“Thank you.”
“You look a hell of a lot better than you did on that balcony though. I really thought I’d lost you.”
“You and me both,” he said, then walked up and put his arm around her shoulder. “I’m a little surprised you are here though.”
“So am I,” she said as her gaze returned to the circle of mourners listening to the burial service. “I didn’t think I’d come.” Then her head shook. “I don’t know why I’m here.”
“You lived through a lot, Jana. What you went through wouldn’t be easy for anyone to handle.”
She smirked at him. “What I went through? You got shot.”
“That’s right. I did, didn’t I? I almost forgot.”
“Very funny. Well, no, it’s not funny, actually.” Jana shook her head. “Your job . . . I can’t decide whether it’s the most noble thing I’ve ever heard of, or the craziest.”
“A little of both, I think,” he said through a laugh.
“Agent Fry told me you have an adult son. He also told me about your daughter,” Jana said to him. “He said she died when she was just nine months old? I know it was a long time ago, but I’m really sorry you lost her.”
Stone swallowed.
“He also said she and I share the same birthday. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“My God, I’m exactly the same age, down to the day? I think I’m starting to understand why you looked out for me so much.”
“Yeah, well when I saw your birthdate, it brought back all those feelings.”
“I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you and your wife to go through.”
“It’s what eventually drove us apart,” Stone said through a long exhale. “It was just too much. We were both just so hollowed out.” He looked at the funeral service in the distance, and Jana could see the mist forming in his eyes. “My son’s just a little older than you. He lived with his mom until he was old enough.” Stone exhaled. “I hate cemeteries. I never used to though. I used to think it was so fascinating to walk through an old cemetery and look at the headstones. That probably sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”
“Not crazy at all.”
“My friends thought I was obsessed with death or something. But it was just the opposite. I was fascinated with life, with how these people lived. You see a lot of interesting things on an old headstone. The hand-carved lettering, the fonts and choice of words, the names and how long they lived. Anyway, the morning they lowered that tiny little casket into the ground with my little girl in it . . .” Stone stopped.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Jana said.
“Anyway, I’ve never wanted to look at headstones since.”
A long silence ensued as they watched the service continue.
“Jeffrey Dima’s arraignment is tomorrow,” Stone said. “Thanks to you, the attack was stopped before it could wreak havoc on the global oil market.”
He turned and looked across the grassy expanse at an FBI surveillance van parked in the distance. The van had been positioned in just such a way as to provide the best vantage point to photograph the funeral’s attendees through high-powered optics. The photographs would later be scanned using facial-recognition software in an attempt to identify any other potential members of the terror cell.
“So this was all about oil,” Jana said, a look of blankness in her eyes.
“The virus they embedded into their software would have given them complete control over every oil-drilling rig and pumping station in the Middle East. Every one that was owned by American interests, that is. But it was bigger than that. They not only would have been able to shut down oil production by controlling the software, but they would have also inflicted catastrophic physical damage to the facilities by shutting down valves and then pushing massive oil pressure onto them. A few hundred oil facilities would have been taken offline.”
“I guess what we did was important.”
“Important? Jana, in week one, gasoline would have gone to eight dollars per gallon, possibly over twelve dollars per gallon after that. It would have buckled the American economy.”
“And from their investments, the Dima boys, along with Al-Qaeda, would have profited, and I helped them do it. I bought all those oil futures contracts for them. That’s the insider trading the SEC could never pinpoint. The terrorists knew the oil market would skyrocket after they disrupted production, but no one knew how they knew.”
“That’s right. And what do you think Al-Qaeda would have done with several billion dollars in freshly acquired assets? They would have used that money to launch terror strikes against us. It would have funded any and every operation Osama bin Laden ever dreamed of. Do you realize with that kind of money, they could literally buy a nuclear warhead?”
“Who would sell them a warhead?”
“Don’t be naive. When the USSR broke apart, do you think all their nukes were accounted for? Hell no. A few of those things made it onto the open market. Believe me, a billion dollars can buy just about anything.”
They watched as the funeral continued.
“I’m going to have to testify at trial, aren’t I?” Jana said.
Stone didn’t answer.
She continued. “Go into open court and testify against Jeffrey Dima and the Al-Qaeda terror network.” She shook her head. “I feel like I’m going to live the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.”
“It’s up to you, Jana. What you do or don’t do, it’s all up to you. It’s your life.”
“Another flower delivery showed up at my doorstep.”
“Let me guess,” Stone said, “a single white rose?”
“Yes. A white rose is most often thought of as symbolizing new beginnings. But it can also symbolize I’m thinking of you.”
“Jeffrey Dima’s sending you a message. Even while he’s in prison, he wants to intimidate you, let you know he knows where you live, and he can get to you. Jana, even without your testimony, he’s never going to see the light of day again.”
They both looked toward the funeral service and watched as a casket containing the body of Rune Dima was lowered into the ground.
Jana nodded toward the service. “Stone?” she said through a tight throat. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about this.”
