by C. G. Cooper
Kreyling didn’t move.
“I suggest you tell your foul friend to back away before I make him kiss the pavement,” Kreyling said as if he’d asked for a napkin at the dinner table.
“I think I’d like to see that,” said the spook.
A shrill whistle sounded from the closest rooftop. Cal’s gaze followed the others. Barely visible all along the roof were more black clad shadows. They’d appeared all at once, completely silent. Cal’s hand shifted on his weapon, readying for deployment. The look on the CIA guy’s kept him from moving. Was it fear? Were those not his men on top of the buildings?
The answer came a moment later when Kreyling said, “As you can see, more of the Queen’s staff have just arrived. I suggest you take your thugs and make for home. I wouldn’t like to see what happens to you if you stick around.”
The American looked from the newest arrivals to his own men. Some of his mercenaries were already backing away. They knew they were outnumbered, probably two to one.
“This isn’t over. We’ll see each other soon,” the man said, locking his glare on Cal.
Cal grinned, lifted his hand and extended his middle finger.
The spook barked a command, and his minions slithered back into their vehicles and sped off into the night.
“I assume those are your friends?” Cal asked, pointing to the rooftops where the shadows were slipping down from their perches.
“Right. Some old SAS dogs and the odd Royal Marine. I think you’ll like them.”
Cal nodded. “I’d say I owe them a pint or two.”
Kreyling’s only visible eyebrow arched. “Don’t let them hear that. They’ll drink you broke if you let them.”
Cal clapped his friend on the back and motioned for him to lead the way. He was looking forward to meeting Kreyling’s friends.
+++
1:39am
The Hind touched down just outside of a small cluster of homes on the edge of Kandahar. Andy was on his third bag of IV fluids. The medic pulled out the IV line and moved on to securing his gear and opening the side hatch.
His face still covered, the pilot met them at the open door, a steady stream of desert sand blowing in from the prop wash. He put his mouth close to Isnard’s ear.
“There is a man in that orchard,” the pilot pointed into the inky blackness. “He will escort you the rest of the way.”
“Thank you for helping us,” said Isnard, for once at a loss for the right words.
The pilot nodded. “Do not give up on my country, Mr. Isnard. Despite what your papers might say, there are still those of us who believe in a free Afghanistan.”
He shook Isnard’s hand and returned to the cockpit. The medic waited for the Marines to debark. Isnard had to help Andy out, struggling to keep his friend upright. The fluids had brought color back to his face, but Andy still needed medical attention. His legs wobbled as he moved.
They ducked down as the helicopter rose into the air and flew north, the sound of its powerful engines fading into the blackness. Alone again.
They didn’t move, letting their senses adjust to the darkness, taking in their new surroundings. A dog barked in the distance, followed by a car backfiring. Other than that the night was quiet, subdued.
When Isnard was confident that they weren’t walking into an ambush, he eased Andy to his feet, and they made their way toward the walled orchard. They could only hope that this would be the last leg of their journey.
Chapter 21
Kandahar, Afghanistan
6:27am AFT, August 25th
Cal and his team said their goodbyes to the Brits who’d saved them five hours before. Over celebratory drinks, for which the former commandos kept a healthy stash in their posh accommodations, Cal learned that the British government was taking a more active role in the region. They were even calling in retired operators like the ones who’d come to Kreyling’s call. According to one particularly crusty former Royal Marine colour sergeant, it was all because of the Zimmer Doctrine.
“I’ve gotta hand it to your president,” he’d said. “Took a lot of balls to stand up there and say what he did. Good to know you boys are back in the fight.”
There was a level of excitement in the air that Cal hadn’t felt since just after 9-11. The troops were restless, like baying hounds pulling at their master’s leash. These men had spent their entire adult lives training for war. It was all they knew. Some were married with families, others were terminal bachelors. But together they were family.
The Jefferson Group men fit right in with their cousins from across the sea, trading stories and swapping ribbing between men of battle. It was obvious to Cal that Kreyling had passed the word: “These Americans are with me.”
Cal watched their interaction, how Kreyling never filled his own beer or how conversations quieted when he came near. His countrymen looked to the one-eyed warrior with something like awe. He was a legend. There were the whispered tales of top secret raids and black ops takedowns. Kreyling was THE hero eclipsing the rest.
As The Jefferson Group team poured out into the dawn, Dr. Higgins asked to speak with Cal. The normally outgoing doctor had kept to himself since their run-in with the CIA.
“What’s on your mind, Doc?”
Higgins rubbed his left temple and took off his glasses, polishing them on the sleeve of his shirt.
“I’m sorry it’s taken me this long, but I think I know who that man was.”
Bingo. “The spook?”
Higgins nodded, replacing his glasses in their original position. “If I am correct, I’m eighty-five percent sure by the way, I could only just make out his face, the man’s name is Anthony Farrago. I never had direct dealings with the man, but from what I remember he may be somewhat of a challenge.”
“Why?”
