by Rick Jones
The child looked over his kneecaps, his cheeks were wet and coursing with tears, his tiny chest heaving and pitching with silent sobbing.
The assassin looked at him pensively for a long moment, their eyes meeting.
In the whitewash of a lightning that lit the study, the boy saw his grandfather propped against the side of the desk with his eyes at half-mast, and with the front of his shirt glistening with the redness of candied apple. Following the child’s gaze, the assassin noted that the boy’s sight was alighting upon the senator. And then he returned his focus to the child.
As the assassin looked in, as the child looked out, lightning strokes engaged in swordplay that seemed to light up the area longer than usual. In the assassin’s hand was the knife, which the boy directed his attention on. And then he understood: the knife, the senator’s blood-stained shirt, the man wielding the weapon.
And then the boy shook his head violently from side to side in a gesture of ‘no-no-no-no-no.’
In that precise moment the assassin reached into the recess, placed a soothing hand on top of the child’s head, then swept it downward into a gentle caress along the boy’s cheek. Without saying a word, Kimball Hayden withdrew his hand and closed the door, this simple gesture of showing mercy breaking protocol by allowing the boy to live.
Kimball Hayden had moved by the will of Senate members and a Joint Chief, a puppet of a man who was more machine than human. He killed with impunity. And he did so believing that it was for the overall good of the nation. But in the years to come this simple act would put a target on Kimball’s back as the man who murdered a high-ranking official, from orders issued by members in the Senate. And since secrets had to be kept from certain political principals on Capitol Hill, Kimball quickly became a liability as the man who knew too much.
Measures were taken by staff members to see that the black-op mission stayed just that, a black-op mission. So Kimball was sent on a mission deemed as ‘highly-improbable’ to succeed, with Kimball disappearing from the front lines in Iraq. Problem solved, the man considered dead and posthumously buried in Arlington, and all to the relief of the principals who directed the Force Elite.
But one day, in what was just a glimpse of a single moment, the truth would be exposed.
Kimball Hayden was not dead after all.
And his past was about to catch up with him.
PART ONE
OLD DOG, OLD WOUNDS
Chapter One
Ten Days Ago.
Hart Senate Office Building.
Washington, D.C.
United States Senator Jeffrey Rhames was a portly man with soft, doughy features, and eyes so close together they gave him that perpetual beady-eyed stare. And because someone had told him that the color black always made you look thinner, he wore nothing else. But in the case of Jeffrey Rhames, this was a fallacy. He was still an enormous man whether he wore black, white or any other color.
He was once a green-ear coming up through the political ranks starting with the governorship of Colorado, and since then he had spent more than three decades clawing his way up a cliff face by his fingertips to gain a seat in the United States Senate.
Now he was one of the most powerful men in Congress.
He was seated at his desk inside the Hart Building in Washington, D.C., with the deputy director and executive director of the CIA sitting across from him. They were discussing the failed coup in Turkey, and the subsequent opportunities provided as a result of that attempt.
“Right now the relationship between Turkey and the United States is tenuous at best,” said the deputy director. His name was Hartlin. And he had helmed that chair and title for almost a decade. “Turkey wants us to extradite a compatriot of the old regime, claiming he was the catalyst who plotted the coup to begin with.”
Senator Rhames nodded. Old news.
Hartlin continued. “Because the United States did not respond or support the wishes of the Turkish government, the strings of communication are so tight—”
“--that they’re about to snap,” the senator finished.
“Exactly.”
Turkey was the gateway of vetted refugees entering the European Front from the conflict in Syria, and a strong component of NATO Forces, even though they were allies and not friends. But the line was cracking, the current powers standing on the precipice of instability.
“If the Turkish government continues to lose its foothold in the region,” stated Hartlin, “then we have to set up venues within striking distance of the Middle East.”
“I agree,” said Rhames. “This matter has already been regarded as a black operation. Question is: has the CIA come up with a suitable venue?”
The executive director nodded. “We have,” he said. “You know we’ve been eyeing Malta for a while now.”
Rhames knew Malta well—had been there and loved it, knew its history in-depth, especially the surrounding airfields that had been vacant since World War II. He knew exactly where the executive director was going. He was zeroing in on the fields which were approximately 1,150 miles from Turkey, a distance that could be reached by an F-35, which has a maximum speed of 1,200 mph, in under an hour of flying time.
“Malta is regimentally adamant about keeping those fields free from military occupation,” stated the senator.
“Yes. They have been. But a series of staged events could open them back up again if we shift their national psyche from something firm to something fragile,” said the executive director.
“What do you have in mind?” asked the senator.
The deputy director leaned forward in his chair as if to draw everybody into close counsel. “The religion of Malta is Roman Catholicism, a prime target for terrorist factions. In three weeks Malta is going to hold one of its yearly religious festivals, the Santa Marija.”
