The Spy I Loved

by Dusty Miller

  There was nothing wrong with Ian’s mind. He was second in command, and Liam liked working with him well enough.

  While they were all on the same mission and working together, independence of action had always appealed to Liam. If one of them should be taken out, they all had the most up-to-date information that could be collected. Each was fully capable of handling a team of people in the field.

  Jenkins could be a real mastermind, as Liam recalled, sort of humbled for a moment that he nominally commanded them on this little gig. No one ever called her Alice for some reason. She had the clearest grey eyes he’d ever seen on a person.

  He got Ian back on the phone a short time later.

  After all information had been assessed, they had two dead enemy operatives confirmed. Ian was convinced he’d at least tagged one.

  “One drop of blood and at least three separate and distinct sets of tracks. The odds are they won’t go to hospital for treatment. They’d just use their own skills, let him die, or off him themselves.”

  That seemed reasonable. Three people in the forest.

  He had pictures of the tracks and they might get something from the tread patterns of shoes and vehicles. First they had to find the suspects and the vehicles. They were always building a case.

  “Huh. Nice work.”

  “There’s a chopper going by overhead.”

  “What kind?”

  “Yeah. A Huey. Haven’t seen one of them in a while. Dark green. It’s headed your way.” That might be Liam’s new sled.

  The Canadian Forces could go where they wanted, without arousing too much comment from a citizenry that loved their military rather than feared it.

  If he could get them to drop it at the site, with him and Ian on the scene, they could have them on standby. They could take away whatever they found immediately. His mind raced over the prospects. It might just be done. It depended on fuel load and the endurance of the helicopter.

  “Putting you on hold for a minute.”

  “Right.” Ian could check his inbox or whatever while Liam gave directions to the chopper pilot.

  The pilot seemed agreeable.

  “No problem. I get paid either way.” It was a good answer.

  Liam immediately got back on the circuit with Ian.

  Flat out, on smooth water, he could be there in thirty minutes if he left right now.

  Breakfast was a luxury he couldn’t afford and he could call Jenkins on the way.

  ***

  Liam’s head broke water to see an expectant pair of faces looking over the side of their boat. He spat out the mouthpiece and lifted the goggles.

  “Shit!”

  “What?”

  “The bloody thing’s gone.”

  “Gone?” They sagged when they heard it.

  Jenkins sagged back down on the rear seat of their aluminum boat.

  Ian looked grim as Liam reached the side and clung to it.

  They had the two boats tied together, and they helped him up over the side.

  He lay there gasping for a moment, not from exertion but anger.

  “I don’t know, maybe we should have seen that coming.” Liam accepted a towel gratefully from Jenkins.

  “Shit. They probably called it in before going in the water.” Jenkins looked over at the far side of the bay, wondering again if they were under observation.

  With the prize gone, perhaps that was unlikely. It was still a shitty feeling.

  Ian had a hand-held military radio. It was set to a secure frequency, digitally encrypted. He had the chopper pilot standing by, which involved orbiting the lake at low level as if on a training flight. If necessary, they had the authority to call up a tanker for refueling. While the enemy already knew something was up, hopefully no one else did and it was best to keep it that way.

  All they had were pictures, pictures that were compelling. It was the maneuvering module, useful enough in its own way if your nation didn’t have one already. With its traces of radioactivity, it might be fairly easy to track if they got a starting point, although low-level radioactive waste went down the highways every day. The enemy would try to get it out as quickly as possible, taking whatever risks were necessary. Going by road had its attractions, when they schemed it out. Trucking radioactive waste across borders for special treatment took one hell of a lot of paperwork, and much previous documentation, but nothing could be ruled out. It might also be the perfect cover. Organized crime had deep tentacles. Nowhere was this more true than in the waste disposal industry. The Mafia had cooperated with the U.S. in WW II. The shoe could so easily be on the other foot. Biker gangs, drug cartels, they were all fueled by greed and contempt for social order. It wasn’t a big step for some sharp operator to get into the high-tech weapons business. Or any kind of arms business.

  Keeping bits and pieces of satellite in the country and analyzing it at a secret lab, simply transmitting data to another location, might be an option. That seemed less likely, but barely possible.

  “Okay, we’d better make a report. We have to move on this pronto. They had to have grabbed it during the night.” Liam would put it in writing.

  The responsibility rode on his shoulders.

  It was his failure, although they all felt bad about it.

  The enemy would have had to have a boat, a heavier duty sled, a vehicle, a trailer. They didn’t do it all by hand, heavy as it was. There weren’t that many real roads, as opposed to logging roads and uncontrolled trails. Someone had to have seen or heard something.

  Some kind of a plan would appear to be in order.

  He was the man in the hot seat.

  The report they eventually agreed to send was short, sweet and to the point.

  The response was quick and reassuring.

  No resources would be spared or so it said.

  ***

  “How in the hell was it done?” Jenkins was no more and no less upset than the others.

  She was also a professional. She had seen victory, or at least success, or something akin to it, as well as defeat (otherwise known as the lack of success) over the years.