“Hey, look at me. You aren’t supposed to feel anything about the death of Rune Dima. You’re just supposed to get on with your life. You owe the Dima cousins nothing.”
“Is it that simple?” she said.
“Your old boss is being laid to rest right over there. You spent months working side by side with him. It turned out he was a bad guy, that’s all. It will take time to wrap your head around it. But you’ll figure it out.”
“He seemed like such a good guy. He always treated me so well. I really thought Jeffrey was the one in charge, and not Rune. Jeffrey was always calling the shots, it seemed. But I guess I was wrong. Rune intended to kill both me and Jeffrey. I just don’t know how I’m supposed to trust anymore. . .” Jana’s voice trailed off. “What am I supposed to do now? Where am I supposed to go?”
“You’re a young woman. You have your whole life in front of you. But I think you and I both know what path your life is supposed to take.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I know.”
28
One Week Later
Avon Street Apartments, Queens, New York.
“Mrs. Merlinsky,” Jana said, “I know I’m breaking my lease early. And I know that means I’m supposed to lose my first and last month’s rent deposit. But please understand, if I stay here, they’ll come for me.”
“I don’t understand,” the old woman replied in a thick Polish accent.
“I was working for the FBI, Mrs. Merlinsky. I’m going to testify against a bunch of felons in federal court, and they want me dead. It's not safe for me here.”
“That is not my problem,” she said as her head tilted high into the air.
Jana’s shoulders slumped. “Mrs. Merlinsky, do you have a family?”
“Of course I do,” the woman said, a certain pride in her voice. “A daughter.”
“And if your daughter got into trouble, through no fault of her own, and she was in danger from bad men, wouldn’t you want her to get as far away from that place as possible?”
“Yes, but . . .”
Jana held the woman’s hands. “Please, Mrs. Merlinsky.”
The woman paused, but then nodded her head. “Of course I would, dear.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you.”
“I’ll return your rent deposit. You get far away from here, dear. And good luck to you.”
Jana closed the apartment door behind her and stared at all the sealed cardboard boxes piled against the kitchen wall. She shook her head at the sight. “All my worldly possessions,” she laughed. “Here it is, my life in a box.” She looked around at the tiny studio apartment. “I never did wipe the protective layer of dust from the tops of those kitchen cabinets.”
She picked up the first few boxes and loaded them onto a hand truck, then wheeled them out to the Silver Honda Odyssey minivan double-parked on the street out front. It might be tight, but the boxes should all fit, she thought. When the van was finally loaded, she went back inside and took one last look at the apartment, then got in the van and headed up Avon Street to Grand Central Parkway. She hopped on 495 past the Flushing Meadows National Tennis Center until she eventually wove her way onto I-95, the one highway that would take her the bulk of the way to the start of her new life.
The highway miles ticked by with uncharacteristic speed, and Jana thought about what this new life might bring. Another new place where she knew no one; an entirely new beginning. Her eyes drifted to the passenger seat of the van, empty with the exception of one item.
“Why the hell did I keep this?” Jana said as she picked up the single white rose. The rose had yellowed and dried over the past few weeks. She held it in front of her. “A calling card. A calling card of a terrorist named Jeffrey Dima. It’s time to cut this loose.” She lowered the window, then flung the rose out onto the open highway. She left the window open and felt the strong blast of cool air rush into her long hair. She felt new, she felt alive, like she was embarking on the next great adventure.
***
A week later, Jana sat in the waiting area outside a closed office door with her legs crossed.
A receptionist pressed a button on her desk phone, then spoke into her headset. “Yes, sir. I’ll send her in.” She leaned over her desk and said, “Miss Baker? You can go in there now.”
Jana exhaled in one long breath. She stood and straightened her double-breasted jacket, then smoothed her skirt. She pulled her shoulders back and walked toward the office door and placed a hand on the door handle. Her eyes traced the words written on a bronze plaque mounted to the door. It read:
Office of the Director of the FBI
Steven Latent
Don’t screw this up, she thought, and pushed the door open.
Brilliant light pouring from the glass wall behind Director Latent silhouetted him where he stood. He walked around his desk and extended a hand.
“Welcome to the bureau, Miss Baker.”
Jana placed her hand in his and vice-gripped it. “Thank you, sir. But I don’t understand. I haven’t interviewed for the position yet.”
Latent returned to his leather chair. “Of course you have. You think we normally get the chance to field-test our people before they come to work here? No, we’ve got all the information we need to make a decision, and I wanted to tell you personally. You put your life on the line for your country, Miss Baker, and your country thanks you for it. Not to mention that I’ve got Special Agent Chuck Stone’s personal recommendation here, and the fact that we’ve already done your background check.”
“I’m very excited, sir.”
“You understand you’ll start out as a surveillance specialist? You’re several years younger than most of our applicants for special agent. You’ll have to get some experience and prove yourself if you want to advance to that role.”
“Yes, sir.” Jana was so nervous she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Miss Baker, are you familiar with the saying, some people have a job, others have a career?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, what you’re stepping into is neither a job nor a career. What we have is a lifestyle. Understand the difference?”
