by Brian Drake
“What about the security leak?”
“I need you focused on Zolac.”
Stiletto grinned and rose from his chair. “It can’t ever be easy, can it?”
“What would you like?”
Stiletto headed for the door. “A big arrow and a neon sign saying ‘here is the bad guy’.”
“Maybe someday.”
Stiletto said good-bye and left the office.
AFTER STILETTO’S departure, General Ike pressed a button on his telephone. A voice came over the speaker.
“Yes, sir?”
“My office please, David.”
Fleming sat back and waited. They had a leak somewhere. Traitors were nothing new, unfortunately, and the Agency certainly had its fair share. He had not been present to experience the Ames or Hanson affairs, the most recent atrocities, but he knew many who had. The scars never healed no matter how many years went by, because the traitors were friends. Colleagues. One knew their families. The damage didn’t end when they were locked away.
Or worse.
The office door opened. McNeil entered and sat down without being told. A covert ops veteran, he’d only taken the chief-of-staff job after losing his left leg during an assignment. He walked so well with a prosthetic limb nobody could tell he had it from the knee down unless he wore shorts.
General Ike said, “We have a problem,” and told him about the security leak.
“There’s already gossip about it,” McNeil said.
“Compile a list of everybody who was in on the arrangements. I want polygraphs and surveillance. Check financial and travel records and anything else you can think of.”
“Okay.”
“Do not use our own people for the surveillance. Use contractors. They won’t be recognized.”
McNeil started to rise. “Anything else?”
“Not now.”
McNeil left the office.
Fleming stared at nothing for a long time. He’d have to brief the DCI next. He didn’t look forward to the conversation.
Chapter Four
DIRECTOR OF Central Intelligence Carlton Webb had an enviable office with a window. He did not have an enviable job. Webb knew all there was to know about Agency operations. Such “privilege” brought burdens not everybody was equipped to handle; Webb appeared to handle them just fine, having sat in the DCI chair through, so far, two administrations. In his mid-60s with gray hair, his attention did not waver as Ike Fleming gave him the update.
A man named Leo Tattaglia sat to Fleming’s left. His nemesis. The paunchy political hack did not approve of the General or his “cowboys.” He wore a scowl as Fleming spoke. He served as Webb’s assistant director, and Fleming dreaded the day he ever took over Webb’s chair. Fleming knew if Tattaglia ever had the chance to close down S.A.D., he would.
Fleming concluded his remarks.
Tattaglia jumped in. “Sounds like Stiletto didn’t do his job.”
“This has nothing to do with Agent Stiletto’s performance, Leo,” Fleming said. “It’s because of him that we’re certain Miller was snatched instead of rescued.”
“What’s the point of snatching Miller?” Webb said.
General Ike explained about the Delta Nine sale and his theory of Miller’s possible role. He also mentioned initiating the internal investigation to find out who betrayed knowledge of the travel route.
Tattaglia objected. “You’re using contractors, more wild cowboys, to carry this out? Do you see the folly, sir?”
“Should we do nothing, Leo?”
“We never should have grabbed Miller the way we did. A much quieter rendition would have been more appropriate.”
“Wasn’t my question, Leo.”
“We’ve investigated internally before, using our own people. Why waste more taxpayer money using contractors?”
“We don’t know who we can trust,” Fleming said.
“Oh, but we can trust mercenaries?”
Webb said, “I’m afraid I agree with Ike, Leo. General, how many suspects are we looking at?”
“At least four at this time.”
Webb thought a moment.
Tattaglia said, “We need to keep this in-house. How do we know one of these contractors won’t hold back unless we pay more?”
“That’s never happened and I doubt it will happen this time,” the General said. “You know it, Leo. Our contractors are former agents or ex-military and they’re loyal to this country.” To the DCI: “And if I may add, sir, if we had moved Miller by helicopter instead of a ground convoy, we might not be having this conversation.”
“It’s my fault?” Tattaglia said. “Me and my ‘bean counters’ you people so despise?”
“If the shoe fits.”
As Tattaglia sat up, Webb jumped in. “Enough! Leo, you’re excused.”
Tattaglia glared at Fleming a moment, stood, buttoned his suit jacket and left.
Fleming sighed.
Webb said, “You know better than to let him get to you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And using contractors isn’t exactly legal. The F.B.I. should have the case.”
“It’s enough of a gray area that we can skirt it, sir.”
“You’d be fired for saying that to anybody else.”
“You know it’s the correct move, sir. For now.”
“Carry on. Keep me informed.”
Fleming left the room.
AS THE elevator carried him down to his sub-basement office, General Ike began to think the unthinkable. He stopped at McNeil’s desk. McNeil looked up from paperwork.
“Add another name to the list,” the General said.
“Who?”
“Tattaglia. But no polygraph. Strictly surveillance.”
“Do you think he did it?”
“He wants us gone. A failure of this magnitude may give him ammunition he needs.”
“But would he go so far as to betray an operation and get men killed?”
“He made the call to not use a helicopter to transfer Miller. Whoever betrayed us had plenty of time to set up while Scott was on the Bataan, and they knew the route.”
