Dead Ringer

by V. B. Tenery

  A faint glow in the distance heralded the arrival of his driver. Minutes late, a camouflaged vehicle pulled up next to the plane.

  A grim-faced driver in black jeans and T-shirt exited and marched to where Thomas stood. “Wallace?” he asked, in a voice like rolling thunder.

  Thomas nodded and threw his bag into the back seat.

  Enroute to the camp, he clenched his teeth to keep them from clattering as the heavy vehicle bounced on the rutted gravel road. The darkness would have been impenetrable had it not been for the vehicle’s wide-view headlights. The forest lent a sense of security. A man could disappear in the trees and ground cover and live off the land indefinitely, unlike his Middle Eastern destination, where he’d have to dig a hole in the sand to find a place to hide.

  He wasn’t convinced that only he could undertake this assignment. There must be hundreds of operatives who could do the job—a simple hand-off of information. Paul was holding out on him. He’d learned spooks were not always trustworthy.

  A premonition of unpleasant things to come settled on the back of his neck and stayed there.

  The driver entered a code into the security gate, and they drove into the compound. A weatherworn cabin appeared in a distant clearing, the outline hazy through the dust-streaked windshield. Two long, low frame buildings sat approximately twenty-five yards on each side of the shack, probably housing for the trainees and a mess hall. One of those bunks would be his new home for the next three weeks.

  Thomas’s experience with training camps had never been pleasant. Usually in the middle of some deserted area in a bare-necessities facility and run by strict leaders who seemed to think pushing the trainees to their limits and beyond was a good thing. So far, this one seemed right on target.

  The vehicle came to a halt in front of the cabin, and Paul Redford strode forward to meet him. Dressed in khakis and a yellow polo, he looked cool and calm despite the sweltering heat and humidity. “Come on inside. I want you to meet the head man. Then you can get settled in.”

  Thomas went into a large room with heavy, masculine furniture surrounding a massive stone fireplace. An oak bar sat tucked neatly in the corner.

  A balding man with massive arms and slim hips stood to greet them.

  “Thomas, meet Clint Monroe, head of this unit. Clint, this is Thomas Wallace.”

  Instead of reaching out to shake hands, the trainer-in-chief sent a tight-fisted punch towards Thomas’s gut. A split second before the blow landed, Thomas blocked the assault and succeeded in deflecting some of the blow’s force. Otherwise, he would have been on his knees gasping for air.

  Before the man pulled his arm back, Thomas grabbed it, brought it up behind Monroe’s back, and then gave the unit chief a forceful shove.

  Thomas straightened and glared at Monroe. “You greet all your trainees this way?”

  Monroe turned around, straightened his shirt, and smoothed the sides of his hair. “It saves time. Lets me know how much work I have to do.”

  Maybe Paul was right. He had gotten soft. Seven years ago, he would have seen that blow coming while it was still a thought in Monroe’s mind.

  

  CIA Training Camp, North Carolina

  Tuesday, May 30

  Thomas had forgotten how brutal training could be. Sleep eluded him the first night. Heat, insects, an uncomfortable bed, and the snoring of his fellow trainees made it impossible to sleep.

  When early morning came, the drill instructors cared not at all about his sleepless night. Rousted from his bunk before daylight, he and his comrades had only minutes to get dressed and into formation outside the barracks.

  Thomas glanced at his watch before putting it in his kit. Four thirty. The Army gray T-shirt and shorts he’d been issued were insufficient against the early morning chill. Probably sixty-five degrees, but island living had made him sensitive to cooler weather. That would soon change. Late May in North Carolina meant high temperatures and high humidity. Both would kick his backside before the day ended.

  Ground fog hovered around their ankles as he and his eleven barracks-buddies fell into line. The drill instructor, Sergeant Booker, smiled.

  Thomas cringed. He was in for a long day.

  Over the next hour, Booker called into question the group’s lack of character, IQ, and manhood, all in colorful language. Comforting to know drill instructors hadn’t learned any new profanity since his first experience with training camp. Booker ran through his entire repertoire before the real fun began.

