Deliberate Harm

by J. R. Wolfe

  “You were grieving and blaming yourself, even though the raid on the medical clinic wasn’t your fault or something you could’ve prevented.”

  “I left the clinic. I left Imma. I should’ve stayed.”

  “You were lured away, Portia. They lied to you, and you had no way of knowing it at the time.”

  “I should’ve seen through the lie.”

  “Maybe, but you’re not superhuman. You’re just like the rest of us.”

  Before she could respond, the lights in the room dimmed. A grainy color picture appeared on the screen.

  “You need to see the proof. Otherwise, you’ll go to Zimbabwe and get yourself killed.”

  She watched the video, unable to look away. “You were playing this when I first arrived.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “Look at the prisoners. You obviously can’t see their faces because of the bags over their heads, but you can see their legs. The one standing in the middle is clearly white and the other two are black.” He paused the video, so that it appeared as a still photograph. “The prisoner in the middle is Imma.”

  Portia’s heart skipped a beat. She studied the person closely.

  The prisoner’s general attributes were similar to Imma’s. She could’ve been five feet eight inches tall, Imma’s height, but it was hard to know for sure. Accurately guessing her weight was impossible. Her build was also a mystery, since she wore a stained T-shirt that draped her upper body with the looseness of lounging pajamas.

  “Who recorded this?” Portia asked.

  “An asset we placed in a resistance group that’s been fighting the government.” Riley pressed a button on the remote control, and the video began playing again. “He used a cell phone we gave him.”

  “Their heads are hooded,” she said. “You can’t positively identify any of them.”

  “Imma has a tattoo, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  He selected a section of the video and magnified it, focusing on the left ankle of the female.

  Portia leaned forward, scrutinizing every pixel. “She has a tattoo there, like Imma, but it’s not the same design as—”

  “It’s a heart with a P in the center,” Riley said. “Come on, Portia. You must see it.”

  Portia twirled her scarf in her fingers and looked even closer. He might be right. Was this prisoner Imma? “You can’t clearly see the shape of the tattoo,” she said. Was it stubbornness that made her say that? “It could be a heart or the sun. It’s hard to tell.”

  Riley shook his head. “Our asset’s cover is as a civilian lackey for the military. He was tasked with disposing of the bodies. All three prisoners were burned and their ashes scattered, but before the bodies were cremated, our informant looked for anything that might reveal their identity, including distinguishing marks. He described the tattoo you’re seeing now as a heart with the letter P in the middle.”

  “So those bastards killed Imma. There’s no doubt.”

  “No doubt at all.”

  The euphoria of hope Portia had felt when thinking that Imma had survived was now replaced by a bitterly fresh heartbreak. Her shoulders momentarily quaked, but she somehow managed not to cry. That could wait until she was home with a glass of Dovgan. She slowly rose as though she were lifting a heavy weight. She silently damned Stanislaw Jager for being callous and herself for being a fool.

  “I need to go,” she said.

  “Of course,” Riley said, “you’ve seen enough.” He pushed a button on the remote control. The video began to play again. “Shit, sorry. I meant to turn this off.”

  Portia spun around. “That’s all right. I suppose I should see the rest.”

  One of the male prisoners dropped to his knees, sobbing, while the other man stood erect, apparently resigned to his doomed fate. Imma remained standing, her knees violently shaking. Her entire body began to quiver. She separated her feet ever so slightly in an effort not to fall. Her head hung to her chest and bobbed in fits. The rapid fire of machine guns ended her agonizing anticipation of death. She collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

  Portia tottered to the screen. Reaching up, she touched Imma’s bullet-riddled body. “I so wanted to believe you were alive. That someday we’d be together again.” She clamped her eyes shut, not wanting to see or feel any more. Yet, the pain of loss was worse than ever.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Come on, Chief Horn.” Altan tried hard not to sound irritated, but he was. All he wanted her to do was prioritize Stanislaw Jager’s background check. Sitting in a stiff armchair, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the edge of her desk. “You’re supposed to let me look at the database. Those are AD Saxe’s orders. Why not now?”

