by Vince Milam
The long flight offered ample time for writing on the laptop, producing the Global Resolutions report. Sent from New York, dark web. No names. Players were identified as US interest, Russian interest, Rebel leader, etc. A report framework had been established years before. I would supply answers, not identify people. Global Resolutions, satisfied, accepted valid information over detailed operations. The report did outline Russian intent, with backup information and qualifiers. I’d never know if the Suriname information had been requested by a single entity, or if my client would auction it on the underground market. Not my concern.
I changed the wound bandage during the long New York layover and tried contacting Bo. No response, but no worries as he answered to whatever whims circled his head at any one moment. I also went deep web and sent Jules a message, requesting a Clubhouse rendezvous the next morning. A quick check-in, feed the Clubhouse, and gain currency for future transactions.
Her reply—short and surprisingly prompt—read 1100. Eleven a.m. tomorrow I’d play intelligence poker in Chesapeake. I called Mom and chatted for a while. I was reminded again of the available young lady in Charleston she’d vetted, and then spent time with CC, laughing and teasing.
Boarded the last leg to DC and counted on Uber for a Chesapeake, Virginia, ride. I wouldn’t crash at a hotel until three a.m. Or so I thought. The CIA had a different schedule planned.
A far cry from statuesque, she carried an air of surety, confidence, and intellect. An expressive face and a quick, genuine smile. Somewhere near thirty. She flashed the Company ID as I exited the Jetway.
“Mr. Lee. Agent Abbie Rice.”
She extended a hand; we shook. A pixie haircut, the tips of her ears pointed. Large horn-rimmed glasses. I never knew if such eyewear was worn out of necessity or as an affectation implying seriousness, professionalism. She also had a small crease scar along her neck.
“Can I have a word with you?” she asked.
“Sure. A word. Maybe two.”
“Great!” Her smile flashed, she turned on her heel, and set a brisk pace toward the airport exit. I followed.
Outside, she continued apace, turned at regular intervals, and checked my tag-along, smiling. She moved with a hidden strength, small, wound. Martial arts. She compensated for her size with practice, muscle memory, and knowledge. Standard CIA protocol. And another layer underneath—athlete. A jock. At the short-term parking, she opened the door of a plain black sedan and signaled me to join her in the front seat.
“Agent Rice.”
She’d climbed behind the wheel, reversed actions, and now smiled over the top of the sedan.
“Yes?”
“A word. Not a drive.”
Her face fell. “Oh. My apologies. I meant at Langley.”
The CIA headquarters. Twenty miles away. I remained still, silent.
“Given your background,” she said, “I just assumed.”
I’d visited Langley twice before, both times as an active member of Delta Force. Operational meetings and debriefs. As a civilian, I had no obligation to go there now.
“Nope. We can talk here.”
“Here?”
“Standing up, in your car, over coffee. But not Langley.”
Her wheels turned and weighed. Her instructions were no doubt specific. Bring the guy to headquarters. I’d put her in a tough spot.
“Sorry if it causes problems. But there’s not a lot to say,” I added.
She chose the car. I added coffee.
An all-night diner greeted us five minutes from the airport. On the way, she discussed my background and hers.
“First, I want you to know how much I, and the CIA, appreciate all you’ve done for our country. Amazing operations,” she said.
A pleasant change from Mr. Agricultural Liaison’s perspective. “Delta was unique. And I was honored to be a part of it.”
“Unique? To say the least. I mean, holy cow.”
There was a bit of a starstruck-groupie thing going, and the little ego massage was appreciated. But the possibility she was playing me like a Stradivarius remained lodged in my thought process. “I’m the first Delta you’ve met?”
“Yes. At least one-on-one.”
“So what’s your background, Agent Rice?” I asked. “And if we’re going to have a chat over coffee, how about Abbie and Case?”
“That works.” She swerved around slower traffic. “Colorado born and raised. Master’s degree. Harvard Kennedy School, International and Global Affairs.”
A live wire, she drove fast, aggressive.
“Tae kwon do?” I asked.
“What?”
“Your training.”
“Oh.” A quick glance my way, another bright smile. Cute. Cute and intense and lacking the aloof Company demeanor. “Judo. Judo and krav maga.”
The Israeli fighting discipline. Short violent exchange, brutal, eliminate the opponent’s threat.
“Potent stuff.”
“It works,” she said. “I was also good at tennis but lacked the size. Couldn’t take it to the top level.”
“Well, I’m sure the Company is glad you’re on board.”
“Then biking. Road races. Turned out I’m a good climber.”
“Good for you.” I had no clue where the hell she was heading.
“Kicked ass when we raced the hills.”
“Got it.”
“Good runner. Distance. And swimmer. So combined the three. Triathlons.”
“I’m sensing a competitive streak.” Boy, howdy. It rang loud and clear.
“That’s swimming, biking, running.”
“Got it.”
“I still compete,” she said, stirring her coffee.
“Do tell.”
She paused and reloaded. I took the opportunity and tried a different direction.
