by Vernon Rush
As time slipped over the hills of memory, Daniel started going to night school three evenings a week. He was a studious young man and much to his surprise, discovered he could actually understand the mathematical concepts the instructor from the local community college was explaining and he went from the basics of math to the more advanced principles of diplomatic strategies and psychological perceptions and from there to tenets of political beliefs and then he found his niche. He discovered he was invisible. He was a chameleon and as long as he kept his persona indeterminate and apologetic in posture, people tended to forget he was there. He could listen and remember things and make notes about different personality types and once in a while, he discussed some of his tentative conclusions with his instructors, who were always shocked this soft-voiced, apologetic loser-type knew so much about personality types. It didn’t take long for him to gravitate toward more involved methods of investigating, which included agents working for the Federal Bureau of Investigation and for the Counter Intelligence Activities, the latter appealing to Daniel the most, since its emphasis was in surreptitiously gathering information from and about other countries and their organizations in order to be on guard and protect our country as efficiently as possible. He listened to visiting active agents, willingly underwent all the testing required and before too many months went by, he had moved to Hyde Park, NY, to train and become an agent himself. His companion, the smiling, innocuous Franklin Thompson followed suit and they became an outstanding pair of shadow agents, known as such by very few senior agents and groomed to infiltrate and report everything of interest or concern. Eventually, the opportunity to work in D.C. right in the middle of the political pressure cooker that exists up on The Hill presented itself and Daniel, hidden inside the obsequious, apologetic, rather clumsy personage he used as a disguise, was hired as Isaac Rose’s intern, who was supposed to learn all he could on the job. Along with Daniel, Franklin Thompson was also hired in a parallel position, also secretly working as a watch-dog. Franklin didn’t let anyone know he was basically planted as Daniel’s guard dog, as well as the ordinary agent’s duties. He and Daniel were roommates again, but this time in a nondescript townhouse with nothing blatant to call attention to it at all. It was in a quiet neighborhood, had two master bedrooms, two land lines, and one false panel in the den area that slid open to reveal a bank of electronic equipment that would make the agents of the President’s personal bodyguards pea green with envy. Daniel and Franklin were trusted agents working undercover disguised as underlings in training, with watchful eyes on everyone close to the power in the government. And more importantly, on anyone who might possibly be considering an assassination plot against the President or on anyone with strategic information, such as Emma Soto, the Defense Secretary, or the Vice President, or the Secretary of State. No one working adjacent to Daniel and Franklin, not even Foxhound or Persephone, knew their true identity and they had been ordered to keep it that way. Their neighbors in the townhouse complex thought they were traveling salesmen working for a new electronic wireless telephone and internet company, the Orbit. They explained their odd hours of operation as necessary when setting up a large corporation’s electronic operations when less commerce was being conducted.
CHAPTER
11
“No. . .I’m still on my way. . .What did you find out from the M.E.?” Daniel was talking into his cell phone as he walked rapidly from the roof-top parking area to the elevator bank. “Ah ha. . .Just as we thought, right?. . .I’ll be in Isaac’s office in less than three minutes. . .Suggest you remain right there behind the newspaper, as invisible as one of the roaches in the kitchen and let me know which direction Ivan and his cronies move after their breakfast. . .Yeah. Bye.” Daniel slipped his cell phone in his suit coat pocket just as he stepped onto the elevator going down. He nodded respectfully at one of the women standing aside impatiently but she did not acknowledge his presence. He blinked a few times, his blue eyes almost watery, but behind the smeared lenses of his eyeglasses, his nervous blinking hid a razor-sharp laser vision which didn’t miss anything and his analytical mind filed the entire moment away for future reference.
When the elevator stopped at the ninth floor, Daniel got off walking amid several other passengers who had exited at the same time. He lagged behind just long enough for the other seven passengers to disappear into various offices then he scurried to the door marked “STAIRS.” He pushed it open and restrained it so it could close only softly, then he rushed up a flight and opened the hall door marked “Tenth Floor.” Glancing back over his shoulder, he squared his shoulders and merged with the few people walking in the hall, most carrying files, some with briefcases. He slipped inside an unmarked doorway with the upper half made out of translucent glass, and stood quietly inside a darkened, empty anteroom, not much bigger than a broom closet. A faint LED light flickered from the edge of the decorative molding around the top of the room walls, barely noticeable against the ceiling tiles.
”Your I.D. please?” The female voice was soft and non-threatening.
“Oh. . .um It’s. . .uh. . .seventy-nine forty-two? I think that’s correct. . .”
“Oh, hi, Daniel. It’s you. He’s waiting, so come on in. . .”
Daniel nodded to no one and never indicated he knew there were cameras filming his entrance, then he heard a click as the connecting door of solid steel was unlocked. He opened it and walked into the brightness of a summer’s day, at least that’s what the decorating reminded him of. He squinted for a moment, until his eyes adjusted to the light.