  “Those aren’t the orders.” Jackie’s jaw clenched tightly. “He told me to expect you sometime today. Sometime today doesn’t mean this minute.” She swiveled her chair toward two large computer monitors and began pounding away on her keyboard.

  Altan’s face warmed. “This afternoon I’m being briefed on a new assignment, and I won’t be able to break away.”

  “We’re all busy. I’m reviewing a report that has to be completed by noon.” She kept typing. “My analyst on this project has been overworked. I received a draft of the report later than our internal deadline. Plus, the network was down earlier this morning, so this matter needs my immediate attention.”

  “I understand, but—”

  “Good. Thank you. We’ll meet later this afternoon.”

  “Didn’t you hear what I just—”

  Altan stopped himself and stroked his stubbled chin. His dear girlfriend, no ex-girlfriend, was clearly worn-out.

  Her arched eyebrows were sewn together with stress, and her short black hair, normally carefully styled and sleek, appeared windswept. The bags and dark circles underneath her chestnut eyes dominated her smooth ebony skin and long eyelashes. Her heavy use of blush on her high cheekbones, an obvious attempt to portray a healthy look and cover up her fatigue, just didn’t work. It merely made her look careless, which she certainly wasn’t. Only her manicured red nails showed off any of her usual pizzazz.

  “I know how hard you’re working,” he said.

  She sighed and turned toward him. “This is the first time I’ve seen you in weeks.”

  “I know.”

  “You broke things off, but I didn’t expect you to ignore me.”

  “I know. That wasn’t my intent. I’ve been—”

  “Busy?”

  “Yes, but it’s not an excuse.” He ran his fingers through his brown hair. “It’s actually really stupid.”

  “You told me that you’re not ready to get married.”

  “Not yet.” Their last and final night of lovemaking whizzed through his mind. She’d been an alluring dream come true. Still, he wasn’t ready for the “I do” commitment.

  “I’ve had time to think about our argument.” Her voice was hushed. “I pushed the issue too hard.”

  “Maybe…and I overreacted, but obviously now isn’t the time to talk about this in depth.”

  “Agreed.”

  “But I’d like to talk.”

  “Me too.”

  He leaned forward. “Why don’t we do dinner?”

  “Sushi?”

  “Perfect.”

  The dreary, white walls of the room suddenly seemed bright. He smiled and leaned back again in the chair, but a sudden realization undid all the luster. His wide shoulders slumped. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Our dinner will have to be in a couple of weeks.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I wish it were different, but I’ll be in Europe. Please understand.”

  She picked up the gold pen and began twirling it in her fingers. “I understand. I’ll wait. Don’t worry.”

  Two soft knocks at the office door interrupted Altan before he could respond.

  A glass-partitioned wall gave an unobstructed view of the CIA counterterrorism data unit. The room was a hub of activity, lined with wor
k cubicles that housed overworked and underpaid analysts staring at computer monitors, talking on phones, or holding intense conversations with other colleagues.

  Near the closed door of Jackie’s office stood a tall, skinny kid with short dark hair who was wearing a nicely pressed blue suit, white shirt, and apple-red tie. He stared down at the gray carpet, his youthful forehead wrinkled in elderly lines. He was probably a student intern.

  “Come in,” she said.

  The door swung open. The kid blustered inside, holding a letter-size envelope. “My apologies for interrupting, Chief Horn.”

  “It’s fine, Cole.” She extended her hand. “What do you have?”

  “AD Saxe said to give this to you right away.” The kid swiftly handed the envelope to her as if it were a hot coal.

  “Thank you,” Jackie said. “Is there anything else?”

  Cole vigorously shook his head. “No, ma’am. Nothing else.” He pivoted as if he were a soldier on duty, gave a shy, half-smile to Altan, and promptly walked out of the office, closing the door behind him.

