He drove south on 4th Street to Central and then circled the block. Finding parking downtown in the middle of the day is like finding hen’s teeth. A Ford pulled out of a spot directly in front of him. Noble challenged a Chevy pickup for the slot and won. The driver of the pickup gave Noble the finger. He returned the sentiment, got out, and dodged traffic across 1st Avenue.
Sweat formed a greasy patch between his shoulder blades. July in Florida is sticky hot. Regular afternoon thunder showers only make the heat muggy and unbearable. Residents hurry from one source of air-conditioning to the next. Noble stepped under the shaded loggia at the central post office, grateful to be out of the blazing afternoon sun.
Saint Pete is home to the country’s first open-air post office. Built in 1916, the Mediterranean architecture and Spanish tiles keep the covered walk cool in the summer. Gargoyles crouch atop Italian arches and a terra cotta frieze gives the impression that you are stepping back in time. Noble liked it because the open-air design gave him twenty-four-hour access to his P.O. box.
Inside he found overdue bills, junk mail, and a beige envelope with no return address. The check from Shawn Hennessey would help with the bills. It wasn’t nearly enough—was it ever?—but it would keep the lights on. Noble frowned at the strange envelope. He shook it, then explored it with his fingertips. It felt like a key.
He tucked the unpaid bills under one arm, ripped open the envelope and turned it over. A small, brass key fell into his open palm. 314 had been etched onto it. There was no note. Noble bounced the key on his open palm. The handwriting on the envelope was block letters in black sharpie.
On a hunch, he pulled out his cellphone and dialed Samantha Gunn. It was mostly wishful thinking. He hadn’t heard from Sam in six months. Last September, he had helped Sam rescue her best friend from a Triad gang. When it was over, she went home to Boston to recuperate from a gunshot wound and Noble returned to Florida. They had talked and texted fairly regularly at first. They even kicked around the idea of her coming to Florida for a visit. Then, six months ago, she stopped answering his calls.
The holidays had been fast approaching. Sam was young, good looking and razor sharp. Noble figured she found a guy. There would be no shortage of available men in her life. And Noble… Well, he was a thousand miles away and a decade older.
As he stood under the shaded porch, listening to the phone ring, he told himself to be happy for her. She was a great girl. She deserved a normal relationship. The kind of relationship he couldn’t offer. He told himself that she was better off without him. It was the type of lame platitude friends offer each other after a break up.
The phone rang a dozen times and then went to voice mail. He stuffed the key in his pocket. Who had sent it and why? Someone at the CIA? An enemy sending him a message? A warning? Without more information, all he could do was guess.
He waited for a break in traffic and then legged it across the searing asphalt to the Buick. He tossed the unpaid bills in the passenger seat with his carry-on and slotted the key in the ignition. The engine grunted like an old man clearing his throat, but refused to start.
“Come on,” Noble whispered.
He tried a half dozen times. The motor struggled heroically but failed. Noble cursed, collected his baggage, then got out and walked.
Chapter Seven
SAMANTHA GUNN sat in the back of a tour bus crowded with aides, policy advisors, strategists, and various campaign staff. They were somewhere in New Hampshire. Sam was pretty sure the city was Manchester, but it might be Concord. She had lost track. Every night was a new rally in a new city. After a while, they all started to blend together.
Sam was dressed in a tailored suit with sensible flats and her hair pulled up in a ponytail. The temperature inside the tour bus was turning her toes into little blocks of ice. She should have worn long johns and UGGs. Secretary of State Helen Rhodes, nicknamed the Ice Queen by her staff, was uncomfortable in anything over 68 degrees.
Rhodes was on her cellphone, a vein pulsing in her neck. “Tell the editor if he runs that piece, I’ll bury him.”
She reminded Sam of a particularly sadistic grade school teacher named Ms. Wormer. The kids had called her Wormer the Witch. When they really got mad they used the B-word, one of the worst curses a third grader can utter, second only to the hallowed F-bomb, which could only be whispered when absolutely certain no adults were in earshot.
