by Tony Bulmer
He was embedded. Embedded in the window. The safety glass had prevented his fall and now, here he was, his body inside the building, his head outside—looking down 48 floors, to the traffic-‐clogged streets below. A horrible strangled cry escaped his lips. He pressed against the broken glass with desperate, clawing fingers and felt it bow outwards in response. He peddled with his feet, but it was no use. He was trapped. Embedded in the window, with only a necklace of broken glass to prevent him somersaulting forwards into the deathly void beyond.
A sharp pain in his rear—as though a stiletto heeled foot was pressing hard against him, forcing him forward. The giant pane of glass groaned, a shattered beast in its final death throes. The senator heard its death call and struggled wildly, in a final desperate bid to regain his footing. The toughened glass sagged outwards, inching slowly towards a final catastrophic failure; the senator’s eyes popped wide. There was no escape—the window exploded outwards, into a million sparkling fragments, and at last he was free, the dark air rushing past him—snatching away his screams, as he tumbled downwards into the endless night.
02
Los Angeles California Karyn Kane sat curbside in her white Mercedes, parked up under a palm tree between San Vincente and Sunset. It was a ritzy kind of neighborhood, an up market residential enclave known as
Brentwood. The boulevard was lined with mission style mansions, walled off from the world in white adobe compounds. Lush subtropical foliage and over watered landscaping burgeoned from every lot in the street. This was a nice place to live, a safe place; a place where the very wealthy could make pretend that they were like every body else.
Sitting there in her conservative business clothes with a copy of the Los Angeles Times sports section folded over her knee, and a take out coffee cup positioned next to the gear shift, she might have looked to the casual observer like a hard working business executive, or realtor, taking a time out to make a call on her cell phone, before jumping into yet another hectic round of meetings, then lunch, at some chi-‐chi place in Beverly Hills— the sort of place that served sculpted mini plates of endive salad and Ahi-‐tuna, at a price point so punishing that only the most upwardly mobile would entertain the idea of dining there.
Karyn Kane was no up business executive, nor was she a west side realtor looking to make a multi-‐million dollar showing before lunch. She was an agent for the National Clandestine Service, Deep Five division, specializing in beyond the rim
operations—the delineation code for CIA covert action operations that extended outside of the confining boundaries of United States Law.
Looking in the rearview mirror, to check the street behind, Karyn caught a quick glance of her reflection, staring back from the rear-‐view— dark shoulder length hair tied back tight behind her head and big framed Gucci sunglasses in beetle black. The make up made her dark, suntanned skin look pallid—like some Westside yenta heading out for a coffee-‐morning fundraiser at the Getty Institute. The thought amused her—Institute was industry slang for Israel’s intelligence agency Mossad—the kind of crew who did their coffee mornings extrajudicial style, with Uzi sub machine guns.
Karyn shot a furtive glance down the street. A jogger in powder pink sweats pounded by on the sidewalk. She was cute, blonde and had a deep chestnut tan that said she ran five miles a day at least. Light morning traffic was heading out now, pulling clear of the million dollar driveways and heading out down the palm fringed boulevard—the usual kind of rides, high-‐end pristine, with dealer plates, shining forecourt new. Then she saw him, coming out the front door, a block and a half down, on the other side of the street, Reed Goodman—the sniper. Reed was looking good, in casual khakis and a too tight t-‐shirt that showed he was still in shape. Of course he was. Reed wasn’t the kind of guy who could let things go. All those years of Special-‐Forces training, there was no way he was going to let civvy-‐street sloppiness seep into the mix. Except, he was slipping—otherwise he would have noticed her for sure. There was no way the old Reed, the
man she had known for two tours in Afghanistan would let a detail like that slip by him. Sure, her disguise would fool most people, but she had been scoping out the Goodman residence for an hour and a half at least. He had to have seen her.
Karyn sat forwards in her seat—Reed was carrying Carly’s stuff, juggling an arm full of bags and sports equipment, like he was going to drop it all over the drive before he even got the door of the SUV open—the sap. Karyn bit her lip. Imagining what it would be like to be over there, helping him load up the Range Rover for the school run or some other family outing. That could never be possible, not now, not with all that had happened, since those dark days in upper Helmand.
A black Audi sedan sped down the block in the outside lane, slowing for the stop sign, it made a snappy u-‐turn at the limit and pulled over into the red zone. Karyn frowned. Where was the woman— the older woman? Karyn checked her cell phone, dialed into the secret cameras she had planted inside the Goodman residence—there she was, checking her reflection in the hall mirror, the skinny little bitch. What the hell did a guy like Reed see in this pampered little floozy?