“Family?” The drain of arduous travel, relief at home-turf proximity, a desire for real connectivity? Hard to say what prompted my inquiry. A roundabout approach to ascertain her relationship status? She didn’t wear a ring. The Rae guilt pang came, went, wafted back, lingered. But so did my interest in Abbie.
Identifying the allure of her specific attributes challenged me. Each time the attraction pull came, it baffled me. Sometimes it was a nose crinkle when a woman smiled, a raucous laugh, an attitude. Movement, assuredness mixed with vulnerability, the way a woman walked or addressed me. Never could figure it out. But it existed, and Abbie had it. The indefinable combination of attitude, inflections, looks—put together as a whole, she had a strong appeal. Maybe I’d been isolated too long, or maybe she struck a chord because the attraction was right, natural. And maybe she came across as the opposite of the black widow, Nika.
“I’m not allowed to talk about that,” she said. A wry smile, another quick glance. Damn, she was cute.
“You hurt?” she asked.
“Why?”
“You’re shifting in your seat.”
“Butt wound.”
“Suriname?”
“I’m not allowed to talk about that.”
We both laughed. A diner back booth offered seclusion. The seat—hallelujah!—well padded. We both ordered coffee, black. I added bacon and eggs. The diner night shift had mopped the floor, and disinfectant hung in the air.
The pull of old obligations, real, coupled with male interest, also real. If asked by my government, I’d supply. To a point. As with Global Resolutions, no names, only solid information. I didn’t mind sharing with the CIA. They kept information close to the vest. I still considered us the good guys, albeit with a hell of a lot of gray areas. My Swiss clients never asked if I’d revealed found information to the US government. Perhaps they assumed I did when the stakes rose this high.
The great exception for the whole business relationship was slaughter, terror. When encountering those facets of global chaos, crafted and pushed by evil individuals and organizations, I’d damn sure name names. Including the ones I’d personally taken out. As ugly as Suriname had gotten,
it didn’t near reach the level of abject horror. Where did I draw the line? Gut feeling, shaky moral compass, pain and suffering. A Case Lee line, and no apologies.
“So, we received word,” she said. “From Suriname.”
“I bet you did.”
“You covered your tracks well.”
“Not that well. Here I am.”
A half smile returned. “Well, we do have certain tools.”
Face-recognition software at major airports, for one.
“I gave Hines hard intel. Actionable.”
“I know. And we appreciate it.”
The waiter brought more coffee. We waited for his departure.
“Can you tell me about Joseph Hoff?”
“Didn’t chat long. Things got dicey.”
“Hot-fire situation?”
“You’d know about those.”
She reacted and touched the scar on her neck, a light flush rising. “Cyprus.”
“It’s hardly noticeable.”
True enough and immediate regret on my part. She clearly considered it a big deal. Abbie shifted to a more professional footing. A stupid statement to highlight a minor flaw in her appearance. I considered a mention of the jagged stitches in my posterior to offset the faux pas.
“Tell me about Hoff’s military equipment.”
“Chinese. Type 92 armored personnel carriers.”
“And?”
She’d gone full CIA debriefing mode. Damn. “Mishmash of small arms. Chinese, US, Belgian, Israeli.”
“Other heavy equipment?”
“Just pickups.”
“Odds of success?”
She requested my assessment of Hoff’s army taking over the country. “Fifty-fifty.” The other facet of rebel help, the outside training, was left unmentioned. I didn’t have a feel, a grip, on the military trainer. Most likely Russian.
The bacon and eggs arrived; I dug in and waited for the big question. It came right away.
“Funding source?”
I had torn allegiances revealing the global player behind it all. If identified, the CIA was liable to pour on the juice, reinforce the current regime with military advisors and hardware. Or the Company might wait, assess, and validate my assertion. Then apply political and economic pressure.
And nothing against Hoff, who appeared a decent enough guy. He’d come across as legit. As legit as most rebel leaders. Then again, he had tried to kill me.
“Russia.”
There was no point beating around the bush. The naval port issue they’d discover for themselves. It wouldn’t take long. A land base for military elements was self-limiting. A large airfield possible, but still static. Immobile. A naval base, including aircraft carriers, made more sense. The analysts at CIA headquarters would suss it out within days.
She’d acquired the big fish. The answer. The wheels turned as she stared into the coffee, unblinking. Abbie would arrive bright and early at headquarters and file the report. She’d caveat the hell out of it with “he contended,” and “reasonable degree of assuredness.” But a career-enhancing enchilada nonetheless, and Agent Abbie Rice would receive kudos and documented accolades. Good for her.
I ate, she cogitated, and the waiter did another flyby, refilling our coffee mugs.
“Can you validate?” she asked.
A mention of the Russian military-grade communications used by Hoff and the rebels would trigger the NSA to search and find the appropriate frequencies. Then eavesdrop, monitor. But they’d figure it out without my help.
“Short answer, yes. There won’t be a longer answer.”
We locked eyes. “It would help a great deal if you did a full debriefing,” she said. Their original intent. Haul my butt to Langley. A well-lit room, conference table, video recording. It wasn’t going to happen.
“I’m a civilian, Abbie. Tourist. Wandering investigator.”