“There was an instance involving a colleague who oversaw the periodic mental evaluations of field agents. He came to me one day needing a second opinion. It involved this man Farrago.
“At the time Farrago was something of a wunderkind, a natural. He’d had great success and was seen as part of the Agency’s future. He had all the attributes of a career agent, a living double-oh-seven.”
“Then why did your colleague bring it to you?”
“At first glance I wondered the same thing. He did not explain his concern, but suggested that I take the file and examine it when I had time, said he did not want to taint my opinion. It was not an uncommon request, so of course I said I would look at it. Because he said it was not pressing, it took me a few days to get to it. When I did, I read it over four or five times, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that would make me doubt Farrago’s abilities. I even looked at his confidential operational file and everything looked routine, if not exceptional.
“Then I found the thread. Sometimes we miss things because they are so normal, little bits that we typically take for granted. What I found was that although his tests all came back swimmingly, when you compared the separate reports they didn’t match up.”
Cal shook his head. “I think you lost me.”
Higgins grunted then started again. “Have you ever taken a personality test, one that tells you what your natural tendencies are?”
“You mean like the alphabet tests, Myers-Briggs, or DISC?”
“Exactly. The main difference being that the CIA builds its own, changing them frequently. In fact, I was one of the Agency’s question formulators. Fascinating work really. Anyhow, from what I remember, Farrago’s tests all came back positive, no anomalies. But when I compared one exam to another, I noticed that there were slight variations. Looked at independently, even a keen eye would’ve categorized them as two different people. It all started to make sense, including the reason why my colleague brought the file to my attention.”
“You lost me again, Doc. What’s so bad about that? Those tests aren’t one hundred percent accurate are they? I’ve never seen an eval that is.”
“Of course not. No test is inf
allible. There is always a certain margin of error. But let me ask you a question. Have you ever had someone under your command that you knew deep down, but could never prove, was lying or telling only part of the truth?”
“Sure. But doesn’t the CIA train their agents to lie?”
“Yes, but the testing usually circumvents that tendency. I have only seen it a handful of times in my career, but Farrago fell into the outlier category. There are pathological liars, and then there are those who believe an alternate reality. Each of the two types have a proclivity for manipulating interrogations and lie detector tests. When I again consulted with my colleague, we concluded that Farrago fell into an even smaller category. He exhibited characteristics of both the pathological liar and the delusional.”
“So you’re saying that not only was he crazy, but he was sane enough to lie about it?” asked Cal, still struggling with what Higgins was implying.
“You know how I feel about the word crazy, Calvin, but yes that’s about it in a nutshell.”
“What did you do with the report?”
“There wasn’t much we could do without concrete evidence. This was more of a hunch. We made a note that was essentially a recommendation to keep an eye on Farrago for certain indicators, and to reevaluate should that happen.”
“And did it?”
“I don’t know. I left shortly after that to work for SSI.”
“So tell me what we’re dealing with, Doc, in layman’s terms.”
Higgins nodded, taking a second to gather his thoughts. “Farrago will be like a chameleon, blending in as he needs. His words weave at the whim of his fancy, probably to his own benefit. If he believes something is right, he will put all effort into it, rarely straying from that path. He is cunning, intelligent, and highly manipulative.”
Cal didn’t like the sound of that. He’d dealt with all sorts of enemies and he liked the smart ones the least.
“So how do I explain this to the rest of the guys? Can you give me an example that I can use?”
Higgins frowned. “That’s an easy one. Take your pick: Mao, Hitler, Stalin. All the deadliest dictators in history generally fall into the same category. Men who believe that their reality, their way, is the only way. That is what we are dealing with.”
Chapter 22
Washington, D.C.
10:36pm EST, August 25th
Due to the time change, it was still the previous night on the East Coast. The nation’s capital settled in for the night, tucking in after another muggy late summer day. Travis Haden was still hours away from going to bed. Another all-nighter loomed.
He’d just talked to Cal, his cousin filling him in on the last twenty-four hours of mayhem. The thing that worried both cousins the most was the CIA’s involvement. How had they known about Cal’s team heading to Kandahar? What was this Farrago character after and who was he working for?
The hard part was figuring out how to deal with the situation in a decisive manner. Travis’s SEAL mentality wanted to attack. But any action on his part would tell the culprits that the president and his chief of staff were privy to the covert operation. One of Travis’s most important functions was to shield his boss from scandal. This operation had the ability to blow things sky high.
He had buddies from his Navy days who were now at Langley. They could be trusted, but were they being watched? Travis decided to take the chance. He needed answers.
An hour later Travis was picking at a pile of sloppy fries at The Saloon on U Street Northwest. He’d come to love the little bar. It had been the sign out front that had pulled him in months earlier while he was out for a late night jog:
The Saloon
Est. 1977
A Quiet Neighborhood Pub
NO T.V.