Rhodes had just gotten word that the editor of the Wall Street Journal was going to publish a less-than-glowing op-ed. It was an election year and the presidential primaries were only three months away. Rhodes was running against a bombastic Republican insurgent and tensions inside the Rhodes campaign were high. There were television ads to organize, speeches to write, town halls, news interviews, and debates to prepare for. Rhodes’ stump speech was met with wild enthusiasm in all the DNC strongholds, but it was tanking hard in flyover country. Her poll numbers were dropping. Worse, the Director of the FBI was hinting at filing official charges against her for discussing top-secret information over an unsecured private email server.
Her cadre of aids and advisors had been working round-the-clock putting out fires. Rhodes clutched her cellphone in a skeletal grip as she said, “Don’t give me any of that right to know, freedom of the press bull crap, Harvey. Tell him to kill the story or he’ll have a hundred IRS auditors going through his personal finances with a fine-tooth comb.”
There was a pause while she listened. Then she said, “I knew you would see things my way.” She put the phone down and turned to her top aid. “What are the latest numbers?”
Mateen Malih, a pretty Arab girl with ties to the Muslim Brotherhood, pulled a face. “Not good. Every national poll has you trailing by at least four.”
Guy Taggart, a handsome Harvard grad with a used car salesman smile, said, “Other news outlets are running with the FBI Director’s remark. And you know Shawn Hennessey will be all over it. We need to be proactive. I think you should make a statement.”
One of the other analysts, a dishwater blonde, shook her head. “The only statement you should make is a denial. Deny, deny, deny.”
Guy Taggart disagreed. “We need to turn this around and make it about a sexist FBI Director and his war on women.”
Several advisors voiced agreement for the idea. It was a popular card in their deck of talking points. They played it often. Taggart said, “Claim the FBI Director is inflating the issue in order to sabotage your bid for the White House. He’s a misogynist dinosaur that doesn’t want to see a woman president.”
The interior of the bus became an echo chamber of progressive sound bites. Sam felt like she was back at Yale listening to her classmates rehash highlights from the latest lecture by openly Marxist professors. Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She dug it out.
The number belonged to Jake Noble.
She chewed her bottom lip. Thoughts of Jake stirred up a confusing maelstrom of emotion. Butterflies zipped around inside her stomach but a painful knot of grief and loss formed in her chest. It was more than her job was worth to answer the call. She had worked too hard to get here. She was good at what she did and she was making a real difference. The only catch was she had to leave everything behind. She had even taken on a new identity. She was now Vanessa Klein.
Helen Rhodes said, “Is there a problem, agent Klein?”
Sam slipped the cell into her blazer and hitched a smile onto her face. “No, ma’am.”
Rhodes tapped one long finger against her chin. “Let’s see what kind of dirt the FBI Director is hiding.”
Guy Taggart said, “I hear he’s a real boy scout.”
“Everyone has secrets,” Rhodes said. “I want you on the first plane back to D.C. Dig into the FBI Director’s life and come up with something we can use. Does he gamble? Does he drink? Go deep. If he pissed his pants in the second grade I want to know about it.”
“That might require certain extra-curricular activities for which I’m not trained,” Taggar
t said.
Rhodes flicked a hand at Sam. “Take Agent Klein with you.”
Sam cleared her throat. “With due respect ma’am, my job is to protect you.”
Rhodes fixed Sam with a hard stare. “And right now I need you to protect me from FBI Director Standish. Criminal charges in the middle of the election would destroy my shot at the White House. I don’t expect you to understand the intricacies of the situation—you’re a blunt instrument after all—but I’m trying to make America something we can all be proud of. Sometimes we have to bend a few rules and cut corners to make that happen. You understand that, don’t you?”
Sam nodded. She understood all too well the double standard of beltway politicians. If Sam had been caught passing classified information on a private email server, she would be in jail. Simple as that.