The CIA had no jurisdiction inside the United States. They’d have to engage Homeland Security and the FBI for any arm-twisting of Case Lee. My reply had established a boundary and emphasized the bureaucratic turf.
“And that’s that?” she asked. Signs of a smile returned. It was good to see.
“Actually, no. Could use your help.”
“Is this the part where I swoon and say ‘Why, anything for Mr. Lee?’” Delivered with a big smile. We both laughed.
A fine line, mixing business with pleasure. But the upcoming request addressed a big issue—removal of the target painted on my back.
“Consider it quid pro quo. I need a reliable source inside.”
The idea was so outlandish—asking for a private mole in the Company—that she continued smiling, stared through the diner’s window at the dark Virginia night, and shook her head.
“Bit of a reach, isn’t it?” she asked.
“For information regarding me,” I said. “Some upstream swimming. Identify a paymaster.” A limited request, personal.
“I’m all ears.” She used a hand to flip a pointed ear toward me, eyes bright behind her horn rims.
“I have a bounty on my head.”
She sat back. I’d provided a twist and new information. Others in the Company might know of this, but odds were stacked high, it wasn’t on anyone’s priority list. Buried, page thirty-seven of a filed report, long forgotten. The Russians, on the other hand, were very aware of the price on my head. Just ask Nika.
“A bounty.”
“Me and some friends. Million bucks a head.”
No elaboration was required. Abbie would figure out the Delta Force connection.
“Chunk of change,” she said.
“Yes, it is.”
“But since you’re a civilian, we really can’t operationalize any effort. Unless it affects our mission.”
A jab in my direction, delivered with good humor, and accepted the same.
“Name and location of the bounty’s sponsor. I’ll take it from there.”
“I bet you would.”
“Can you blame me?”
“No. No, I wouldn’t blame you. And I’m very aware of what you’ve contributed during your Delta Force stint.”
“So you’ll do it?”
A glance back inside her coffee mug and an oversize eyewear adjustment.
“I’ll sniff around. That’s all I can do.”
“If you find a trail, will you follow it?”
“No promises.”
“I’ll take it. Thanks. The intel has to be accurate. Deadly accurate.”
A hard stare her way, a returned nod. There was no mystery regarding the action I’d take.
Between Abbie Rice and Jules, an answer—an individual—might crop up. The importance of accuracy couldn’t be overstated. Because once identified, I’d find and kill the sponsor. Without remorse or hesitation. A brief flash of Rae sprawled on the floor of our Savannah bungalow filled my head.
“Again, no promises,” she said.
“Got it. Again, thanks.”
“Consider it a double quid pro quo.”
It came unexpected, and I went on high alert. The past had seen too damn many games played out, and I’d walked away from the gaming table. She’d invited me back.
“I can’t say I’m all ears.”
She edged over the table and entered my personal space.
“Since this,” she said, rubbing the neck crease, a remnant of a grazing bullet wound, “I’ve been pulled from field ops. Turned into a bureaucrat. Desk jockey.”
“Okay.”
“Can’t stand it.”
“All right.”
“I want to get into what you do. Private contractor.”
It came from left field, a zinger, ridiculous. I sipped coffee to cover my surprise. She stayed in my space, eyes drilled through owl glasses.
“I’ve thought this through,” she said.
“Got my doubts about that.”
“Look, Case. If we’re going to work together, you’ll have to understand my commitment. My sincerity.”
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br /> “We’re not going to work together.”
“You need to listen.” Delivered like a schoolteacher.
“You need to understand. Not going to happen.”
Statement ignored. “I have the talent, a range of field ops you don’t possess. Tradecraft.”
“La, la, la.” I plugged my ears, attempted humor.
“Stop. I’m serious.”
“I was going to ask you out. A date.”
She sat back, sipped coffee, and reloaded. Then back across the table, invading my space again.
“You’re good enough looking, I suppose.”
“Good enough? Glad I hit the high bar.”
“Great character. No question.”
“And?”
“And not my type.”
“What’s your type?”
She ignored me and moved on. “And it would disrupt our partnership.”
“There’s no partnership.”
My statement was ignored, again.
“So I’ll root around. Maybe find the source of the bounty. Prove myself.”
“I’m revoking my request. I’d rather go on a date.”
“Too late. Now think of it. Your connections with a paying client. The two of us in the field. A potent pair.”
This had slipped off the rails at an amazing speed. The waiter poured more coffee, and I laid a twenty on the table. Exit strategy. Abbie held strong appeal, but it was time to fold my cards and walk. Man, I was tired, and the toothache in my butt pounded.
“Let’s mull it over. My way of saying no. No, Abbie.”
“Tell me the downside.”
“Getting killed.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“I am. And looking to retire from my current vocation.”
“All the more reason for a partner. Continue the tradition.”
“There is no tradition.”
“And we’ll be unstoppable. Think of the skills I bring to the table. Skills you don’t have.”
My hackles rose. Beyond the absurdity of her career plan, I still sat on top of my game. A few skills lacking here and there, but damn few.
Agent Abbie Rice and I were through, for the moment. As we exchanged contact information and a nebulous agreement to keep in touch, she tossed a final pitch.