  Jackie snatched a folded yellow piece of paper out of the envelope and began reading. Her eyes narrowed momentarily, but the long, angelic lines of her face remained calm. Reaching down, she placed the note in a paper shredder and turned on the machine.

  Altan watched her every move with an unblinking stare. “Is that our boss telling you to let me look at the database?” he asked.

  “It’s your lucky day in more ways than one,” she answered. “AD Saxe has ordered that the background check on Stanislaw Jager be given top priority.” She turned toward the two computer monitors.

  Altan leaned forward. “You’re going to do the background check yourself?”

  “Yes. These budget cuts have downsized our operations, and my staff is treading water right now.” She began typing on the keyboard at a furious pace.

  The monitors soon showed rows of mug shots. All were men, nicely dressed, and none smiled.

  “Hold on,” she said, pointing to one of the photos. “This guy has several aliases and one includes the name Stanislaw Jager. Is that your man?”

  “It could be.” Altan popped to his feet and went around the desk to stand behind her. “Enlarge the picture,” he said.

  With a few quick keystrokes, she increased the photo’s size to an eight-by-eleven. Jager’s brownish-yellow eyes and angular face with sharp features, from his long nose to his pointed chin, were unmistakable. His dark hair, with specks of gray, was cut just above his shoulders and pulled behind his ears. While his expression was serious, his eyes glowed with pleasure.

  “It’s him,” Altan said. “His hair is longer than when I saw him, but it’s him. This is Stanislaw Jager.”

  “I’ll pull up his bio.” Jackie punched several keys on the keyboard.

  Bold text appeared over Jager’s portrait and began flashing, “NOT ACCESSIBLE.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Altan ran his fingers through his hair. “Can you find out who he is? Is he a foreign spy or maybe he’s one of our operatives?”

  Jackie didn’t respond. Instead, she continued striking keys on the keyboard, but despite her determined attempts, “NOT ACCESSIBLE” remained glued on Jager’s photo.

  “There’s nothing more I can do.” She looked at Altan with a creased brow. “I’ve tried different workarounds, but the background information on Stanislaw Jager is above my grade.”

  He knew what this meant. Jackie was a counterintelligence division chief. If she couldn’t access this information, then Jager was working for them on a high-level undercover mission only those in the nosebleed ranks knew about. A disturbing thought next crossed his mind—shouldn’t Riley know about Jager? Perhaps, but perhaps not, he realized.

  A jittery excitement began to overtake him. He walked to the other side of the desk and paced back and forth. If Jager had been an undercover agent for the CIA, could his story be true? Was the intelligence wrong? Could Imma be alive? “I need to talk to Riley immediately,” he said.

  “AD Saxe is in a meeting,” Jackie said.

  Altan stopped pacing. “Where?”

  “The fourth floor conference room. He gave orders not to disturb him for any reason.” She stood. “Don’t worry. I’m meeting with him later today on another project. I’ll tell him about Jager’s identity. He’ll need to go through the chain of command to see if this file can be declassified now that Jager is dead.”

  “If they don’t declassify the file, Jager’s identity will remain tightly sealed.”

  “That’s protocol.”

  “How long will it take to get an answer?”

  “It could take weeks.”

  Altan’s heart sank. If Imma was alive, she needed help in hours. Not in weeks.

  CHAPTER 6

  Portia lay motionless on a portable massage table, face down and naked except for a floral-design sheet covering her backside. The hands kneading her neck and shoulders were strong, assured, and delightfully welcome.

  A rush of tingling delight electrified her body. She closed her eyes and found herself imagining the feel of Imma’s soft fingers running gently through her hair and the tip of Imma’s tongue tracing her lips all the way around. Then they’d kiss with such abandon and passion that they’d float together in each other’s arms, as if the laws of gravity no longer applied to them.

  But what was she thinking? Her fiancée was dead. Last week, she’d seen the video of the execution. How could she forget?

  “Are you all right?” Mai asked, now focusing on Portia’s shoulders. “You’re really tight.”

  “I’m fine.” Portia nibbled on her lower lip.