Julia Goodman. Karyn didn’t like the sound of it. What the hell had Reed been thinking, marrying a woman like that, an old money socialite from the uptight East? Sure she had money. She said her business was commercial real estate, but her billionaire father had bank rolled her from the start. Everything had been handed to her. She hadn’t had to struggle, or work for anything—The spoilt bitch, it wasn’t like she had to kill anyone to get by.
A shadow in the driver’s side mirror—a
Cadillac Escalade winding to a halt, and double-‐
parking five cars back. Karyn gave a soft curse, and
ran her hand inside the copy of the Times that sat
across her knee. Taking hold of the handle of her
Sig Sauer 229. She slowly scoped a 360. The whole
neighborhood kicking off now—A dog walker, in a
golf-‐caddy windbreaker coming around the block,
with a Malinois—a Belgian Shepherd, for Christ’s
sake. This wasn’t the kind of neighborhood for a
Malinois—nor was it the kind of city for a navy blue
windbreaker on and eighty plus morning, with
humidity heading subtropical. Sliding back in her
seat, Karyn angled the passenger side mirror into
the blind spot and saw him coming down the
pavement—patent leather shoes, stay press chinos
and a Brooks Brothers button down with pencil
point stripes. The jacket was casual linen, a
sartorial salute to west coast casual. But Jack
Senegar head of the CIA was nothing if not
understated. Jack was the kind of guy who looked
like an insurance salesman, or that friend of a
friend at the g
olf club, who might be a county
litigator, but looks so unassuming you never did get
to ask him what the hell he did for a living. Karyn groaned. The Agency circus was in
town and they had her boxed. She popped the door
latches and waited for the arrival. Coming
alongside the car, Jack Senegar opened the door
and sat down in the passenger seat without
needing an invite. He sat there for a long moment
then said, “Well, isn’t this nice?”
Karyn said nothing.
Senegar peered down the street, watching
as the morning routine unfolded at Casa Goodman.
He watched, as Reed loaded up the SUV and made a tour of the vehicle, checking for points that might need attention. He watched as Reed held open the door for his wife—the perfect gentleman. The wife looked good, much younger than her forty years, She sashayed down the driveway in her floaty summer clothes, cell phone held to one ear, the latest designer purse hanging heavy on her other arm, a laptop computer clearly visible from the top of the bag. Senegar passed no comment. At length he said, “Here comes the girl now. ”
The young girl was pretty and tan with long dark hair. The kid was maybe ten years old at the most, skipping happily down the driveway with a drippy breakfast sandwich still clutched tightly in her hand.
“And there we are, the vivacious young Carly heading out with mommy and daddy for another day in the fourth grade—how touching.” Jack Senegar stared ahead, his face emotionless.
Karyn said nothing.
“So, now that we are here, what now?” Senegar turned, looked at Karyn, his eyes hidden behind gold-‐rimmed aviator sunglasses.
“She is my daughter,” said Karyn.
“We both know that isn’t true. Not any more,” replied Senegar evenly, his voice betraying an edge of self-‐assurance so total that the futility of contradicting the statement was both complete and overwhelming.
Karyn’s hand moved slowly, almost imperceptibly inside the newspaper.
“What were you planning to do, shoot a national hero?” Senegar flashed a smile. “Or perhaps you were thinking of shooting me? I
wouldn’t recommend it Karyn, that would be a real bad career move.”
Karyn was quiet. She looked ahead, like the words meant nothing.
“Perhaps you were going to shoot the lovely Julia? Jack Senegar paused. “I cannot say I blame you. It must be…unpleasant shall we say, to find yourself in such a situation.”
“Situation? That bitch stole my daughter.”
“Actually, that isn’t quite true, is it?”
“It’s going to take more than some stinking Judge to stop me seeing my daughter,” said Karyn, her voice hard and dangerous.
“It was agreed that it would be better this way—better for Carly.”
“Bullshit Jack—I was railroaded into this—I am never going to give up on my daughter, not ever.”
Senegar nodded, mulling over the implications. “So, you are sitting outside the home of your former partner and his lovely new wife, with a gun held ready, for what reason Karyn?”
Karyn paused for a long time, staring out the window, as the Goodman family climbed into the SUV. She sat watching with Senegar, as the family pulled out of the driveway, and headed off, to a day filled with work and school and the thousand joys and tribulations of a normal American family. “Just keeping in touch with the things I cannot have,” said Karyn quietly.
Jack Senegar nodded—paused, then said, “I have a job for you Karyn.”
“I am through with jobs.”
“You are through when I say you are through—are we clear?” His voice was cold and
sharp, a hard line of annoyance arcing up across his forehead from behind his inscrutable shades.
