Line in the Shadow

by Clancy Nacht

  Line in the Shadow

  Clancy Nacht & Thursday Euclid

  www.einekleinepress.com

  Thank you for everything, din. Miss you.

  Line in the Shadow

  Copyright © January 2018 by Clancy Nacht & Thursday Euclid

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.

  Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

  The information in this book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Published by

  Eine Kleine Press

  P.O. Box 3671

  Pflugerville, TX 78691

  USA

  www.einekleinepress.com

  Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Eine Kleine Press’s books are for sale to adults as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  Line in the Shadow

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 1

  Rex Carver squinted through the 747’s small window, wincing in the morning glare. As the plane touched down stateside, he exhaled in relief, turned toward the aisle, and braced for the heavyset gentleman beside him to wake from the snoring slumber he’d enjoyed since they left Frankfurt. As if on cue, the man yawned, both fists rising to rub his eyes before he extended his arms in a stretch the cramped quarters couldn’t accommodate.

  Sighing, Rex dodged. This gentleman boarded in Germany, but Rex had been here since Beirut. His carry-on had spent the trip under the seat in front of him, always within reach, and now rested in his lap in preparation to flee the stale, recirculated trans-Atlantic air. His seatmate—who proclaimed himself Belgian; Rex suspected Moldovan—had not yet refastened the worn leather belt intended to hold up his ill-fitting suit trousers, which the fellow had unbuckled following the apparently satisfying in-flight meal Rex had barely touched.

  With a wearily pointed eye flick, Rex alerted him to the source of potential embarrassment. If he lost his trousers when he reached for his overhead luggage, it would slow down the entire disembarking process.

  The man grunted thanks—a Soviet accent; Rex was certain—and yanked mercilessly at the belt’s strap until the prong slipped through the first hole, caught, and lapsed against the buckle. The man smiled at Rex, a wan upturn of the lips that seemed uniquely European. Rex returned it in kind, missing terribly the days when the targets he analyzed and surveilled had worn that expression. With the way things were going, perhaps he would again soon.

  “Greetings, passengers. Thank you for flying with us. We’ve now arrived safely at JFK. Have a beautiful day, and we look forward to flying with you again soon!” The flight attendant’s perky voice reverberated through tinny loudspeakers as the seatbelt light went off. With practiced ease, Rex slipped past his seatmate and into the aisle, insinuating himself into the crush of departing travelers without relaxing his seemingly casual grip on his carry-on.

  As he shambled down the ramp with the other red-eye zombies, a sudden pang stole his breath and made his chest ache. He’d compartmentalized this trip, separating this destination from its emotional components, but this was his first time back in the city since his divorce was finalized last year.

  He couldn’t afford these emotions. Not right now. There’d be time for feelings later, when he was safely checked in at the hotel.

  Rex made his way to the nearest men’s room, navigating Terminal 4 on autopilot. After shutting himself in a stall, Rex fumbled open the latch of his bag, reached into the secret pocket in its lining, and withdrew a tiny zip baggie of Xanax tablets. Rationing them, Rex took only one, then closed the toilet lid and sat to wait for the anxiety to fade. He didn’t know what he’d do when the pills ran out; the doctor who’d prescribed them for his panic attacks had told him he couldn’t refill the scrip for another month.

  By the time he made it out of the airport, Rex’s mood had plateaued. Why did he feel so compelled to make an ill-advised jaunt from Queens to Brooklyn? There was nothing for him now in the brownstone where he’d lived with his ex-wife and the little girl he’d helped her raise.

  Piper’s biological father had re-entered the picture, and Heather had, despite countless assurances to the contrary, decided Logan would make a better dad than Rex. After eight years of devotion, she’d dumped Rex like an old dog she no longer wished to clean up after. What had he done to deserve that?

  A fresh wave of exhaustion left Rex’s eyelids heavy, difficult to open after each gritty blink. He approached a cab at the curb and climbed in despite the driver’s warning he’d need a minute.

  Rex didn’t care. He just needed to sit down.

  The cabbie pretended not to notice as Rex fished a different zippered bag from his sole piece of luggage, though Rex caught the man’s eye on him in the rearview mirror. Ritalin, this time, prescribed for Rex’s non-existent adult ADHD by one of Rex’s several personal physicians. He dry-swallowed a dose and then studied the cabbie’s credentials as the man fumbled with an empty pack of cigarettes, upending the packet as if any could be hiding from him.

  It was illegal to smoke in the cab, probably why he had warned Rex he needed time. Rex certainly didn’t begrudge anyone a smoke break, especially not if he got to relax against the broad backseat by himself and decompress after the crowded flight.

  As Rex sprawled, the cabbie dug in the glove compartment, seeming unwilling to drive until he had his fix. Only when a policeman thumped the hood of the car and yelled at them to move along did the cabbie sigh and pull into traffic.

  After a few minutes, Rex’s Ritalin kicked in, and he glanced at the driver’s ID before he asked in Arabic, “Mr. Adnan, are you Syrian?”

  Eyes wide, the cabbie turned his head to look at Rex before looking back at traffic. Also in Arabic, he replied, “I have done nothing wrong.”

  Rex smiled and laughed, using the Middle Eastern custom of responding to tension with levity. “I have just come from there on business. May I make you a gift?”

