Sabotage

by C. G. Cooper

  The ambassador snorted, lit another Newport and put it to his lips.

  "Don't be so sure, Wiley. Ambassadors and CIA station chiefs have been relieved for much less than standing by as the president of the United States was murdered on their watch. Now, get the hell out of here and get me some answers."

  "Thank you for your time, sir."

  Wiley left, grateful that he didn't have to listen to another thirty minutes of a man babbling on like he'd never been in a crisis. Sure, it had come as a complete surprise to Wiley too, but he wasn't pissing in his pants.

  It did feel like a nuclear warhead had just gone off and every bit of hospitable earth was now marred by minefields. If Wiley knew anything it was how to slip through an explosive-ridden landscape without being touched.

  He believed himself to be a relic of the past, born again in an age that wouldn’t allow him to reach his full potential. What he would have given to be in this position during the Cold War, to be on the front lines against the Russians. As a young operative he’d read the stories and the after action reports over and over again. Djibouti was supposed to be his stepping stone. Now if he wasn't careful it could be the end of his career, or worse, the end of his life. He didn't think the second option was very likely.

  He had eyes and ears all over the country and he had friends back home. More than one key politician considered Wiley a valuable asset. If things ever went south, Wiley had his insurance policies in place.

  He was so absorbed in his scheming that he almost didn't notice his secretary running down the hall. She had a hand to her chest and her face was crimson like she'd just run the Boston Marathon.

  "Mr. Wiley. Mr. Wiley."

  Wiley didn't answer but just gave her a give-it-to-me gesture. She knew his moods well enough to take her place beside him and keep walking.

  "Mr. Wiley, you have a visitor."

  "Who is it, Jeanine? I don't have time for this right now."

  In the past twenty-four hours, he'd had all manner of visitors. The FBI had sent investigators. The CIA had sent their own team. And the Secret Service, well they were a real pain in the ass. He wondered which ones had decided to make a return visit or maybe they had sent someone new - another thorn in his side. He had to keep it together.

  "Sir, it's someone from the White House. They say it's urgent."

  "Tell them to talk to the ambassador. I don't have time right now."

  "Sir, they asked to speak with you personally, and they won't leave until they see you."

  Wiley huffed, "Fine. Where are they?"

  "They're in your office, sir."

  "In my office. You let them into my office? That is my personal space, Jeanine. I’ve told you before, no one steps into that office but me. No one.”

  "Sir, they were very persuasive. Trust me, you’ll want to see them now."

  Great. He could feel the pain of an impending headache. He'd have to pop a couple of Motrin just to make it through the day.

  He was surprised that there weren't any guards standing outside his office door. Surely, a visitor from the White House would have brought their own security. Then again, they could be right inside. Wiley straightened his tie and walked in. His mouth almost dropped open when he saw who was sitting behind his desk with his size fourteen shoes propped on his clutter-free desktop.

  "Well, well, well. I'm surprised you stuck around here, Wiley."

  It took him a second to remember the man's name. Trent. Willy Trent. The man looked much more menacing now. The last time Wiley had seen him, he had seemed jovial. He didn’t have time to ruminate on that fact before someone grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and shoved him into a chair.

  "I was going to say to have a seat but it seems that my friend Gaucho took care of that for me."

  The man with the funny beard slapped him on the back hard. When he moved toward the desk, Wiley saw a pistol in his left hand. The short Hispanic wagged his finger and said in a perfect Ricky Ricardo accent, “Wiley, you got some splaining to do.”

  Wiley had regained his composure. "You're not from the White House."

  "How do you know I'm not from the White House?" Trent asked.

  Wiley didn't have an answer for that. He wished he was armed. He'd been stupid enough to leave his gun in the office safe. It was what he usually did before a meeting with the ambassador rather than have the ambassador’s security staff take his weapon.

  "You're both still wanted for the murder of Elliot Peabody,” Wiley said levelly. “One call and I'll have your—"

  "Oh, you want to get right down to it now, don't you there, Wiley? Here I thought this was going to be a boring conversation where you ask for a lawyer and blah, blah, blah,” Trent said. “I hope we can get all the answers we need within, say fifteen minutes."

  "I'm not telling you anything. You’re criminals. For all I know, you could be the ones behind the assassination of the president. I will have you arrested and then shot,” Wiley said with a sneer.

  "Is this your thing, Wiley? You like to get people shot? Tell me, have you ever had to shoot anyone?" Trent took his feet off the desk and stood fully to his near seven-foot height. "Because you don't look like someone who could shoot another man. Sure, you can order other people to. There's plenty of people like you around, never willing to do the dirty work themselves."

  Trent was walking around the desk now. Wiley felt his body tense involuntarily.