  “You girls hit the dirt. I want one-hundred push-ups, one hundred sit-ups, and then we’ll finish up with a five-mile run before breakfast.”

  By the time they returned to the mess hall, Thomas was too tired to eat, but he stuffed down every carbohydrate he could manage in the time allotted, something he’d learned at his first boot camp. He’d need every calorie before the day ended.

  “Hey, grandpa,” a young man about Thomas’s size, with close-cropped blond hair, called out from the end of the table. “What’re you doing out here? We didn’t know they were recruiting senior citizens for us to carry.”

  Thomas threw him a dark look and returned to his food.

  A recruit to Thomas’s left yelled at the big mouth. “You’d better try to make friends with the new guy, Reid. Maybe if you get in trouble, he’ll help you. Cause none of us are coming to your aid.”

  “Shut your pie hole, Redwing. I won’t need anybody’s help.”

  Why was it that every group of men had at least one loud-mouthed bully needing to be taught a lesson? It never failed.

  “Just remember, old man. If you fall out, you can just lay there. I’m not helping you.”

  Thomas shook his head at the arrogance of youth.

  One of the men in his barracks identified the blowhard as Brad Reid, supposedly the son of a Washington power player. When Reid failed to get a response from Thomas, he moved on to harassing the youngest member of the group, cursing and bullying the kid named Cory at every opportunity.

  At thirty-four, Thomas was hardly ready for retirement, but he had at least ten years on most of the other men in the group. The kid didn’t worry him. He could handle the jerk when the time came. But it was a distraction he didn’t need. He’d barely swallowed his last bite before the DI blew a whistle, and they were back on their feet to repeat the morning’s performance.

  The afternoon sessions came easier, but not easy. He was getting into the rhythm. The calisthenics were torture, no question, but he was motivated to finish and get on to the job at hand. Finishing the training was as much about mental toughness as physical strength. The human body had a miraculous ability to take profound abuse but a stubborn will not to give up was also required.

  He ran and swam for miles at home on the island and had done so since leaving the Company. And he worked out weekly with a martial arts trainer in Edinburgh. The reflexes weren’t as sharp as they once were, but that would come back quickly.

  Thomas couldn’t fail the course even if he fell on his face. Redford would see to that. But to Thomas it was as much a contest against himself as it was against what was thrown at him. He would finish, and he would finish well. For him there had never been any other option.

  

  CIA Training Camp, North Carolina

  Friday, June 2

  The fourth day they gathered after dinner for the final exercise drills. Thomas was last in line and closest to the building.

  “Wallace, get my clipboard. I left it in my office,” the DI yelled.

  Thomas double-timed it to building two. He found the clipboard and headed out the door when a movement on his bunk caught his eye.

  Putting a grass snake in your roommate’s bed was a juvenile summer-camp trick. Booker was waiting, and he didn’t have time for this, but he couldn’t wait until the recruits turned in for the night. With three quick steps, he reached his bunk, jerked back the army-green blanket, and quickly back-peddled.

  It wasn’t a grass snake
. It was a water moccasin.

  Before the snake could coil, Thomas took a carefully aimed whack at its head with the clipboard. The first blow killed the viper, but he added six more just to be sure. If a thing was worth doing, it was worth doing well. Almost killing a snake wouldn’t cut it.

  Thomas wiped snake guts off the board, cleaned up the mess, and then hurried back to the drill line.

  “What took you so long? Have to use the little girl’s room?”

  “Had to find the clipboard. It was under the desk. Must have fallen off.”

  An hour later, drills ended and they all hit the showers.

  Brad paid particular attention to Thomas.

  It confirmed Thomas’s suspicion. Shower over, Thomas stowed his gear and slid into bed.

  His gaze on Thomas, Reid climbed into his own bunk.