This was the inner sanctum of the secret and mysterious hand-picked group of Special Forces members who were outstanding in every facet of their former operations’ duties which had drawn the attention of the even-more secret commanding officers who were constantly on the lookout for new members, particularly those with a natural tendency to be invisible but always hyper-alert and, of course, over-achievers. These were the cream of the crop, the absolute best exponents of every branch - Air Force, Marines, Army , Navy, FBI, NCIS, and CIA. Their number varied from year to year, depending upon enforced retirements or age-required retirements or, rarely, death in the line of duty. Their record while undeniably outstanding was never mentioned in any obituaries of members or former members. No one had ever heard of The Trackers or Group One, both of which were sobriquets for the secret organization. Many of the most accomplished members had no knowledge of the identification of any other member; he or she knew only his or her immediate team members or assigned office staff. This, obviously, was for the protection of the members themselves as well as the high-ranking government officials of the United States or any other friendlies recognized as such, including visiting or in-country traveling royals. One person was appointed as the Director and held this position for seven years or until accidental early retirement. He, or she, had the difficult task of matching whatever needed investigating or protecting or assisting through a maze that was usually a threat to our country - or theirs - to the agent or agents that best fit the known circumstances, such as language, mutual acquaintances, past travels, etc. It was not an easy job and this term’s director was dubbed Foxhound within six months of having taken over the reins. He truly was as alert and shrewd as a fox and his agents revered him, even though he was tougher than most of his men himself.
For a moment, Daniel didn’t think Foxhound knew he had entered his private office, then he remembered the man’s portfolio and remained silent while the older man continued reading a file, open on his desktop. When he had finished scanning the last page, he closed the manila folder and glanced up at Daniel, who immediately looked at the floor.
“You know how serious this threat is, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir, I do.” Daniel nodded briefly, never looking up.
“All right, then. Take the file with you and I expect you and Frankie to memorize the damned thing. We’ve got to find the mole, if there is one, and if Soto was murdered, I want to know
by whom and how and when. Nothing else is to interfere with this investigation. . .Is that clear?”
“Absolutely.” Daniel picked up the file and without another word, nodded at Foxhound and left the Director’s office as quietly as he had arrived. He saw no other person and no one saw him, or so he thought.
CHAPTER
12
“Yo, Danny Boy. . .you better come take a look at this. . .” Frankie was illuminated by the glow from the computer screen. The folding paneled doors on each side of the electronic equipment sheltered the glow from being seen through the second floor windows. The rest of the townhouse remained dark.
Daniel hurried to Frankie’s side, adjusting his glasses as he peered at the screen and read the Cyrillic characters of the Russian language. “Just as I thought. She was murdered. This is a message to some higher-up dude confirming the task was completed as directed.
So now we have to uncover the hidden clues without exposing ourselves to anyone. . .especially Isaac. Think we can do it?” He slapped Frankie fondly on the shoulder.
“Hell, yes. But not right now. I need a beer and a slice before it gets cold. We can make plans while we eat and get cracking early tomorrow. Soto isn’t going nowhere, nohow. . .By the way, I can’t believe you still remember your Russian alphabet!”
“Actually, it’s almost identical to the Belarusian which my grandmother taught me as a child and I just never forgot it. . .comes in handy now, you might say…”
Daniel nodded in agreement with his old friend and took off his suit coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He realized with surprise he was hungry as a bear himself - a Russian bear, probably. He chuckled as he popped open two Budweiser's and handed one to Frankie.
The two friends poured over the intercepted e-mail messages for several hours, with Daniel scribbling translations feverishly and dictating his versions to Frankie who typed them into the Trackers’ code and ultimately saved the documents in a computer file especially for that purpose. They both dove-tailed pages from the Director’s file into the one they were building, getting events chronologically arranged for more efficient conclusions.
After eleven-thirty, Daniel threw his pen down on the mass of scribbled legal-pad pages, tilted back his chair and stretched his arms toward the ceiling.
“That’s enough for tonight. . .besides, I think we know where these clues are leading us..” Frankie nodded and hit the key to close and save the file. “Do you want me to forward this transcription to Foxhound?”
“Nope. I think something like this needs to be presented in person as soon as possible. Like now.”
“Jeez, Danny! It’s almost midnight!”
“And closer to eight A.M. in Russia, or about that, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. . .” Frankie made a scowling face at Daniel then grinned as he stood up and arched his back, rubbing it with his fingers. “He’s gonna be mad as hell when we wake him up. . .”
“Not as mad as he would be if we didn’t notify him of these details…” Daniel tucked his shirttail in more tightly and pulled out a comb to freshen up his hair. “And I imagine we both smell like garlic, so it’s brush teeth time. I’ll wait to call him as we are going out the door. . .”