Rhodes leaned back in her seat and worked a smile on her weathered face. “Tell me, agent Klein, how do you like your job?”
“It suits me.”
“You have the makings of a top-rate agent and you come highly recommended. I can see you in a position of authority one day. Making it to the top in Washington is about who you know. As President, I’ll need people on my security team that I can trust,” Rhodes said. “But I have to know you are a team player. Are you a team player, Klein?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Excellent,” Rhodes said. “Think of this as a natural outgrowth of your protective duties. I believe you and Taggart will make a fine team.”
Sam glanced at Taggart.
He bared his teeth in a smile, but his eyes were lifeless blue orbs. It reminded Sam of a reptile. She wanted to crawl right out of her skin. Taggart was the kind of guy that would take a chainsaw to a basket full of kittens if it furthered his career. Lies came to him as easy as breathing.
She met his smile with a tight grin.
Rhodes changed topics, laying out her plans for the upcoming debate. CNN had forwarded an advance copy of the questions the moderator would ask and the team worked through them one by one, deciding what their talking points would be, trying to predict what her opponent would say and then coming up with a series of rejoinders. Most of it boiled down to the same tired, clichéd sound bites. The aide reading the list of questions came to one Rhodes didn’t like. It had to do with an assault on a diplomatic compound in Libya by Islamic radicals. Rhodes had abandoned the ambassador and his staff to be killed, and the compound was burnt to the ground.
“Call Reed at CNN,” said Rhodes. “Tell him to take that question out or I’ll have his balls for breakfast.
Chapter Eight
TWO DAYS LATER, Noble was in the hold of his sailboat, the Yeoman, replacing the alternator. The Buick had been towed to a mechanic on 4th Street South. Estimated repairs had totaled over two thousand dollars. Forced to choose between the boat and the car, Noble elected to fix the boat. Mostly because repairs to the boat were cheaper and because it currently doubled as his living space.
He was dressed in khaki shorts, topsiders and a grease-stained T-shirt. His hair hung in limp tangles. The humidity in the hold made the bulkhead sweat. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and formed a sticky bib on his chest.
He removed the burned-out alternator and dropped in the new one, bought with cash he couldn’t spare. Now he just needed to adjust the belt. This all seemed a lot easier when he was ten. Back then, he had mostly held the flashlight while dad turned the bolts. Some of his best memories were here in the hold, helping his father work on the boat. He was so focused on the belt he almost missed footsteps creaking overhead.
Noble wiped his hands on a dirty shop rag and took a .45 caliber 1911 pistol from the toolbox at his feet. He pressed the slide back. A hollow-point round winked at him from the chamber.
Overhead, someone padded across the deck to the cabin door, knocked and called out, “Anyone home? We’d like to interest you in Scientology.”
Noble recognized Matt Burke’s rich baritone. He shoved the pistol in his waistband and climbed the ladder.
Burke filled the door frame. A smile showcased the gap between his front teeth. He was a barrel-chested black man in a wrinkled linen suit that strained against his shoulders. Matt had played college football before joining the military. He made a name for himself in the Army’s top-secret 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta before making the leap to counter intelligence. But his days doing field work were behind him. Now he rode a desk at Langley and it had taken a toll on his physical fitness. He held up a copy of Dianetics by L. Ron Hubbard. “You interested?”
The cult had taken over neighboring Clearwater and was making inroads into Saint Petersburg with large sums of cash provided by gullible Hollywood celebrities.
Noble snorted. “Where did you get that?”
“A group is handing them out for free in Straub Park,” Burke said. “How ‘bout it? Want to join up?”
“I’ll pass. What do you want?”
“Can’t a fella drop in on an old friend?” Burke asked.
Noble crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the bulkhead.
Burke tossed the book on the galley table, opened the fridge and helped himself to a bottle of water. He twisted the cap off, took a swig, and leaned against the countertop. “How you been, Jake?”
