.”

  Mira nodded politely, still not sure if she'd been hallucinating. The office had certainly looked different after her frenzied file copying, as if her vision was too sharp. The office seemed too clear. The light too harsh.

  “Chuck says you speak Swahili,” Hanisi said with
a warm smile. “This is true?”

  “Uh, yeah,” she said, in no mood for Swahili. “A little bit. Sorta.”

  “Sorta?” said Chuck. He looked at his friend and said, “Don't worry. I didn't bring you here for sorta.” He waited for his friend to laugh. “Go ahead and talk to her. She knows it.”

  “I don't want to trouble you, Mira,” said Hanisi. He was very soft-spoken. “You know Chuck, he is... pushy.”

  “Hakuna matata,” said Mira, slipping the USB stick into her purse.

  “What?” said Chuck. “Hakuna matata? I know that one. Lion King, right?”

  “Lion king?” asked Hanisi. “Who's the lion king?”

  Mira smiled at the African. “Habari ya mchana, Hanisi.”

  He smiled back and said, “Nimefurahi kukutana nawe.”

  “Okay,” said Chuck. “I don't know those ones.”

  Mira and the Tanzanian made some small talk while Chuck's eyes glazed over. Hanisi asked her how she learned Swahili, and why it sounded like Kimwani, a dialect of Zanzibar. He asked how often she'd have to translate Swahili for Langhorne. He was pleasant. But full of questions.

  “Are you guys talking about Embassy Row yet?” asked Chuck who garnered an annoyed glance from Hanisi.

  “No,” said Mira. “What about it?”

  “The Embassy Row Ball,” said Hanisi. “Are you attending?”

  It was a yearly gala hosted by the embassies along Massachusetts Avenue. In the past, she'd always dreamt of attending in a limousine and in a sleek black cocktail dress. But considering the recent events, it was the last thing Mira wanted to do. Besides, she was sick. Right? “I'm afraid not,” she said. “I'm actually going on sick leave.”

  The Tanzanian aid looked disappointed.

  “Ninaumwa,” said Mira.

  “But maybe you'll feel healthy next week?” he asked. “The ball isn't until next week.”

  “Well, then I'm going on vacation.”

  Chuck laughed at his friend. “Don't worry, Hanisi. She shoots me down like this all the time. She's an expert at it.”

  “What?” Hanisi looked confused.

  “Well, weren’t you asking her to go?”

  “Yes,” he said, turning back to Mira with a smile. “Yes, I was. If you're staying in town for your vacation, then you should attend. Definitely attend. We'll pay you.”

  “Pay me for what?”

  “For translating. Senator Langhorne says good things. Very good things about your translating. And we'll pay you well.”

  “The senator will be there,” said Chuck, thinking he was sweetening the deal.

  “That's right,” said Hanisi. “And so will I.”

  The presence of Langhorne was an immediate hell no for Mira. But after taking a moment to think about the situation, and to get over the creepiness of Langhorne, the Embassy Row Ball appeared more and more a viable opportunity for intelligence gathering. And it would no doubt help Jackson. And maybe even impress him a little, the way she'd thrust herself right in the middle of the conflict and between its key players, show him she was serious. Sure, she could do a little translating between spying and eavesdropping.

  “Okay,” said Mira. “You convinced me.”

  “Wonderful.” Hanisi beamed.

  Chuck cleared his throat and asked, “What about me? Can I come and get paid, too?”

  “No, most definitely not,” said Hanisi. “Unless...” He turned to Mira. “Unless as a date?”

  Mira made sure to avoid Chuck's hungry glare. She could almost feel it eating away at the side of her face. “Most definitely not,” she said.

  “Oh vizuri.” Hanisi laughed. “You can bring a date, though. Anyone you wish.”

  Mira smiled. “I'll keep that in mind.”

  9

  Jackson

  When sitting became intolerable, or when stuck in an intolerable conversation, Jackson would get up and start pacing around his office. Today he made slow circles around his desk while a silver pair of Chinese Baoding balls rotated in his hand, their soft melodious chimes playing background to an increasingly unpleasant speakerphone conversation about a Kenyan refugee camp, as well as the surprise phone call Jackson had received last night.

  “What's the point of having you out there, Jaheem?”

  After a slight pause, the British accent of his on-again off-again Kenyan contact projected into the office. “Come now, Jackson. Really?”

  “Really. I thought you had my back.”

  “Are you having a laugh? Of course I have your—”

  “So where were you about Fofana? You totally slept on him.”

  “I warned you about Fofana, mate.”

  “Not lately you haven’t. I spent half the conversation trying to remember who the hell he was.” Jackson, rounding his desk to face the windows for the 34th time, squinted at the morning glare off a neighboring building. “The point is, I should've heard about all this from you. Not through some aid for the Kenyan Chief of Defense.”

  “I'm really quite sorry about that.”