Karyn looked at him, getting a real good look at the guy who had ruined her life. She assessed every hard-‐lined inch of that face hidden behind the golf club tan and the phony semblance of corporate jurisprudence. What could an Agency suit, a career bureaucrat enjoying the easy life in the focus group world of Washington, know about the frontline world she had lived in so long? Sucking back the emotion, swallowing it down into the hard visceral place she used to keep her soul, she said,
“Screw you Jack.”
Jack Senegar smiled, nodded said, “Understandable. You always were the maudlin, sentimental type. I should have expected to find you here contemplating your own demise. Perhaps you thought, for even a moment, that I would allow that to happen?”
Karyn turned to face him. You have got to be kidding Senegar, you thought I was going to bust a cap in my own head because some west side floozy steals my kid?”
Jack Senegar frowned. “This job is threat level nine.”
“You got to be kidding, not even al Qaeda is threat level nine.”
“I wish that were so. The world we live in grows ever more perilous, and the enemy we face, more devious. Luckily, our intelligence gathering capabilities have thus far managed to keep pace with these insidious threats.”
“Aw, blow it out your ass, Jack—who do you want me to kill?”
Jack Senegar gave Karyn a tight look. “I assume you have heard of the Tex Johnston killings?”
“I heard the creep murdered a couple of people and took the plunge out a skyscraper window. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy if you ask me.”
Jack Senegar gave Karyn a steady look, “Johnston was a United States senator and therefore subject to the unfortunate afflictions that such a profession is prone to. He was, however, a valued member of the Federal Government, and as such, entitled to the full and rigorous protections such a position deserves.”
“He was dirty.”
“It has come to our attention through certain channels that the senator was being subjected to biographical leverage.”
Karyn gave a contemptuous sniff. “He was being blackmailed—shocker. We got culprits?”
Jack Senegar drew a slow patient breath. “All the evidence points to the governor of Hawaii, which as you can imagine would create an extremely unpleasant scandal were that
information ever to be revealed to the public.”
“So Tex capped the Governor, then threw himself out the window. That is a real sad story you got there Jack—what exactly do you want me to do about it?”
Senegar’s face grew hard. “Tex Johnston was not the kind of man who would kill himself. I believe he was murdered.”
“So he was murdered, big deal, go call the FBI, they love that kind of crap.”
“Much as I would love to call our friends in
the FBI, I am afraid that won’t be possible. Karyn frowned, “You are going to tell me
why—but I am guessing I know the answer
already—you think the FBI murdered a U.S.
senator?”
Jack Senegar nodded slowly, “I am afraid
so,” he said.
03
After a long thoughtful moment,
Karyn Kane turned to Jack Senegar and said, “So tell me Jack, is this one of your personal projects, or do you have the go from on high?”
Senegar was not the sort of man who would mention the President of the United States, by name. It was a given in the community, that communications intelligence or COMINT was running at all times, recording thoughts, deeds, and words, no matter how innocent or confidential. Certain gambits, mission statements and
command/action responsibilities were so secret they could never be overtly mentioned. The rules were real but unspoken; they ensured the integrity of plausible deniability. If congress, or worse the media, asked the President for operational details of a mission he knew nothing about, he would be able to deny its existence with confidence. Such operational parameters were essential for the CIA’s National Clandestine Service and the Deep Five operations group, as they carried out missions that reached beyond the rim of accepted laws. Karyn watched, as her question crawled under the skin of the man who was perhaps, even more than the President himself, the most powerful man in America.
“We have got a green on this, that’s all you need to know. What I want from you is a sub-‐rosa field examination and a TEP outcome when the extent of the rot is established.”
TEP—terminate with extreme prejudice. As a Deep Five Agent, TEP gigs were Karyn’s
specialism. The agency eschewed words such as assassin, but that is what she was, always operating in the shadows, deep under a veil of subterfuge and extreme secrecy. In the early days, the strict Agency remit and congressional over sight, had ensured that all operations were carried out abroad; the CIA and its many affiliates were forbidden by U.S. law from carrying out missions on American soil. Whilst that Federally mandated edict still remained in force, perilous times had created a climate of crisis. Insurgents of every description were flooding the American homeland—terrorists, rogue nations, even so called ‘friendly’ nations—all of them increasingly involved in asymmetrical warfare on U.S. soil. The situation was dire. Many conspiracy theorists speculated that a Third World War was coming, what so few of them realized was that the war they had so long predicted, had already started and the CIA’s National Clandestine Service and the Deep Five division in particular were at the very forefront of this new conflict.