  The man let out a scream that rattled the rafters and tumbled out of bed, trying to stand and run at the same time. “S-Snake! There’s a snake...” He dashed to the barracks door and ran into Booker coming in.

  The DI flipped on the lights. “What’s going on, Reid? You lost your mind?”

  “O-One of these guys put a snake in my bed,” Reid said.

  Laughter rumbled through the building and Reid’s face flushed red.

  Booker marched to the bunk and jerked back the cover. The dead water moccasin lay coiled on the sheet.

  Booker picked the snake up by the tail, looked at Reid and then at Wallace. “This isn’t a joke. A moccasin can kill. That’s no laughing matter. If I find out who did this, you’re out of this unit.”

  Booker wasn’t stupid. He suspected Reid brought the snake into the barracks. He also probably knew Thomas had put the dead snake in Reid’s bed. Booker sent Thomas a look, obviously realizing why it had taken him so long to retrieve the clipboard earlier. But Booker wouldn’t mess with the son of a Washington powerbroker. The DI took the trophy with him and switched off the lights.

  Redwing called out in the darkness. “Reid, you scream like a girl.”

  13

  Wallace Island, the Aegean Sea

  Friday, June 2

  With Thomas away, days on the island fell into a slow, easy rhythm. While Daniel studied in the classroom, Mercy spent her mornings planning meals and visiting some of the island families.

  With the children making regular visits to the villa for playtime with Daniel, the islanders seemed to be thawing towards her. Mothers often came with their children and stayed for refreshments, sharing a part of their lives with her. Her favorite was Rita Garrett, Frank’s wife.

  Idleness wasn’t part of Mercy’s gene pool. And there were things that needed improvement, even in this idyllic setting.

  An idea tickled the back of her mind. She caught Fergus at lunch in the kitchen and pulled up a chair to run the proposal past him. Thomas appeared to have a lot of faith in the old Scot’s opinion.

  “Fergus, what would you think about having a clinic set up here on the island to take care of minor emergencies?”

  He looked unsure, probably suspecting she had an ulterior motive. “Why would we need that? We’ve done fine without one.”

  She poured a glass of iced tea from the refrigerator, and sat back down. “Minor broken bones, burns, and cuts happen here all the time. Things that really don’t need a hospital, or even a doctor. Something a nurse could handle. Not to mention all the time it takes to fly into Izmir to the hospital. Something minor could become serious in that length of time.”

  “And where would you find this nurse, lass?” Over the past weeks, Fergus had become more relaxed around her, a gradual shift from cold disdain to tolerance.

  “Are you kidding? We’d advertise. With the beauty of this place, we’d have people standing in line for the position.”

  “Aye, I can see it might be a good idea. But that’s a decision you’ll have to wait for Thomas to make when he returns.”

  “Good. I thought as much, but I can lay out my concept in the meantime. Thanks, Fergus. I value your opinion.”

  She could swear the old Scot’s chest expanded a couple of inches.

  On the fun side, she and Nanna brainstormed for a staff picnic tentatively scheduled for the first Monday in September, Labor Day in the states. She would be gone by then, but they could carry on without her.

  “Nanna, we need to put together a menu. What are your thoughts?”

  “My dear, you’re talking to an Englishwoman. I know nothing about American food.” She gave Mercy a stern nod. “You’re in charge of the menu. I’ll take care of decorations.”

  “You’ve never been to America?”

  “Once to Washington D.C. During the winter. It was lovely. Snow covered everything and with the stately buildings and monuments lighted for the holiday, it looked like a Currier and Ives Christmas card.”

  “How long have you lived on the island?”

  The old woman’s brow came together, and then her expression cleared. “Thomas told me you had an accident and lost some of your memory. You should have told me.” She took a deep breath. “I came here after you and Thomas were married. You lived in my family home in London before your wedding. Thomas didn’t want to leave me alone there, so he invited me to live here. I sold the estate and moved. The family home was much too big for an old woman and you would never have lived there. I’ve been on the island a little over seven years now.”