  "Here's the thing, Mr. Wiley. I don't mind doing the dirty work. In fact, in some cases, I rather enjoy it. Twenty-three hours a day, I'm a law abiding Christian. That twenty-fourth hour—whoo-ee! I save that hour for assholes like you." A massive black finger that felt like a steel rod poked Wiley in the chest twice. "I'm going to give you one chance Wiley. You tell me all about your relationship with this General Hachi and how you put your pinheads together and decided it was time to kill the American president. "

  "I didn't have anything to do with—"

  Trent's foot kicked out like a mule, sending Wiley skittering across the room. He gasped for air that wouldn’t come to his blasted lungs.

  "You take a second to get your breath back, Mr. Wiley. I am not a cruel man, and I do not like to see my fellow man suffer. Do not take that as weakness. Just because I'm good with kids and I like puppies, it does not mean that I will not crush a skull with my two hands."

  Wiley believed every word. As he struggled to regain his breath, the headache throbbing now, he tried to grab hold of anything, any idea that could get him out of this.

  "It was Hachi,” he was somehow able to say. "It was his idea, not mine."

  "That's a good start. Thank you for your cooperation."

  Trent reached down and pulled Wiley up by the front of his shirt as effortlessly as a child picks a stick up off the ground. He even brushed off Wiley’s back like the kick had been some kind of mistake.

  "We'll get to the details in a minute, but let's talk about Peabody. Why did you have him killed?"

  Wiley was about to offer up an excuse, buy himself some time, but then the door opened behind him, and he turned just enough to see a hunched old man with a peg leg walk into the room. An old woman, probably the man’s wife, followed him in and tugged the door closed.

  "I'm sorry, sir, but you shouldn't be in here,” Trent said politely.

  The old man looked up. Trent inhaled in shock. "Well, I'll be."

  The old man took off the fake peg leg, and put his real foot on the ground stretching his thigh, rubbing it to ease the pain.

  “Peabody,” Wiley said, relieved, thinking that his savior had come. "You're not dead."

  Peabody ignored him, walked over to the trashcan, and spit a mouthful of phlegm into it.

  "That stuff Sheila gave me sure does give me heartburn,” Peabody said looking at Gaucho who ran over to hug the operative.

  Wiley used the distraction and got up. He headed for the door planning to push past the old woman. A fist snapped out from underneath the old lady’s robes and to
ok him in the cheek, spinning him halfway around.

  "What have I told you, Sheila?" Peabody was saying.

  The woman was shaking her hand painfully. "I know. Not in the face. Damn that hurts."

  The woman took off the heavy grey wig. Wiley didn't know who the woman was.

  Gaucho pointed and said,” Hey, it's the nurse lady from the hotel. You're the one that’s married to—"

  "Yours truly, my friend,” Peabody finished for him.

  "I thought—”

  “Sheila and I met at The Farm." The Farm was the CIA’s training facility in Maryland. Peabody went over to his wife and planted a kiss on her lips. "It was love at first sight."

  "You need a shower; you know that?" Sheila said, slapping him playfully. Peabody grinned.

  “But, you were dead." Trent said. “They killed you. You didn't have a heartbeat."

  Peabody pointed at his wife. "Sheila was a CRNA, a Certified Registered Nurse Anesthetist before she joined the Agency. A “gas passer,” even though she doesn’t like me calling her that. Not only do we make a good team, but we also bring a few tricks to the game. Sure, it meant that for a couple days it felt like the worst hangover I've ever had, and it was hell getting that goat blood off me, but it worked didn't it? I tricked you."

  Wiley was listening to it all from the ground, putting it together, still thinking he had a way out. If he could only get to his safe. But who was this Sheila? Why had the CIA sent her here?

  She must have sensed his concern, because she stepped over to him and stomped down on his back. “You’re not as smart as you think, Wiley. The Agency’s been onto you for years. They sent me and my husband here to keep an eye on you. Turns out that our timing was perfect."

  "Peabody, one day you're gonna have to tell me how you convinced a woman who is not only smart but also beautiful to marry a guy as ugly as you,” Gaucho said.

  "Aw shucks, you're gonna make me blush,” Sheila said, batting her eyes as she grinded the heel of her boot deeper into Wiley's back.

  "While I'd love to hear the Army’s rendition of Kumbaya, may I suggest that we take Mr. Wiley to a more secure location?”

  The boot lifted and Sheila backed away. Wiley got up from the ground as indignantly as he could muster. His legs were shaking. It wasn't his first time under the gun, but his back, cheek and head were killing him.

  "Look, seeing that Elliot's not dead, why can’t we make a deal? Anything you want."

  Trent’s bear claw of a hand grabbed Wiley’s throat and picked him straight up in the air.

  "You don't seem to get it, Wiley. We don't make deals with pieces of trash like you. Gaucho, go get Doc."

  What must have been a few seconds later, but felt like an eternity while Wiley was being asphyxiated, a chubby man in a checkered sport coat entered the room. He stepped up to where the enormous black man was holding Wiley in midair.

  "So this is the infamous Mr. Wiley."

  “Wiley, this is Doc Higgins and he’s here to have a little talk with you. Don't try to resist. Nobody resists Doc Higgins."