The two friends were cleaned up and ready in a matter of minutes. Daniel kept the pages of the transcription under his arm in a nondescript navy blue folder as he dialed Foxhound’s private number on his cell. A few muffled words later and they were quietly out the door, locking it behind them as they moved down the hall like two shadows you might not even notice if you had seen them in the dark of night. But then no one did, or so they thought. They were so accustomed to not being noticed around their townhouse, they inadvertently let their own guard down. They were so intent on preparing their words to impress Foxhound with the necessity for urgency they didn’t notice the silent figure motionless by the side of the dumpster at the corner of the building complex. When they got in their car and its lights came on, the figure in the shadows slid downward like an acrobat folding up into himself. His head was tucked down into his arms and covered with a knitted cap; nothing reflected or indicated a person was there, watching. When their car backed out of its parking place and angled back to swing right and exit, the car’s lights swept the area where the dumpster was standing and there was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen. The extra lumpy shadow near the back corner of the receptacle looked like a discarded plastic bag ready to be added to a full dumpster, waiting to be picked up. The two agents, their adrenaline pumping, automatically observed the dark corners of the night, but they missed one of the shadows they should not have overlooked.
CHAPTER
13
Isaac Rose had leaned over his legal pad for so many hours he didn’t even realize dinnertime had come and gone. He was lost in concentration, his left hand holding his chin propped up while his hazel eyes darted left and right, not seeing anything in the room, but visualizing the puzzling murder of a high-ranking government official. There had to be a helluva good reason to risk death or at the very least, life imprisonment, for a crime of that nature. And, he thought to himself, it was almost a given that there had to have been inside help. Government officials of high rank are not that visible, not that easy to take out.
Isaac sat up abruptly and flicked the turned back pages of the legal pad glancing at each one, searching for something he had just remembered. He had propped his reading glasses on top of his head and his narrowed eyes scanned the pages of his notes like a well-oiled machine. His right hand crawled across the desk top, seemingly of its own volition and homed in on a highball glass half-full of amber- colored liquid and melting ice cubes. He pulled it closer to his chest without even looking at it, then slowly lifted it to his mouth and took a long swallow. Suddenly he stood up so abruptly he almost toppled the glass over. He picked it up and held it up to the light, grinning.
“Ah ha! My old favorite! Cream soda! My God, I wonder if the answer is really that simple!” He sat down again and placed the glass to his right and once again stared at the pages of notes. “I thought so. . .the M.E. didn’t test the water for a poisonous residue. Dumb shits. There’s always the smart ass that takes everything for granted - especially his own arrogant opinion!”
Isaac glanced at his wrist watch and shook his head in disbelief. It was almost one A.M. and he hadn’t eaten anything since a quick lunch about eleven the previous morning. He pulled the phone closer and opened a hand-sized directory distributed to only the most trusted members of the Trackers. Most of the numbers he called frequently were memorized and remembered within seconds but the Medical Examiner’s office number was not one he needed very often.
He listened to the recorded message requesting the caller’s name, number, Classification of Urgency (meaning whether immediate, within one day, or when possible) and he ran his fingers through his hair in frustration.
“Yes, this is Special Agent Isaac Rose and I have some information pertaining to the murder of the Defense Secretary, Emma Soto. You missed a big one, Everett, old chap. And you’d better hope the evidence found at the scene was not compromised or handled. I’m going to leave here in about five and head over to your office. . .I’ll keep trying your unlisted home number in hopes I can dig you out of dreamland and meet you face to face at the lab. And before you cry out for old Daddy Foxhound, I can tell you this was a homicide and it was perpetrated by someone very, very knowledgeable about specific poisons, especially those that are almost impossible to detect and are extremely dangerous - such as Sarin. Does that ring a bell, Everett? It’s tasteless, odorless, doesn’t have to be ingested to be effective, and it’s rarely curable once it attacks the nervous system. Get with it, old man. I look forward to sharing my findings with you or with whomever you delegated this responsibility. . .” He slammed up the receiver and turned his glass of cream soda up to the ceiling and drained the remaining liquid in one gulp. Emitting a loud burp, he smiled at nothing, put the glass upright on the
desktop and after stuffing papers in his briefcase, hurried out the front door, locking it behind him. He wasted no time getting to his souped up Dodge Intrepid, just like the plainclothes cops’ cars were. He deliberately waited to turn on the car’s headlights until he was well away from the sleeping tenants in his building, and drove carefully and steadily back to the center of town and the M.E’s office. Checking his watch, he noticed it had taken him about twenty-five minutes. Shaking his head in disbelief, he parked in a reserved space, next to Foxhound’s Mercedes coupe. “He didn’t waste any time, calling Dad to come referee, did he?” Isaac smiled at his own jibe, grabbed his briefcase and exited the car. He checked the lock, making certain it was engaged, then rushed up the long pebble-concrete walk and into the dark, three-story building. He went to the stairwell entrance, aware the elevators wouldn’t be running at this hour and took the stairs two at a time, daring himself to even think of getting winded.