by Owen Parr
Jack Ryder Crime Mystery -Novella 1 & 2 The Case of the Dead Russian Spy & Murder Aboard a Cruise to Nowhere.
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And now a preview of ‘Operation Black Swan.’ An Alpha Team Spy Thriller series volume 2.
OPERATION
BLACK SWAN
An Alpha Team Spy Thriller
Volume 2
By OWEN PARR
Title: Operation Black Swan
Author: Owen Parr
Published by Owen Parr
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission from the author, except for inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
Second Edition
ISBN-10: 1519178220
ISBN-13: 978-1519178220
Copyright © 2015 by: Owen Parr
Published in United States
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental
Prologue
In 1983, a Korean Airlines 747, Flight 007 was shot down by the Soviet Union. Aboard that flight was an outspoken congressman by the name of Larry P. McDonald.
In 1976 Congressman McDonalds said, “The drive of the Rockefellers and their allies is to create a one-world government combining super capitalism and communism under the same tent, all under their control. Do I mean there is a conspiracy? Yes, I do. I am convinced there is such a plot. International in scope. Generations old in planning, and incredibly evil in intent.
David Rockefeller, in his book Memoir, said the following: “Some even believe we are part of a secret cabal working against the United States, characterizing my family and me as ‘internationalists’ and of conspiring with others around the world to build a more integrated global and political structure – one world, if you will. If that’s the charge, I stand guilty, and I am proud of it.”
“Increasingly, the Chinese will own a lot more of the world because they will be converting their dollar reserves and U.S. government bonds into real assets.”
— George Soros
CHAPTER ONE
2002 Mexico City, Mexico
“John, where are you now?” Alex asked, as I answered his call with my new gadget, a wireless headset and earbud.
“Boss, I’m at the San Angel Inn Restaurant in Mexico City,” I replied.
“Have you acquired our targets?” Alex asked.
“I am looking at three Cuban officials meeting with three Chinese officials in a private dining room,” I said, crossing my legs and raising the newspaper that I was pretending to read so it would cover my face.
“Are you exposed?” Alex asked.
“Not my first rodeo, Boss. I am hiding in plain sight. I’m just sitting in this beautiful courtyard by a historical fountain taking in some rays from the sun, and listening to the chirping of a mockingbird, actually. It’s a beautiful day here in Mexico City. Temperature of seventy degrees and blue skies. This courtyard has a perfect view of the restaurant’s L-shaped configuration,” I explained to Alex. It was probably too much information. He liked details short and succinct without a lot of flowery descriptions. But, I enjoyed annoying people, occasionally. Especially, when I’m bored.
“But, they can see you,” Alex insisted.
“They can see Father Thomas sitting in the courtyard. Not John Powers. I am wearing my priestly disguise. I’ve never been made as Father Thomas. Hopefully, no one here dies and I am not asked to administer last rites. Then, I’ll be screwed,” I replied, laughing. “I’ll call you later from the hotel, Boss.” I hung up the phone and picked up on the aroma of the red mole sauce they were serving a few yards away. Damn, I was hungry. I tended to get a little sarcastic and flippant when I was bored and hungry. Watching six foreigners eating a Mexican lunch was boring. Don’t get me wrong. This was much better than sitting at a desk somewhere analyzing something.
A waiter kept coming over and asking if he could get me anything. He had already told me about the restaurant’s historic site. He said the Florentine marble fountain next to the courtyard where I sat looking at the Cuban and Chinese officials had been the same location where horses owned by Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata had drank water in 1914. Villa and Zapata had been generals in the Mexican revolution of the early 1900s and had stopped at the hacienda to divide Mexico into north and south territories for themselves. Sitting there, I could envision these guys and their horses. I could only imagine what the smell was like then, with all the horses around this fountain. I wasn’t hungry anymore.
I had joined Alex a year ago in what was to be called Sect-Intel Group. Having developed a heart murmur after three years as an operative for the CIA and the Department of Defense in a group that will go nameless for lack of a better name, I was given a desk job. An analyst job. I wanted no part of it. No sir, not me. Sitting at a desk was not something I could do for more than five minutes. Give or take four. So, I retired, took my disability pay, and joined Alex to continue my passion for covert operations. His legal department made me sign a waiver. I guess if I croaked during an operation due to my heart, I’d better die quick because these attorneys were not going to give me shit. I signed. At thirty-two years old, I was still a free spirit and full of life. There would be time later to slow down and maybe chase that little white ball around luscious greenery with other silly clad old men.