NO Standing
NO American Express
NO Martinis
NO Cigars
NO Shots
NO Pretending
Aside from the sign, he’d taken to the place immediately. As advertised, the pub felt like a trip back to the seventies. The ever-present smell of decades of Belgian beer and simple pub food. Cheerful staff and clientele. It was like an old leather chair that welcomed you into its embrace on a cold winter day. It was also a perfect place to hunker down, have a beer and be left alone.
Roger Horn walked in ten minutes after Travis, ordering a beer on the way in without making eye contact with his old friend. By the time he made it through the bustling crowd he was halfway through his pint. Roger wasn’t much to look at. Thin to the point of being bony, with wiry arms; more than one operator had thought that meant the man was weak. His droopy eyes looked like something out of a old gangster movie, the languid mob enforcer.
They’d gone through Basic Underwater Demolition/Seal (BUD/S) training together, Travis the newbie lieutenant and Roger the level-headed non-commissioned officer. Most people didn’t think much of Roger Horn when they first met him. Travis hadn’t.
But Roger was one tough S.O.B. He never complained, even when he’d broken his back on a night drop over Taiwan. He’d passed out in Travis’s arms. His career with the SEALs was over after that. Now he was a CIA analyst.
They got together whenever Travis had time, which wasn’t much considering his new job.
“What are you drinking?” Roger asked, downing the rest of his midnight ale.
“Lager.”
“Pussy,” Roger said, already waving for another drink. The pretty bartender nodded her understanding. “How are things in the castle on the hill?”
Travis shrugged. “Busy, but what else is new?”
“Looks like Zimmer’s coming around. He’s got Langley scrambling to do a new character assessment.”
“He’s a good guy. I wouldn’t have taken the job if I didn’t think he could do his.”
The bartender delivered Roger’s beer and pointed to Travis’s half-full glass.
“I’m good thanks.”
Travis waited until she was out of earshot, then asked. “You still got friends in operations?”
Roger nodded.
“You know a guy by the name of Farrago?”
Roger set his beer down.
“Yeah. I know Farrago.”
Roger’s tone expressed his opinion of Farrago loud and clear. Danger.
“What does he do for the Agency?”
Roger took another swig of beer. “Farrago works for the deputy director NCS.”
“Kingsley Coles?” Travis blurted. If Farrago was linked to Coles, things were about to go from bad to worse.
“Yeah. How do you know him?”
“I met him the other day.”
“What did you think?”
This was Roger’s style. He wasn’t going to give Travis anything before he knew what his old team leader had in his pocket.
“Reminded me of a stuck up trust fund baby with a dirt phobia.”
Roger chuckled. “It’s called mysophobia, by the way, the dirt phobia, but that’s not totally accurate. Obsessive compulsive, yes. I would’ve said aloof too, but people say that about me.”
That was true. Roger had a way of making people think that he didn’t care. Nothing could be farther from the truth, it was just that he was very good at hiding his emotions.
“What does Farrago do for Coles?”
“I think he’s listed as an assistant or deputy, but he’s really a cleanup man, a utility guy for whatever Coles needs.”
“Do you know him?”
Roger shook his head. “I’ve seen him a couple times, but he doesn’t spend much time in Langley anymore. Whispers say he hangs out in the desert kingdoms.”
If Farrago worked for Coles, that meant that Coles knew what his man was doing. Did that mean that the director of the CIA knew too? If so, getting Andy and Isnard back on U.S. soil would prove challenging.
“Is there any way you can find out what he’s doing right now?”
“Can I ask why?”
“I don’t think you want to know.”
Travis didn’t want to get Roger in trouble. Maybe he should find another avenue to get the information he needed. But his options were limited, nonexistent actually aside from Roger Horn.
“Look, I don’t want you going to Leavenworth for this.”
“They don’t send Agency employees to Leavenworth.”
“You know what I mean.”
Roger shrugged and motioned for Travis to continue.
“I’ve got some friends in Afghanistan who just had a run-in with Farrago. We don’t know how he found out or why he tried to arrest them.”
“Are you telling me that Farrago didn’t nab your friends?” Roger asked, his tone incredulous.
“Like I said, he tried.”
Roger whistled softly. “I tip my hat to your friends, but they better watch their backs. You piss off a guy like Farrago and you end up with a bullet in your head.”
“Does that mean you won’t look into it?”
Roger grinned. It was the same look he gave then Lieutenant Travis Haden every time they were about to do something stupid.
“It’s been pretty slow this week. It’ll give me something to do.”
They shared another round and left separately. Travis watched his old comrade stroll down U Street, a slight hitch in his step from his spinal injury. Most guys would’ve taken the disability and lived the rest of their lives on vacation, but not Roger Horn. Despite what the doctors had said, he’d regained the use of his legs and was almost allowed to return to his SEAL team. Almost. You can only hide a limp for so long.
Travis admired the hell out of him for that and many other things. Hopefully he could use that old toughness and find out something that Travis could pass on to Cal. His gut told the former SEAL that things were about to get worse. What he wouldn’t give to be in Kandahar with Cal at that very moment, a gun instead of a pen in his hand.