  “Are you spending too much time at the palace, or what?”

  “Eh? How do you mean?”

  “Having too much fun out there?”

  “Fun?” Jaheem snickered. “Here? Not much fun to be had, I'm afraid.”

  The guy was a liar. Straight-up. Another of Jackson's certainties about Jaheem was the man's obsession with what he called 'the finest African Queens'. He was constantly in trouble with them, one way or another, whether it was his latest scorned girlfriend or a disgruntled pimp.

  “Come on, Jackson. You know me.”

  To say the guy was a creep was an understatement. But in the underhand world of geopolitics, sometimes a creep was called for. Operatives like Jaheem were Jackson's constant reminder that it 'took all kinds'.

  “I know you well enough to ask,” said Jackson, giving up on the Baoding balls and placing them into a small wooden box. He was no longer in the mood for practicing an ancient Chinese mediation. He just wanted to know what the hell was going on in Kenya.

  “No, mate,” said Jaheem. “It's not like that.”

  “You sure?”

  “Jackson, you haven’t been around here lately.”

  “You're right, I missed out on all the strip clubs. Care to fill me in?”

  “You want to know about strip clubs?”

  “Just tell me what's going on,” Jackson said as he flopped into his plush leather chair. He reclined back and placed two freshly-shined shoes on the desktop. “Why am I getting all these calls from Kenya?”

  Jaheem explained how the actions of Al-Shabaab, the East African wing of Al-Qaeda, had been expelling hordes of innocent Somalis. Attempting to escape the suicide bombers, assassins, kidnappers, and open-water pirates, most of the Somali civilians found themselves trekking across the Kenyan border to nearby Dadaab—the largest refugee camp in the world. Or, as Jackson often thought of it, the world's largest terrorist breeding ground. With so many lost souls, so many people with no future packed densely into giant communal tents, the place was rife with terroristic indoctrination.

  “What I can tell you, Jackson, is that they've definitely bolstered their recruitment campaign in Dadaab. And at the same time the government here can't wait to ship them all over East Africa.”

  “The terrorist recruits?”

  “Whoever. Terrorists, innocent refugees... Who can tell them apart?”

  Jackson knew who'd end up with that unfortunate job. He'd actually witnessed others doing it, a thankless job that could only be performed once, the looking into the eyes of a blank-faced Iraqi teenager who wore a suspiciously over-sized jacket.

  “And just like that, they're gone,” said Jaheem. “Who knows where. No one keeps records. So off they go joining off-shoots of Al-Shabaab in other countries, the whole thing proliferating into an organized network of terrorist cells. We'll have united factions in every country across the continent, all of it spilling out from that sodding terrorist nursery, Dadaab.”r />
  Jackson, in critical need of caffeine, smiled gratefully at his receptionist, who pushed open his office door holding his 9:30 double espresso. He removed his feet from his desk, and then sat up to lean towards the phone. “And the government's freaking out because it makes them look bad?”

  “They want to shut it down. They'd bloody hell love to. But then what about the refugees?”

  Jackson nodded his thanks to the woman who'd just placed a little white cup and saucer on his desk. There was something so satisfying about the clinking of ceramics in the morning.

  “It would be impossible. We're talking about a major humanitarian crisis. And a political nightmare. That's what would make them look bad.”

  “So it's a catch-22?”

  The receptionist handed Jackson a small, folded piece of paper.

  “Maybe a catch-33,” said Jaheem. “If that's even a thing...”

  “It's not.” Jackson unfolded her note.

  Mira Swanson @ 9:30. Refer to Matthias?

  Despite what his receptionist probably thought, and despite Jaheem's current international intrigue, he hadn’t forgotten about Mira. What he had forgotten was that both cases involved the same country.

  Jackson looked at his receptionist and then pointed down to his desk.

  Bring her in here.

  Although he had promised otherwise, he hadn't really looked into her case. Sure, he'd scratched the surface. But there was only so much he could do with such an insane premise.

  “Kenya's only option is to work with other countries,” Jaheem continued. “Slowly releasing refugees across East Africa like I said. Which brings about that whole other can of worms.”

  “Or they could always bomb the camp and blame it on terrorists,” said Jackson. “Or manufacture some internal uprising.”

  Jaheem chuckled quietly.

  Jackson found nothing funny about it. “I really hope that's not why they're calling me.”

  “Jackson, mate, I'm connected but I'm not that connected. Besides, that sounds more like the sort of shirt our countries dream up.”

  “All right, all right...” Jackson breathed a long sigh as he spun his chair to the window. He gazed down at a busy Connecticut Avenue. An MPDC squad car, with its flashers on, straddled the middle lane as it needled through morning traffic. Jackson swung back around to the desk. “So can you tell me what they want with DARC Ops? They're trying to convince me to release a bunch of my men. Boots on the ground. But this Fofana guy... I dunno.”