Prior to joining the CIA, I had spent nine years with Delta Force, a Special Forces group of the United States Army. I had served in ‘Operation Gothic Serpent’ which was part of the battle for Mogadishu where two Black Hawk helicopters had been shot down in 1993. This operation had taken a toll on me just as it did on many of the Americans fighting there at that time. An operation that had been intended to take about one hour resulted in eighteen of my guys—American soldiers—dead and roughly seventy-three wounded. Delta, together with SEALs, Air Force pararescue teams, and others found us in a battle for our lives. The goal of the operation had been to capture two lieutenants of the self-proclaimed President of Somalia, General Mohamed Farrah Hassan Aidid. Thousands of Somali militiamen compounded the problems after the helicopters crashed. Two Delta Force snipers, close friends of mine, had volunteered to hold off the militia during the night until help arrived the next day. Unfortunately, the militia overran them. Another one of my guys, a Delta fighter, was killed in a mortar attack in the morning as our American forces found ourselves in urban style warfare. It was reported that somewhere between fifteen-hundred to three thousand Somalis died during the battle, but that was not enough to relieve the grief experienced by all the American personnel involved in the fierce fight. No amount of casualties on the enemy’s side would have been enough.
Now, I was part of a growing industry. An industry of private security and intelligence companies contracting with the U.S. government, other friendly governments, and private as well as public companies. The unfortunate attack on the Twin Towers in New York City on September 11, 2001 had most of the U.S. intelligence community concentrating on counterterrorism. Operations not directly involved with counterterrorism were contracted out to private firms such as Alex’s Sect-Intel Group which I had joined.
Most of the Special Forces guys pick up a call sign at some point in their service. Usually, it is one chosen for us. I had picked up the moniker ‘The Hulk’ while at Delta Force for two reasons. Although, the guys at Delta would say it was for three reasons. First, I was not hugely tall at six feet one inch. However, I must admit that I was built massively. Something that was not obvious when I was fully dressed. Secondly, for the most part,
I was a mellow easygoing guy. Although, when engaged in battle or a bar fight, I underwent a transformation much like The Hulk in the TV program of the same name. The intensity I displayed when I fought was scary. It even scared me sometimes. Nevertheless, it was inspirational to those that reported to me.
And finally, a falsehood perhaps, because, well, the ladies have told me on occasion, and I tended to agree with them, I thought of myself as a good-looking guy with dirty blonde hair down over my ears and light blue eyes, and a chiseled nose and full lips. However, the guys said I would turn green and ugly like The Hulk and just scare off the enemy. If you have ever seen Michelangelo’s sculpture of David—yes, that one, except for his privates that look a bit small in proportion to the rest of his body, especially his hands—you would have a good picture of yours truly. Again, except for my privates.
The fall of the Soviet Union had given the Cuban government cause to look elsewhere for support and military supplies. The Chinese were more than willing to ally themselves with Cuba and, hopefully, create a base of operations just ninety miles from the United States. U.S. intelligence was concerned at this turn of events and had contracted the Sect-Intel Group to follow up on a covert operation they had started.
In spite of my heart condition, I felt fine and enjoyed my work, immensely. The experiences I had while at Delta and later at the CIA and Department of Defense had been very rewarding for me. Working at Sect-Intel, while not the same as being with Delta or even the CIA, had been very gratifying . . . lots of field assignments, no one shooting at you, and best of all, no assigned desk for me at the main office. The only thing that had eluded me so far in my life was a love relationship. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve had my share of lovemaking. But the fulfilling emotion of sharing real love that I long for was missing from my life at the moment. Come to think of it, I’d never had that emotion.
Alex had branded my team within Sect-Intel as the Alpha Team. I think it was the love of his life, Julia, who was responsible for our name. In her business, the investment field, alpha was what you strived for. It was a measurement of how much you were exceeding the indices. So, the expectation for our team was always to be better that the average. I liked that. My slogan had always been “go for it”. So, it fit well with our team’s name of Alpha.
As part of my team, Jackie Allison was working with Sect-Intel. Formerly, she had been a covert operative with the Drug Enforcement Administration, the DEA. Jackie had planted listening and camera devices in the three rooms of the Cuban officials who were staying at Hotel Nikko in Mexico City. These were the same guys I had my eye on at the restaurant.
Jackie was in her early thirties, spoke three languages, had been trained as a flight engineer, and was a licensed pilot. She’d been checked out on various planes including jets. Besides all her qualifications, she was a knockout with legs that would not quit, medically enhanced breasts, and long brown hair that caressed her sensuous neck and shoulders. Her dark eyes were warm and inviting as was her demeanor. Not that I was looking or anything. Having been covertly embedded in various operations during her years with the DEA, she was a natural for this operation. Today, disguised as a maid, she had gained entry into the Cuban’s rooms and planted micro-listening and video devices throughout their rooms. The Chinese officials meeting with the Cubans at the San Angel Inn had flown into Mexico City that morning and were not staying in Mexico City. They would fly out immediately at the conclusion of the lunch meeting, and thus we would be unable to acquire any intelligence from them.
My wireless device rang in my ear. I gave it a touch with my index finger to answer the call. “Yes,” I answered.
“Father, I have sinned, and it’s been thirty years since my last confession,” Jackie’s sultry voice carried into my earpiece.
“Well, my dear, this should be interesting,” I replied.
“All set on my end,” she said, softly laughing. “Do you still have eyes on them?”