The senator nodded, causing the waddle of flesh beneath his chin to wobble gelatinously. “Go on.”
“We stage a terrorist event to crack the national psyche. And then we use the media to point an accusing finger at ISIS. And since ISIS—whether they’re involved or not—stakes a claim to just about every terrorist action across the globe just to show the extensiveness of their reach, Malta would be no different or immune to such action.”
Senator Rhames was seeing the overall picture, which was becoming clearer by the moment. “So you want to stage a bombing during the height of the festival . . . and then blame ISIS.”
“That’s correct, Senator.”
“And in return,” Senator Rhames continued, “the United States will guarantee the future safety of Malta, as long as they open up the airfields to U.S. occupation.”
“That’s exactly the goal, sir. ISIS will take responsibility—this we’re sure of—and play right into our hands.”
The senator seemed to mull this over. Then: “This is strictly a black operation, yes?”
The deputy director nodded. “And because we have been designated as a black operation, the president and certain political principals are on a need-to-know basis.”
“Excellent.” The senator eased back into his leather chair and studied his CIA counterparts. “What exactly are we looking at for collateral damage?” he asked.
“If we’re to do this in ISIS fashion, I’d say anywhere from one hundred to two hundred casualties.”
“That’s positive effect.”
“We have to make sure that ISIS will unwittingly take claim of this action. If the toll is high enough and the media accuses ISIS, then like I said before, ISIS will assume the blame and take responsibility of an action that is not their own.”
“I love Malta,” said the senator. “Been there many times. But the world is in such a state of decay that no one can be invulnerable. Unfortunately, people will have to be killed in the process for the preservation of the larger plan.” The senator acted as if he was on the fence about something, perhaps hinging on a decision. Then: “See it done,” he told them. “For the good of the nation . . . See it done.”
“Which provides an optimum opportunity,” the senator added. “Keep me posted regarding the staging of the event.”
“Of course, Senator.”
When the office cleared, the senator considered one thing: Just something else to add to my résumé as I seek the presidential seat.
Senator Rhames felt good about his chances.
Chapter Two
Washington, D.C.
Senator Rhames’ drive home was a short one, the man living in a 24-carat neighborhood west of D.C. He lived alone, his wife passing away from ovarian cancer three years prior, a savage and painful death which sapped him little, since the passion and love of their relationship died off long before she did.
He lived in a luxury estate with Roman columns and an expansive balcony that overlooked a manicured lawn and ornamental shrubbery. The interior was nicely paneled in walnut and the floors were marble, the tiles always glistening. In his library were rows of shelves containing law texts and a few paperbacks, and opposite the shelves was a wall made entirely of fashionable brick that served as a fireplace. Situated high on the paneled wall was a flat-screen TV, 70” and state-of-the-art.
He sat in his wing-backed chair wearing his smoking jacket and ascot, lit a bone pipe, blew a plume in the air and settled back for much needed TV, notably CNN. The program was showing the end-leg of Pope John Paul III journey in the states. He was in New York, the pontiff speaking to the masses and telling them that forgiveness was the way. Of course he was talking about the recent attack on the Vatican and the assassination of the ‘then’ reigning pope.
But Rhames wasn’t a religious man at all. He was strictly political and refused to be governed by religious morals, especially when it came to times of crisis.
Just as he raised his hand to click the remote, his heart almost misfired in his chest. It was just a glimpse, a snippet of passing frames showing a man he once thought dead.
The senator played with the DVR, moving the frames backwards and forward, trying to freeze it and make a confirmation of the man on the video. He labored and swore, the frames moving too fast or too slow, until he finally found the sweet spot.
The stilled photograph was one of the pope’s security team, a face he hadn’t seen in years.
The man was large and tall, his shoulders were broad and the features of his face were strong and angular. The senator rose from his seat, slowly, his great weight retarding his efforts for quick movement as he ventured toward the screen.
The man appeared to be looking right through the monitor and at the senator, the face reading like a man who was angry and vengeful. Then the senator brought his fingertips to the screen and traced them over the image of the man’s face.
“Kimball Hayden,” he whispered. Then he stepped back and examined the picture further with disbelieving attitude, the heavy-set man not wanting to believe that his nightmare had never ended at all.
But just beginning.
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “You’re supposed to be dead,” he stated very softly in a way to confirm this suddenly profane reality.
. . . You’re supposed to be dead . . .
Chapter Three
The Pentagon’s Archive Vault
The Following Morning
The Pentagon’s Archive Vault was a tiered warehouse located beneath the Rings with more than three square miles of storage space that contained miles of shelves stacked with boxes of classified information, sealed documents, and crated artifacts, all purported facts from the Kennedy assassination to Project Blue Book and beyond.