  “Why don’t you relax? It’ll help you to let out the stress. You’ve been through so much.” Mai placed her mouth close to Portia’s good ear and whispered, “I’ll do anything to make you feel better. What would you like?”

  Portia’s eyes popped open. The flickering flames of candles danced with operatic cadence on the cream walls of her apartment. Her father’s papal-like gaze, captured in an eight-by-ten inch color photograph taken of him when he was a Marine in the Vietnam War, stared at her. He stood in front of a tent, holding a Winchester pump-action shotgun and wearing dog tags, black jungle boots, and standard olive fatigues that swallowed his willowy build. His clean-shaven face was ruggedly handsome befitting a seasoned soldier, and his lips were fixed in a solemn line as though every ounce of joy had been squeezed from him. His wavy brown hair, cut short over his ears, and hazel eyes, a mixture of golden-brown and green, were her features almost to a T.

  Falling into a cavernous sorrow, Portia picked up a shallow wine glass from the side table and drank a buttery chardonnay like it was water. “You know, I never really knew Walker,” she said. “He managed to survive the Vietnam War, but he died when I was four years old.”

  “Was Walker your father?” Mai asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t know that. How did he die?”

  “He overdosed on pain killers.”

  “I’m sorry, dear.” Mai straightened into a stiff statuette. “Is that what’s bothering you? Are you missing your father?”

  “How can I miss something I never had?” Portia managed to keep her voice light. She set the wine glass on top of the table and turned on her side to face Mai. Propping herself on her elbow, she said, “I’m missing something, though.”

  “What?” Mai asked.

  “My massage. Don’t I pay you by the hour?”

  Mai’s eyes, the color of pepper, rolled with irritation. It was only the slight upturn of her red lips that indicated she was more amused than mad. “You’re impossible.” She ran her fingers through Portia’s shoulder-length hair. “You need a haircut. Come by the shop tomorrow, three o’clock, it’s the only time I have open. I’ll do highlights too.”

  “Highlights? Why?”

  “You’re gray.”

  “Impossible,” Portia said in an amused tone. “I’m too young.”

&
nbsp; “You’re not that young. You’re almost forty, but you’re still beautiful.” Mai parted her lips slightly in a come-get-me way. “You only have ten more minutes. What would you like me to work on?”

  Portia’s heart fluttered. Should she take the bait? “That’s a good question,” she finally said, still unsure of what to do, but curious where this playful banter could lead. “Do you have any suggestions?”

  “Hmm,” was all Mai muttered. She tilted her oval-shaped face to the side. Her skin was velvety smooth while her thick black hair, cut in short jagged lines, shimmered with a devilish spark. “Why didn’t you return my call from the other night?”

  “What call?” Portia asked. The thrill of the moment was disappointingly quashed into a cat-and-mouse game.

  “I left you a voice mail message on your cell phone. Didn’t you get it?”

  “No, I…well, I had a difficult time last week after I went to a fundraiser for ZIRP, and I met…no, I saw…well, I wasn’t myself…Okay, yes, I did get your message.”

  “You could’ve paid me the courtesy of a return call.”

  Portia stared at the smooth surfaced ceiling of the living room. She had purposely ignored Mai’s message. After seeing the video of Imma’s execution, she had ignored everything except her favorite bottle of booze.

  “Our relationship is complicated.” Portia sat up without looking at Mai. She didn’t care that the floral-design sheet was wrapped around her waist, revealing her bare breasts.

  “So?” Mai said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “All relationships are complicated. You focus on the hard parts, not the simple ones.” Mai sat on the table and placed her hand on Portia’s thigh. “Think about what we have in common,” she said.

  “Okay.” The two and a half glasses of wine Portia had drunk were beginning to loosen her inhibition and drown her memory. “What do we have in common?”

  “You like suspense books and movies,” Mai said with a sexy glee.

  “That’s true.”

  “I do too.”

  “I see. So that makes us—” Portia narrowed her eyes teasingly. “What?”