  “The underwater part might have involved a much bigger sled. They might have used a long run-in, heated suits and the same rigs more or less that we use.” Liam scanned the rim of the valley, with the river and this particular bay set in it. “We’re probably under observation now, when you consider it. Or at least we must have been. What happened to Ian shows they have more people on the ground than we know about.”

  Maybe even a lot more.

  “We underestimated them.” Alice wasn’t happy about it.

  The thing was to take it more properly into consideration, within the context of the overall picture of the battlefield.

  Watching the river and the entire watershed with all of the source lakes scattered about, especially at night, was an impossible job. In this sort of country, it just wasn’t possible to get enough people in place without becoming a little too obvious. The enemy suffered the same problem, but they had some good information—and Liam was providing them with someone to watch.

  “So what are we going to do, Liam?” Jenkins’ eyes glittered from across the table.

  It was cheerful enough when it came.

  “We’re going to find the rest of that satellite.” He nodded. “Come to think of it, this might be a wonderful area for a military exercise. We’ll have reservists, tanks, trucks, men in green standing around at insignificant road intersections. We’ll have aircraft, helicopters, plenty of boots on the ground. That might keep their heads down long enough for us to find the rest of it.”

  His eyes were faraway, intent on the short-term tactics and the long-term strategy.

  He gave them a look.

  “We can always send them all home again.”

  With a wry look, Jenkins was hauling in the anchor.

  Ian untied their boats, holding on with one hand as Jenkins settled in for the run back to their launch point.

  “All right.
What do you want us to do?”

  “Well. Your covers are blown now.” He looked at Jenkins. “Your partner, too. Don’t go anywhere alone for the next little while. Other than that, continue with the search in your area. Supervise your people, and wait for my call.”

  He looked at Ian.

  “I’ll be finding myself a new spot.” Ian had a pair of minders, but when he moved they would probably move too.

  That made six enemy agents identified (or suspects observed) so far.

  They had that much going for them.

  “What about tracking devices?” Jenkins had a point. “When we find one, do we leave it on or take it off?”

  “Ah. Good question. I suppose it depends on what you’re doing next. Case by case.” Liam shrugged. “Oh, God. How the fuck would I know?”

  The others chuckled dutifully.

  Sooner or later the enemy would locate anyone that moved to a new location. For all they knew they were outnumbered, and by people none of their allied intelligence services had ever seen before. There were advantages to staying in place, watching, and waiting.

  This was starting to look like big trouble.

  Liam had a feeling it might not be all that long in coming. An important thought occurred to him.

  “There are still a couple of fairly big stretches I haven’t had time to survey yet.” Then there was his first big hit, which he was saving until the situation became clearer.

  “We’d better do that soon, or they’ll be long gone with it.” She had a point.

  He reached for the starter.

  “Yeah, but let’s get some more resources in here first. I’ll see you guys later.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Frank Courtenay, the Big F, was on the scrambled line to his counterpart at the Canadian Security and Intelligence Service.

  The gentleman’s name was Ron Marinaro and while Frank didn’t know him personally, he came highly-recommended by some people who did. Those people were in a position to know and were relatively trustworthy. As far as such things went.

  With both men able to see each other on the big screen in excellent resolution, it was like they were in the same room together.

  Marinaro was a tall, spare man in his late forties. He was thoroughly conversant with EMERALD. He wasn’t nearly so paranoid about leaks and moles and Philbies when dealing with the Brits. The Yanks tried not let on, and the relationship was better these days, but they had a lot to lose as well. It was just the way things were. The great thing was that EMERALD had fallen in Canada’s wide-open spaces, which was better than central Asia or almost anywhere in Africa. This would have imposed real headaches. As such things went, their little operation appeared to be going well.

  “So. You’ve had some action. Good.” Frank’s brown eyes were enlarged by his glasses, rimmed in thick black plastic.

  Marinaro regarded him.

  “Yes, and thank you for lending us the manpower.” Borrowing a couple of heavies had been enough to attract someone’s attention and jog a few elbows. “We’re piecing together reports. Up there it’s all pickup trucks, boat trailers and campgrounds. But, ah, going totally off-road is a little more unusual. Among other things, anyone with a rented vehicle is suspect. Anyone not local and going too far off the beaten path is suspect. Anyone cruising logging roads up there is most likely a grower, a poacher, or some kid with a new truck, which makes our job big enough. Oh—and a suspect.”

  “Yes, that’s very true. Do you think you can find the rest of it?” He was referring to EMERALD.

  “We certainly hope so, if only for the peace of mind.”

  Frank nodded.

  “What about flying it out?”

  “We’ve got the area blanketed with our own surveillance aircraft. They will either move it by road, or just bury it and come back later.”

  Sooner or later, the cops would have to go home. The inevitable prospect of winter was there as well.

  “Of course. Hmn. Does the name Speck ring any bells?”

  “Ah...it might if I had a little more information.”

  “Ask and you shall receive.” Frank pushed a button and sent the file.