  “Are you happy here, Nanna? Do you ever miss London?”

  “Yes. I sometimes miss the seasons, but this climate is much better for my arthritis. Winters there can be brutal.”

  Mercy reached over and hugged the old woman. “I’m glad you’re here, Nanna. You’ve been a good influence on Daniel.”

  Nanna smiled and patted her hand. “I’m also glad, my dear.”

  

  Wallace Island, the Aegean Sea

  Saturday, June 3

  The following morning, Mercy left her room and met one of the maids at the landing. “Hi, Lily. Do you know where I might find Nanna?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I believe she went to her room after breakfast.”

  “Thank you.” Mercy followed the corridor to Nanna’s suite. The door was open, and she knocked on the door. “Nanna, may I come in?”

  Nanna walked into the sitting room and waved her in. “Of course. Come on back to the sunroom. I was just doing my Bible study for the day.” Nanna wore white slacks and a blue silk blouse the exact color of her eyes, every hair in place in a neat chignon.

  “How do you always manage to look so majestic and well groomed?”

  Nanna gave a throaty chuckle. “You make me sound like a well preserved mausoleum. It takes years of practice and hard work.”

  “This is my first visit back here. It’s lovely,” Mercy said. Her gaze roamed around the suite decorated in Nanna’s favorite colors of pastels, lavender, blue, and seashell pink. Half of the sunroom’s roof and two walls were glass. Heavy wicker furniture with a sofa and two chairs formed a seating area. One wall was devoted to family portraits.

  Mercy stood in the doorway. “Don’t let me disturb you. I was just looking for some company. Daniel is doing his exercises with Fergus, and I was at loose ends.”

  Nanna placed a marker in her Bible and closed it. “You’re not disturbing me at all. I can always pick up where I left off. I ordered tea about ten minutes ago. I’d love for you to join me.”

  “I’d like that. Do you mind if I look at your family photos?”

  “Not at all. They’re your family, too. And although you may not remember them, you’ve seen them many times.” Nanna stood and joined her beside the portrait gallery.

  “This was your mother and father on their wedding day.” Christopher Montgomery was a handsome man, a male version of his mother. Dorothy Montgomery was blonde and beautiful, as expected.

  Nanna pointed to the next picture. “And this was mine and your grandfather’s wedding portrait.”

  Mercy’s gaze zeroed in on Nanna in her wedding dress
with its long train. This could be Traci in the vintage bridal gown. “This looks just like—”

  “You?” Nanna said. “Yes, everyone says that. And I’m always flattered.”

  A couple of hours later, Mercy and Daniel dived into the pool and swam laps, with Daniel beating her handily.

  Fergus kept watch over them from close range these days, occupying a chair nearby.

  Laughing and exhausted, she and Daniel climbed out of the water and grabbed their beach towels.

  “Get down!” Fergus shouted.

  A body slammed into Mercy, knocking her and Daniel to the deck, landing on top of them as a sound like angry bees whizzed by her head and smacked into the nearest palm tree.

  Fergus grunted and jumped to his feet faster than Mercy thought possible. “Quick, lass. You and the boy get behind that large urn. Hurry! The shooter has a laser sight rifle.”

  Another whiz and rocks sprayed into the air just inches away. “Run, lass, unless you have a death wish.”

  Grabbing Daniel’s hand, she shoved him behind the plant and squatted down, keeping their heads behind the cover of the urn.

  Daniel was pale and trembling, but he didn’t cry.

  Fergus took cover behind another urn, his left arm limp and bleeding at his side. He pulled a two-way radio from his pocket. “Frank, grab some men and get up to the villa. Someone’s taking shots at us from the north bluff overlooking the pool. Hurry!”

  Static crackled and then Frank’s voice sounded. “I didn’t hear shots.”

  Fergus’s face wrinkled with pain. “He’s using a silencer. Get moving, man.”

  In five minutes, Frank, Mac, and two other men she didn’t know stormed the area. “Fergus, where are you?”