“Then we need to include me and the DCI, sir.”
Fleming didn’t even pause his train of thought. “Right now, you and Scott and the DCI are the only ones I trust.”
McNeil nodded. “I’ll get it done.”
General Ike returned to his office. He did not feel good. A lump sat in his stomach, like a case of indigestion, and he felt a headache coming on. As he swallowed two aspirin with a glass of water, he sat and reconsidered McNeil’s remark. Maybe the chief-of-staff was right. They needed to check everybody. But McNeil couldn’t investigate himself.
General Ike picked up the phone. It felt heavy.
Chapter Five
SCOTT STEERED the rented Jaguar F-Type Coupe along the twisting two-lane road leading to Monte Carlo’s Cairo Resort, a large casino/hotel with Egyptian-style architecture. Off on the left, ocean waves slammed the coastal beach, the bright sun creating a shimmer on the water.
It felt good to be back in the field. He had the cover of a rich international mercenary looking for work, and he had to convince Zolac and the NWRF crew at the resort to believe his story. They’d be suspicious, and his other job was to not be exposed by their traps.
The Jag’s engine grumbled as Scott goosed the throttle around the last turn, and the towering Cairo Resort came into view, one tall building with dozens of surrounding, smaller structures on the slope of a mountain, all overlooking the ocean.
It was a far cry from what Stiletto could afford in real life. He had a small apartment in McLean, and his main hobby, the restoration of a ’77 Trans Am, took most of his spare cash some months. The F-Type was a good car but certainly not the Trans Am, which, while flawed in some areas, retained a raw, hungry feel that he liked. The old car had to be tamed, not driven in a state of relaxation. The Trans Am required Stiletto to remain an active participant; the Jag almost drove
itself. There was something missing from the driving experience.
He didn’t mind the rich playboy cover, either, but the high life was something he could only take in small doses. A great vacation for Scott was mountain climbing, fishing, hiking—usually alone, just him and a sketch pad and surrounded by nature. But duty dictated he be a rich playboy, so a rich playboy he would be. Deep down, he didn’t mind living it up as long as he was only burning Uncle Sam’s money.
Stiletto slowed as he turned into the parking lot. He pulled behind a line of cars in the valet lane; presently a uniformed young man took the car, Stiletto refusing help with his two suitcases.
The lobby floor tile and the marble walls had tiny diamonds embedded which sparkled in the bright lobby light. Diamond chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The check-in desk ran along the length of the forward wall, made of solid wood and finely polished. Scott felt out of place. This was no beer-and-pretzels joint. The elevator took him to his floor. He had booked one of the rooms at the front of the hotel, the expensive, high-roller side because of the ocean view, but Stiletto immediately wanted his money back when the blinding sun coming through the window overwhelmed both the room and the view. He kept the drapes closed.
Stiletto unpacked, filling dresser drawers and closet with clothes, leaving out airline tickets and a small black book containing names and contact information for the neo-Nazi underground.
After his interview with General Ike, Stiletto had visited a quiet neighborhood in McClain, VA, where an elderly man code-named Gray Eagle lived. Gray Eagle, under his real name of Gunther Walz, had once been a very active Nazi. He had left the underground behind for asylum in the U.S. The underground still thought he was active, however, and used him as a consultant of sorts. Gray Eagle always passed the information along to his handlers. Gray Eagle had briefed Stiletto on the current goings-on in the movement, and armed him with key contact names and numbers, so he could speak with authority when the opposition asked their inevitable background questions. He left the items in the open. Eventually somebody would search the room, and he wanted both found.
From the X-ray proof bottom of his larger suitcase he took out a box of Federal Hydra-Shok JHP ammo, three magazines, and his Colt .45 autoloader.
He had one other gadget. A belt with a slit on the inside holding a razor blade that had come in handy more than once when he needed to cut through ropes.
But he hoped the blade wouldn’t be necessary this time.
Tennis courts, swimming pools; shops; spas; everything a modern resort required.
Stiletto frowned when a pattern developed among the guests. The average tourist was easy to spot, but there were others amongst the clientele who didn’t belong. These men and women were younger, fitter, and carried a sense of awareness of their surroundings the Europeans and fat Americans did not. Obviously, they could be members of the new jet set, gallivanting around the world on grandpa’s money, but Stiletto dismissed the idea. The ones who caught his attention looked like military personnel. But no GI Scott had served with could ever have afforded the Cairo Resort. They were obviously NWRF crew members on a break, but also available at a moment’s notice should trouble happen at the hotel.
When he entered the casino, the largest of the buildings separate from the hotel, he started formulating his approach plan for the evening.
HE TREATED himself to a deep-tissue massage at the spa.
The petite blonde-haired masseuse noted his bumps and bruises and tried to strike up a conversation about them, but Stiletto didn’t give her much to work with. He said he’d been roughed up surfing. Eventually she stopped trying to engage him. He let his mind wander as she worked the knots out of his back and shoulders. When he left, he felt ten times better. Relaxed, loosened up, and ready for the night.