  “Send us a bill for that missing dive sled.” Marinaro laughed and Frank nodded in all seriousness. “I’ll be keeping you posted. Anyways, we have every cop in the country looking out for suspicious vehicles. We’ve got some descriptions of people and what they’re driving. If they’re seen, they’ll be pulled over. A routine traffic stop, something like that. We’ll check their ID and see what it says. Borz and Lom are still up there, checked into another camp. By all appearances, they’re happily fishing and minding their own business. They’ve changed their appearance, and their names, but there are only so many places to go up there. So far we’re leaving them in place. We’ve got a couple of new gomers watching Liam for sure, and we have reports on other people of interest from your people and our own.”

  Bringing in a few fresh faces had been very helpful. The bad guys had been studying C.S.I.S. personnel for some time. It was a credible insight. They were also using a lot of pawns, which was extremely interesting.

  “And how’s my boy Liam doing?”

  “Very professional.” Now was not the time to bring up the issue of the girl, but that part seemed a bit off to Marinaro. “I’ve seen the bodies.”

  Frank laughed. He’d read the report.

  Marinaro was still thinking about the girl. What in the hell was Kimball thinking.

  “I’m wondering if the missing members of the opposition, at least the ones we’re interested in, have simply holed up in a secure location. If they got the vehicles indoors for example, in a rental space somewhere. They don’t have to sleep in the same building.” Marinaro sighed, but it was simply one more item on the list. “Sit on it for a while and see if anyone takes an interest.”

  Frank nodded sagely. While they were glad to help out, this was a joint venture.

  C.S.I.S. was on its own ground and they had to be given the lead.

  Mister Lom and Mister Borz, as things turned out, were identified as Canadian citizens by their driver’s license photos. Their DLs were authentic, and so were the photos, taken at point of sale. The analysts had the latest facial recognition software. Using the pictures taken by Kimball, they had multiple views and angles. Marinaro consulted his notes, quickly comparing their pictures side by side. He sent them to his counterpart with a couple of clicks of the mouse. Essentially, the same faces (or their underlying structures, fingerprints, irises and so forth) must grace other documents under other names, and sooner or later the biometrics people would narrow it down. At that point they would have a set of new names, new vehicle registrations and new license plates to look out for. Somewhere on the books would be a couple of secure private identities for when they weren’t working.

  Frank looked at them, eyes going off for a moment.

  “Ah. Very nice.”

  “Okay. Mister Lom, completely unknown to police and intelligence. If the machine is correct. Alleged real name, Andrew Simpson. We’re terribly suspicious, of course, but we have people digging through old hospital birth records, doctor’s records…we’ll have them tramping cemeteries if we have to. He and his wife left the country a couple of years ago.”

  They had visited the Middle East. It was their one and only trip, perhaps the trip of the lifetime.

  Frank studied the face for a moment.

  “Andrew Simpson?”

  “Yes. My thinking is that we’ll find a small stone in a cemetery somewhere, and a death certificate in that name. A stillborn child, or someone who passed in the first few years of life. Thankfully we have a name, passport and driver’s license to work with. But people still get away with taking the name of someone long since dead. I mean, it can be done.” So Lom had at least two names.

  Both were highly suspicious.

  This was the amateur option.

  Frank nodded. It was a bit of a process, right out of Day of the Jackal. The
most unlikely person could do it with a little thought, a little research, some money and some patience. The only thing that mattered was having a set of unknown fingerprints. This held true for the identity you were stealing as well. More than one person had been bitten because of lax research and taking the wrong identity, that of someone with a different set of prints that were on record. Either that or their own fingerprints were on record. They got picked up and booked. A set of known fingerprints would lead to photos on record somewhere. When faces didn’t match official documents elsewhere, then someone was in trouble—they had a little explaining to do. When applying for documents, you needed a current address that matched all other documents. An experienced agent would not live at the address—they’d just go back after six weeks or so and see if anything had arrived. The address in question was served by a neighbourhood postal box set-up. Marinaro explained that dozens of people from four or five blocks around would be showing up at all hours to check their mail. One more vehicle, one more civilian coming and going. It would be easy enough to send a pawn with the key. The operative (or more likely, another pawn) would be nearby, watching to see if they were followed or observed.

  It didn’t take that much brains. Big F nodded.

  Modern intelligence services had engraved plates for the documents from many other countries, friendly and otherwise, for the creation of false papers. False identities were more than just papers and plastic laminated cards. The best false identities were fully documented people going back thirty or forty years, all of it fabricated and bogus. No such person had ever existed. In the event of a thorough search of the home, there would be love letters, monogrammed souvenirs from a wedding anniversary, the high school diploma signed by the principal…everything.

  “So what we figure, at least as a working hypothesis, is that someone did indeed go on vacation, taking the wife with him…”

  “Yes, of course. And someone closely resembling the subject comes home after vacationing with the little wifey-poo. Neither one of whom has any sort of previous record, no official position or standing, no previous hits or screenings. Hmn.”