On Tier 2, Section Three, Aisle 74, a man wearing a black suit and tie, which contrasted greatly against his white shirt, walked along the seemingly endless hallway with his footfalls echoing. The shelves were high, about thirty feet, all containing boxes and crates that were numbered and catalogued.
The man’s shadow waxed and waned beneath the lamps that hung from the ceiling. Each lamp casting a conical-shaped beam to the concrete floor, which in turn created circles of light against the floor to mark his way.
The man knew exactly what he was looking for.
A box.
He checked his card: Section Three, Aisle 74.
He was already in Aisle 74. Section Three was just ahead.
The man started to scan the upper shelves. That was where the larger boxes and crates were, those items that needed to be removed by a forklift. Then he searched the mid and lower shelves, trying to match the catalogue number on the card, with a specific number on a box: 07104.
The shelves were marked precisely like the stacks of a library with every record and file in its proper place with no margin of error, since these documents were highly classified.
Box 07104.
The man traced a finger over the numbers on the sticker attached to a particular box.
07104.
He removed the box, which was quite light, and placed it on the floor beneath a spotlight beam from an overhead lamp. After he removed the lid of the box and set it aside, he grabbed a manila folder, which was an inch thick, and removed it. On the folder was the number 07104. Beneath that in red stamping, it read: TS CLEARANCE REQUIRED. SENSITIVE INFORMATION.
TS was top secret. And TS information often contained materials requiring the highest levels of protection where a compromise of certain data could threaten the security or wellbeing of a nation or nations. In this case, the threat involved the United States.
The man peeled back the flap to reveal the contents.
It was a file on a particular black operant who was classified as a person without a past. He had no SS number, no prints on file, no parents or background to speak of. He was a man created to be entirely off the grid, a man who operated to the demands of the Pentagon Brass and Joint Chiefs.
He had killed woman and children to promote certain affairs with political or military ties, in order to achieve the means. No target was beyond his reach or outside his scope of immorality.
He was duty-bound.
He was a soldier.
And he killed with the cold fortitude of a machine.
The man continued to leaf slowly through the pages, reading sensitive information he already knew about and the stories that covered them up. What he didn’t know was the operator behind these dark deeds, this machine who killed with impunity and seemed to take delight in his actions.
He continued to read about this operator.
And then he examined the photo on the first page. It was a face-shot of a man with neutral features and no smile, or the beginnings of one, since he appeared to be a man without humor. His face was strong-looking with angular features and startling cerulean blue eyes. Beneath the photo was a name: Kimball Hayden.
The man looked at the photo for a moment longer before he placed the file back into the box, returned the lid, lifted the container, and carried it down the hallway with his heels clicking hollowly through space.
Chapter Four
Hart Senate Building
Washington, D.C.
When Senator Rhames arrived at the Hart Senate Building late the following morning, he looked less like a man of great power and more like a person under pressure. When he called his secretary with a voice that had a hard edge and asked her to contact the deputy director of the CIA immediately, he also told her to transfer the call to his encrypted line.
Twenty minutes later, Deputy Director Hartlin was sitting inside Senator Rhames’ office.
Senator Rhames pointed to the chair opposite his desk, an invitation to Hartlin to take the seat. “Have a seat, Hart.”
After Hartlin took the seat and crossed his legs in leisure, he said, “Your call sounded quite urgent, Senator. What’s up?”
Senator Rhames pointed to an old manila folder,
about an inch thick, on his desk. “That’s what’s up,” he answered. “I had that dug out of the Pentagon Archives. Something I thought I’d never have to look at again.”
Hartlin grabbed the folder and opened it. On the first page was the photo of a man with strong features and ice-cold eyes. Then he read the name typed beneath the picture. “Kimball Hayden.”
The senator nodded. “The devil’s incarnate.”
“It also says he’s deceased. KIA in a black-ops mission to Iraq several years ago.”
“So we believed.”
Hartlin held up the folder. “And now?”
The senator chewed on his lower lip a moment before speaking. “What I’m about to tell you is strictly TS confidential,” he said. “The information in the file has been transferred to an encrypted thumb-drive for your immediate download to a secured server.”
“Understood.”
“This briefing, Hart, is strictly off the records. I need you to understand this.”
“I do.”
“What I’m about to tell you will be regarded as a covert operation that the president of the United States could never be a party to. This mission is not on a need-to-know basis. Not even to the commander in chief.” The senator hesitated as he searched for the proper words. “You’ve no doubt heard about the assassination of Senator Joseph Cartwright several years back, and that the assassin had never been found.”
“Of course.”
“That man in the file you hold in your hands, Kimball Hayden, is that assassin. Which is why the file was buried away in the Archives.”
Hartlin looked at the notes. Then: “According to this . . . Hayden was a U.S. wetwork operator.”
“That’s correct. He was.”
Hartlin leaned forward in his seat. “Are you telling me that our own government sanctioned the killing of a United States senator?”