After the massage, he found the resort’s smoking lounge and picked up a box of Montecristo cigars, the Cuban variety, and lit up with gusto as he eased back into a plush leather chair. At home, he could only afford the Dominican Montecristos, which he actually preferred, but nobody who had access to the Cuban would pass it up.
He only half-listened to the conversation from the three other occupants until somebody started talking cars. He jumped in and ended up telling tales of his restoration efforts. They all agreed if it weren’t for their cars, they’d be rich(er).
Later, at the hotel restaurant, he ordered a steak and potato dinner. He’d asked for a back-corner table and sat with his back to the oak-paneled wall. The steak was rare, no sauce, the potato dripping butter and covered with bacon bits, satisfying and oh so politically incorrect.
He sat forward in his chair, feeling naked without his automatic. Security was tight at the casino entrance, with a long line of customers waiting to pass through a set of metal detectors, security guards ushering people through as fast as possible, sometimes pulling somebody out of line to wave a hand-held metal detector over their person. More security personnel were peppered amongst the casino crowd, wandering slowly, eyes always moving.
After dinner, Stiletto went straight for a blackjack table, ordered a Makers Mark with a splash of water from a passing waitress, and smiled at the dealer. She was a young woman with long curly hair and hoop earrings. Her uniform fit loosely.
She told Scott he could join on the next hand. He nodded. He didn’t particularly care for playing cards or gambling, except for poker. Poker required strategy which meant one had to think along different levels to try and outsmart the other players. Blackjack usually bored him. Players were slaves to the random fall of the cards. The only required skill was being able to add quickly. He chose it this time because it was the fastest way to make his move with management.
A lone woman sat at the table. She stood on her current hand. She turned her cards over and showed nineteen. The dealer produced seventeen. The woman collected her three 100 franc plaques as well as the house’s and walked away.
The dealer did not speak as she opened and shuffled a new deck. Stiletto cut and she shuffled again. Stiletto placed two 100 franc plaques on the table and she matched him. She dealt two cards and took two for herself.
Stiletto didn’t believe in “luck” at cards or anything else. Success or failure in anything was determined by experience, skill, and having multiple back-up plans to various “what if” scenarios. Stiletto’s worry was that he hadn’t “what ifed” enough.
Scott peeked at his hand. Five of diamonds; six of spades. Eleven total.
“Hit,” he said.
The dealer dealt another card. Three of hearts. Fourteen now. Worth a chance. He asked for another card.
Jack of hearts.
“I bust,” he told the dealer.
He showed his cards. Twenty-four.
The dealer flipped. “Dealer has eighteen.” She pulled the four plaques to her side. “Again?”
“One more time.” He bet another two hundred and received his cards after another shuffle-cut-shuffle.
He had a four of hearts and nine of diamonds. “Hit.”
The dealer slapped down another card. Five of spades. “Stay.”
The dealer examined her cards, hit once, again. “Stay,” she said.
Stiletto flipped over his cards. “Eighteen.”
“Seventeen,” she said, and passed him the plaques.
“Go again,” he said.
The dealer shuffled and Scott cut. They placed bets and the dealer handed out cards. Nine and a jack.
“Stay.”
The dealer hit once and stood and so did Stiletto. They turned over. Each had nineteen, a push. Stiletto sighed and let the bet ride. They played another hand.
OVER THE next hour, the plaques on Stiletto’s left grew higher.
Soon it became two stacks of 100 franc plaques. Stiletto lost a little, but gained it back with little effort.
Spectators formed around the table but Stiletto ignored them. The concentration made him sweat, and he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief often.
The win
ning did not go unnoticed, and eventually the pit boss wandered over and pushed through the crowd. He watched for a few hands, Stiletto winning two and losing one. Scott pretended not to notice.
THE PIT boss went to the bar.
He told the bartender he needed the direct line and the bartender brought up a phone from under the counter. The pit boss pressed two buttons.
“I have a player at table 12, an American. He’s beating the house. Shall I close the table?”
The pit boss listened a moment and hung up. The bartender put the phone back under the counter.
The pit boss headed for the table and waved two suited security men to follow. The three of them pushed through the crowd and drew a hand across his throat to stop the dealer from shuffling. The woman put down the cards.
Stiletto turned to the pit boss. “What’s the problem?”
“I’m closing the table.”
“I’m not tired of winning yet.”
“The table is closed, please move along.”
The spectators dispersed. Scott rose. He was the same height as the pit boss. His eyes snapped to the security men but then focused on the pit boss.
“You think I was cheating?”
“Please move along before we escort you out.”
“I’m a paying guest at this resort.” Stiletto stepped closer.
“Sir—”
Stiletto made a grab for the holstered gun under the pit boss’s coat. The man reacted too slowly, his hands barely reaching Stiletto’s wrist before Scott jammed the compact SIG-Sauer into the man’s belly. He barked a quick order to the security men, who froze in the middle of their reactions.
The pit boss swallowed. “What are you doing?”
“Getting an escort to the top floor. Tell your pals to split and then start walking.”
Chapter Six
THE PIT boss exited an elevator.