  From the confident look on the doctor’s face, all shred of hope slipped from Wiley's mind. And somewhere between darkness and light, he remembered there’d been an infamous interrogator at the CIA by the name of Higgins. If this was that doctor, he realized he was done for just as he faded into unconsciousness.

  Chapter 33

  “Yes,” the guard thought, closing his eyes and raising his face up to the heavens. The heat felt like a blessing. He had grown up in poverty. His parents sent him away at a young age so they could die with dignity. He’d scraped by for years, leaving school before he really had a chance to learn of the world. Then, he had fallen in with a group of peers and found a new business: Security. Hassan had taken to it like a bird to the air.

  Yes, there had been exciting times, but he found these long hours of guard duty most pleasurable. He had never admitted to a soul that he liked that time, but he volunteered whenever he thought it was proper. And so, after the brief insurrection when Hassan had been posted at the prisoner camp (he tried to forget about that unfortunate business with the Europeans), they had moved him to a new job. He didn’t mind. He had a roof over his head, food in his stomach and while he wasn’t a particularly violent man, he had no problem raising a weapon and fighting for his chosen employer.

  This employer, well, this was the one to have. Who knew how long General Hachi would be the president of Djibouti? The job was important. Hassan considered it a medal upon his chest, and even though mercenaries like himself never wore medals, he still imagined it.

  When he opened his eyes, he was surprised to see a beautiful chocolate-colored dog with speckled white legs trotting toward him. Hassan was used to wild dogs, usually they moved in small groups, but this dog just didn’t look like it belonged in that category. It was too beautiful, unmarred by the desert winds and blazing heat. To add to his surprise, it walked straight toward him.

  Hassan wasn’t afraid of animals, but he was still on duty, so he leveled his weapon at the dog. It cocked its head, as if curious as to why he had pointed a gun at it, then sat down on its haunches and stared at him. That curious look, as if the dog was asking, “Why are you standing there with a gun pointed at me?” The dog was not a threat, so Hassan lowered his weapon, patted his leg, and made kissing sounds to see if the dog would come closer.

  It didn’t. It just sat there, with the same look, tail wagging slowly back and forth.

  “Lassie, Lassie, where are you?” came a voice, speaking English, from around the bend, the caller unseen. While Hassan understood English, he didn’t speak it well, but he’d seen plenty of Americans, British, and Europeans walking past the ocean-side mansion since coming on duty. It was one of the ritziest neighborhoods in Djibouti, and was reserved for wealthy visitors and patrons. The neighborhood itself had its own gated entrances and private security. Hassan and his comrades were the second level of defense for the general.

  “Lassie, here girl!” A form came into view, a light-skinned man jogging along at an easy lope. Hassan waved to the man and pointed at the dog. The jogger smiled and waved back.

  “There you are, Lassie!” he said. The man picked up his pace, both hands raised in excitement, a leash in his left hand. “Lassie, you really scared me, you know that?” The stranger was so focused on the dog that Hassan, by nature, did the same. He also looked down at the runaway, who still sat with her head cocked, looking straight at him. Then, to Hassan’s surprise, the dog barked once, and the guard’s hand involuntarily tightened on his weapon.

  “No, Lassie, don’t bark,” the dog’s owner said. When Hassan looked up again, he squinted. There was a glint of something between himself and the man, spinning, and that’s when the flying blade caught him directly in the eye, plunging into his brain and silencing him forever.

  + + +

  The two guards had been mid-conversation inside the compound gate, but they saw Hassan go down. They couldn’t tell whether he had just kneeled or fallen. It was their job to make sure nothing was amiss, so they went to their assigned duties like men on the eleventh hour of a twelve-hour shift.

  One man went forward, easing the heavy gate door open, wishing that it was mechanized like so many of the other homes along the road. The second man stayed back, just in case. When the gate was finally open, the first guard on the scene saw that Hassan was on the ground and there was a stranger leaning over him.

  “He just passed out or something! I think it might be the heat.” There was a dog, too, a beautiful dog.

  How strange, the guard thought, his eyes flickering back to Hassan.

  “I can help you carry him inside if you want,” the American offered.

  “Hassan,” the guard said, nudging him with his boot. No movement came from his friend. “Hassan,” he said again. Still nothing.

  “He doesn’t look so good,” the American said, reaching to feel Hassan’s neck. Hassan was turned away from the guard, so he couldn�
�t see Hassan’s features. It wasn’t until he stepped closer to the unconscious man that he sensed something was wrong. There was a wetness on the ground—Water or—And that’s when he saw the crimson color of death running down Hassan’s face.

  Before he knew it, the Good Samaritan sprang up, leading with his hand, too fast for the guard to react. He suddenly felt a pain deep in his throat. He had been stung. He tried to yell out, with no voice. The pain went deeper, and then there was only blackness.

  + + +

  Cal held the man’s body up while a volley of rounds came from the third guard, striking the second guard in the back. Then he heard the snap of rounds behind him, and sensed the body thump up ahead. Guard number three was down.