“They seem to be wrapping things up here. I am going to change out of my Father Thomas disguise and follow the Cubans. Hopefully, they’ll go to their hotel. With the amount of tequila they consumed here, they should be in no shape to do much more. From my observation, things went well. Lots of smiling and toasts after lunch,” I said.
“Great. We’re all set up at the Hotel Presidente, a few blocks from them. You and Joey are in Room 601 connecting to my and Melissa’s room, 603. Joey has set up the video link to their rooms. We have two cameras in each room, and frankly, that may give us more information than we need . . . if you know what I mean,” she said.
The third member of my team, Joey, had joined us a year ago. Joey Valentine was born in Detroit, Michigan to an African American mother on Valentine’s Day. His birth certificate read “father unknown.” His loving and protective mother and grandmother raised him. Joey showed an aptitude for computers at the age of twelve. His mother quickly exposed him to programming and writing code with the hope that would be his ticket out of the ghetto. Every day through high school, his mother would walk him to school and his grandmother would pick him up in the afternoon. Their efforts paid off when Joey graduated from high school and won a scholarship to Michigan State. He graduated from there in just three years with a master’s degree in computer science. Something that was totally foreign to me -- computers and science, that is.
His future had been bright. He told me that he had dreamed at one point of taking care of his mother and grandmother as soon as he entered the lucrative world of technology and Wall Street. His only mistake came weeks after graduating, when a local well-organized gang from his neighborhood threatened to kill his grandmother if he did not hack into a local bank and divert funds to a series of fraudulent accounts. Joey made the transfer successfully. However, the authorities tracking his breach were able to identify him. He was charged and found guilty. Appealing for mercy, his mother convinced the judge to place him on probation. The judge acquiesced and ordered probation for five years after which his record would be expunged assuming no other infractions.
Joey was skinny as a rail, baby-faced, and five feet eight inches tall. He wore large black rimmed trifocals and always dressed preppy. To me, he looked like a young scholar. This kid’s smile was radiant and engaging, a sign of an outgoing personality and somewhat in contrast to the typical nerd. He loved these assignments. He thought he was a spy.
The fourth member of my team was Melissa Harrington, or as we called her, Mel. She was twenty-two years old born in Tuskegee, Alabama. Mel had been tried as an adult for murder at the age of seventeen after she killed her stepfather. Her defense attorneys proved that her stepfather had physically abused her mother and had sexually molested Melissa from the age of fourteen years old. However, her attorneys were unable to prove that on the day she killed her tormentor, she had been acting in self-defense. I wished I had been there for her that day. I mean, I thought this young lady was special. She just got caught in a no-win situation. The case had been pleaded down to manslaughter, and she was found guilty. The judge reluctantly sentenced her to ten years in the Julia Tutwiler Prison for Women in Wetumpka, Alabama. Not a place I would want to be in. She never really talked about her time in prison. However, from what she did share, I could tell that she suffered more during her first year in prison than she had in four years at the hands of her stepfather. At least then she had her mother to console her. Learning Brazilian jujitsu, a martial arts technique designed for smaller persons and females, she vowed that she would never again be under someone else’s control and she succeeded. At just over eighteen years old, she became the protector of many young women in her cellblock. Occasionally challenged by other inmates during her last three years, she was able to overcome these confrontations and was left alone for the balance of her sentence. Mel had developed a reputation as a badass, and it served her well. She taught the martial arts to others and received her high school diploma prior to her parole. Jackie and I were also well versed in the martial arts due to our own b
ackgrounds, but Mel was having fun teaching Joey all about it.
She wore her black hair in spikes, cut very short around the sides. She was lean and muscular but not in a masculine way. At five feet six inches, with hazel bright eyes, well-balanced curvatures, and light skin, she was an attractive young lady. Internally, though, she was hardened, cynical, short fused, and ready to strike at a moment’s notice. We could tell that deep down she was a kind, tender, loving person. Her past, however, made her mask those sentiments, as the demons inside her prevailed at times. I guess we all had our demons.
Replying to Jackie, I said, “Very well. I’ll follow the Cubans to their hotel and call you to let you know. I’ll see you later.”
I got up and walked towards the restaurant leaving behind the courtyard, the fountain, and the smell of the horses. Really, it was vivid in my mind—I could literally smell them. I entered a beautiful covered patio area before stepping into the restaurant that had quite a history, as another waiter who had also kept asking me every fifteen minutes if I needed something had told me. These guys could double up as tourist guides. He said the structure had originally been built as a monastery in the 1600s, and it remained pretty much the same over the years until it had become a hacienda, and later, a world-renowned restaurant.
I made my way to the front of the restaurant through a foyer while admiring the Mexican colonial architecture. I was on my way to the restroom where I would shed my Father Thomas disguise. Once there, I immediately became aware of the strong smell of disinfectant, but I also noticed that two small figures had followed me into the restroom. Walking towards the urinal, I pretended to use it while keeping a vigilant eye on the two men.