Jana thought about the statement for a moment. “I think I do, sir.” She nodded her head. “I’m ready, sir. I won’t let you down.”
“You’d better not. Oh, but there is one matter I’m afraid we have to discuss.” His forehead furled. “It’s a matter of utmost importance; something that must be handled before we can extend you a formal offer.”
“And what’s that, sir?”
“I understand you asked Uncle Bill if he would lend you his wife’s minivan for the move down here? Ah, he’s going to want that back first.”
_____________________
An excerpt from the sequel, The Fourteenth Protocol
Get a copy of The Fourteenth Protocol, book 2 in The Special Agent Jana Baker Spy-Thriller Series, today in paperback, audible, or ebook form by visiting books2read.com/u/meqJzm for links to your favorite retailer.
Next, read an excerpt:
The Fourteenth Protocol
Over 600 reviews:
Six years have passed and Jana has just graduated from the FBI Academy at Quantico, Virginia . . .
A terrorist on the loose, a country in panic, and time is running out.
After an eleventh terrorist attack, the American people are at a breaking point. But when a fledgling special agent stumbles across the one clue that could break the case wide open, she uncovers a secret CIA spy operation and becomes the only asset that can stop it.
Come inside this spider's web of espionage, conspiracy and intrigue, and witness young Agent Baker's struggles against evil and her own fears as they take her to the edge of the abyss; and the clock is ticking.
---------
An excerpt from The Fourteenth Protocol:
Thirty minutes later, the couple left the club and walked down Peachtree. If ever Cade felt like he was being watched, now was that time. Six sets of FBI snipers were deployed on rooftops, each sniper with a complimenting spotter, an agent trained to assist with visualization of targets and communications with other agents. Binoculars focused down from different angles. Lots of encrypted radio chatter was ongoing as groups of agents communicated back and forth. But to Cade and Jana, there was only the whooshing sound of a passing bus, a car horn in the distance, and the dull hum of music permeating from nightclubs in the neighboring blocks.
There were four additional hostage rescue teams deployed at three hundred and sixty degrees around the building. Each team pointed a laser mic at various floors, listening for anything unusual. The agents of the Hostage Rescue Team were keyed up. In their vernacular, they were cocked, locked, and ready to rock. These guys lived for this stuff. To an HRT member, this is what it was all about; this is where they earn their pay. For some HRT agents, this was their first live deployment, although every one of them came out of a military background and had extensive experience in live firefights in the Gulf War.
Jana continued to hold Cade’s hand and led him down the wide stairwell off Peachtree Street to the MARTA tunnel below. The tunnel crossed underneath the road to the train platform on the other side. It was somewhat deserted at this time of night, with the exception of a few people waiting on trains, and one Agent Kyle MacKerron, seated on a marble bench at the far end adjacent to the north-bound train line. Kyle wore an Atlanta Braves ball cap and carried a messenger bag over his shoulder. Inside that bag, there was certainly no laptop computer or notepad. Instead, Kyle’s MP5 subcompact machine gun lay quiet, hoping beyond hope not to be needed. Cade, one of his best friends, was walking into harm’s way, along wi
th a fellow agent. The tough part was Kyle couldn’t do anything about it. It wasn’t like they could avoid this situation. No, the danger was there, and it was something that had to be done. Cade and Jana would have to face it alone.
Kyle watched them from the corner of his eye as he listened to his earpiece, awaiting the go-code from HRT that Cade and Jana were cleared to enter the building. Once they entered, the twenty-five-minute countdown would begin, and there would be no turning back. HRT watched for the building’s guards to change shifts.
Since Kyle was from Savannah and sported a southern drawl, the HRT operators honed in on him like a bug to a windshield; to them he seemed to be tough as nails, and they liked him from their first meeting. To lighten the tension of such an intense operation, HRT loved to invent amusing radio codenames for each other. Kyle would be identified as Savannah across any radio chatter. And it seemed only fitting to use call sign Paula Deen, in reference to the famous Savannah chef, to identify Agent in Charge Murphy. Although he too was tough as nails, he had a well-known passion for cooking—something his men kidded him about. He across the street on the twelfth floor of the Atlanta Financial Center and would be personally overseeing all ground operations.
Then came a crackle in the encrypted radio signal as Kyle’s earpiece barked to life. “Savannah, cheese grits are ready for the oven,” chirped the radio. “Savannah, cheese grits are ready for the oven.” It was Kyle’s signal to give the green light to Cade and Agent Baker to make their entrance.
Jana and Cade busied themselves looking at the rail line map. Kyle removed his baseball cap and ran his fingers through his hair—their signal to enter the building. Without glancing in their direction, he tapped his watch, a reminder that the twenty-five-minute countdown had started. Should they fail to exit the building in twenty-five minutes, the Hostage Rescue Team would breach the structure with what they called extreme prejudice. The pair turned and walked through the double sliding doors. To Kyle, the two looked perfectly natural and relaxed, but his insides were eating him alive.
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