“I haven’t changed my mind if that’s what you’re asking.”
After Noble had rescued the daughter of a Filipino diplomat last year, the Company offered to reinstate him. Noble declined. No way was he going back to work for the people that burned him.
“Who says I’m here to recruit you?”
“Why are you here?”
“Thought we might catch up. Talk about old times.” Burke tugged on his earlobe as he spoke. It wasn’t an absent gesture. Someone was listening.
Noble got the message. “You wasted a trip. I’m not interested in reliving the glory days. You and the other bureaucrats back at Langley tossed me out to cover your own butts, and now you have the stones to come down here and ask how I’m doing?”
“Water under the bridge, Jake.” Burke said. “All is forgiven. You can come back to work with a clean slate.”
Noble gave a humorless laugh and raked a hand through his hair. They were acting for the microphones. “Sure, until the next time they need a fall guy. Maybe next time I go to prison. That’s where Foster wanted to put me, remember?”
Burke said, “I had nothing to do with that.”
“You didn’t do anything to stop it either,” Noble said.
Burke pulled a face. “Politics, Jake. That’s all it was. I regret that I couldn’t do more.”
Burke had been like a father. He was the one guy Noble expected to be in his corner when the CIA started looking for someone to pin the blame on. Instead, Burke had turned his back. Wounds like that run deep. Noble doubted he would ever get over it.
“We were friends once, Jake.” Burke laid a hand on Dianetics and tapped the cover. “I hope one day we can be friends again.”
“Not likely,” Noble said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an alternator needs fixing.”
“So long, Jake.”
Noble inclined his head.
Burke left.
Noble watched him through the cabin windows as he crossed the deck and walked along the dock to South Yacht Basin. Burke had wanted him to know the Company was listening. They probably had a microdot hidden on the boat. It was the latest in audio surveillance technology. A tiny microphone was imbedded inside an adhesive plastic dot that could transmit a signal up to one hundred meters. Because of their small size, the battery only lasted forty-eight hours, but they were easy to conceal. It would be impossible to find without knowing where to look.
Noble picked up the Scientology book and turned it over in his hands. One of the plastic dots could be hidden in the spine, but that would be too easy. He could simply drop it overboard. No, the listening device would be hidden on a door frame, in a cabinet, or under a cushion. But Burke had wanted him
to look at the book.
He flipped it open. It was Dianetics all right, complete with diagrams depicting something called body thetans and how they attached themselves to human beings, causing negative energies. Noble shook his head. He could solve all his money problems if he took the time to write up a bunch of pseudoscience hocus pocus and market it as religion. Sitting down at the galley table, he leafed through the book. On page 110, he found a hand-written note in the margin.
The Hangar. 2:30
Noble checked his watch. 1:10. That didn’t give him much time. If Burke wanted a clandestine meeting it meant there was some kind of dust-up between the spymasters running the Clandestine Service. It wasn’t unheard of for intelligence officers to run conflicting operations. In an organization the size of the CIA, it’s a rare day when everyone is rowing in the same direction. The unfortunate truth is that all too often, individual personalities take over. The people who go to work for the CIA want to protect America from her enemies—their hearts are in the right place—but they often disagree on how best to go about it.
Noble quickly flipped through the remaining pages to see if there were any other instructions. All he found was information on the life-affirming joy that could be his if he joined Scientology. He tore out page 110, rummaged through the galley drawers, found a pack of matches, and lit the edge. Orange flame crept up the page and blackened the paper, erasing the evidence. He dropped the page into the sink and watched it turn to ash. Then he climbed on deck and dropped the book in the bay. It hit the water with a plunk and bobbed back up to the surface. It would take several minutes for it to waterlog and sink.
Noble stripped out of the grease stained shirt, pulled on an olive drab polo, collected his TAG Heuer wrist watch and his wallet and headed topside. The alternator would have to wait.
Noble Vengeance (Jake Noble Series Book 2) Page 3