  The fight went out of Adnan’s posture, a gleam entering his eye as he glanced back at Rex. He refused the offer twice, as was the custom, but when Rex insisted again, smiled broadly and said in English, “Yes, yes, with my thanks. What is this gift?”

  Rex fished an unopened pack of Gauloises—rich, unfiltered French cigarettes, popular in Syria and har
d to come by in the States—from his coat and reached forward to offer it. The man’s pleased gasp was all the confirmation Rex needed that he’d hit his mark; his soft skills with Arabs were improving, but he’d still take all the practice he could get. “You enjoy these? I’m told they are very popular in your homeland.”

  “Yes, sir, I do, but this is my home now. I am a legal citizen.” Adnan’s tone had sobered, his English careful and precise. There was grudging pride there, a conflict between his love of the home he’d left behind and what might have been relief at finding a haven in the States.

  “My sincere apologies if I have offended, sir.”

  “Where are you from?” Adnan sounded hesitant to pry.

  “Here.” Rex waved his right hand, declining to give more details but capitalizing on the opportunity to recalibrate his approach. If he was going to identify poor tradecraft by the Company’s Middle Eastern agents, it behooved Rex to perfect his own specialized skill with those cultures.

  Everything agents were taught at the Farm and the other CIA training bases had for years been skewed toward a Soviet-centric worldview. Repackaged Cold War tactics were taught by former Cold Warriors, and the new and innovative could be slow to catch on. Rex, alumnus of a European university, had barely broken a sweat while making a codename for himself doing European infiltrations. Now, the paradigm had shifted drastically and, more than a decade and a half later, they were all still running to catch up.

  Judging by Adnan’s pleased murmurs as, stuck in early morning traffic on the BQE, he opened his fragrant gift, Rex was running faster than most.

  A few companionable minutes later, Rex directed Adnan to stop near a small neighborhood park on a quiet, middle class street. He’d walk the rest of the way. The house he’d shared with Heather was his home no longer, and Rex could hardly walk up and knock at the door at this hour.

  “Thank you, Mr. Adnan. You have been an exemplary host.” Rex offered him fare plus a generous tip, but Adnan shook his head emphatically.

  “No, no. Thank you, sir. Please accept this trip as a token of hospitality. You have given me a gift, but this is all I may offer you today. Please enjoy.”

  “I couldn’t, sir. You are too generous.”

  “No, no. You must accept. As one naturalized patriot to another.” The cab’s engine idled as Adnan turned fully in his seat to look at Rex. His expression was earnest, dark eyes enormous and soulful in his bronze face. Handsome. Kind. “It is a rare pleasure to meet with such courtesy in my work. Please allow me this honor.”

  Rex tilted his head and gave the man a searching look, absorbing these precious moments of connection with another human being. “I would never seek to do you dishonor. If you would feel dishonor at being unable to return my humble gift...”

  “Please, sir.” Adnan’s expression turned playful. “You must not shame me by allowing me to send you away with no mark of my gratitude. It would be an affront to Allah.”

  “Then I am very thankful, Mr. Adnan. May you be blessed in kind,” Rex answered in Arabic before nodding respectfully and exiting the cab. “Peace for you.”

  “Peace for you!” Adnan called through his open window as he put the cab into gear. He waved once and drove away, leaving Rex standing on the curb with a handful of bills and the feeling of being an alien in a place where he once belonged.

  He tucked the money into his billfold and the sense of isolation into its proper compartment somewhere in the middle of his chest. Then, taking a deep breath to clear his head, Rex strolled down the familiar street. If he was honest, the brownstone he’d shared with Heather and Piper had been the only real home he’d ever had. Its loss clawed at him, defying his attempts at repression.

  Not much had changed in the neighborhood in the months since he’d been here. It was still undeniably the Brooklyn foothold of the bourgeoisie, so ordinary and characteristic of the American Dream that Rex wondered how he’d ever imagined he fit in here. It had been his wife, he thought; it had been their child. Through their eyes, this place was comfort and joy.

  Belonging.

  Through Rex’s prism, this was one more foreign city with foreign customs. His acceptance here—or anywhere else—depended on Rex’s chameleon-like ability to show each citizen the Rex they wanted to meet. It was exhausting.

  Sometimes Rex lost the thread that bound his conscious mind to his unconscious self, wholly forgetting he had a personality or desires of his own for weeks on end. As part of Heather-and-Piper—a single unit, a perfect anchor—Rex had always known who to be. If it wasn’t really him, it was his best imitation of himself.

  Now, as he walked past the steps leading up to their door, Rex was unable to summon that imitation. Which neural pathways led to that persona? His dendrites betrayed him. The complex cells and component parts that made up memory and self were taxed beyond reason.

  Possibly the chemicals he’d taken didn’t help.

  Through the front window, he glimpsed Heather setting the breakfast table for three, and suddenly he ceased to hurt. Emptiness took over.

  He forgot how to care. That happened sometimes. He wasn’t alarmed, not anymore.

  Two hours later, Rex found himself sitting in the coffee shop where he’d formerly bought caffeinated treats on Sunday mornings to bring home to his sleepy-eyed wife. He had a meeting with his unit chief later in the day, but until then, there was nothing but time to kill and a pervasive unease to interpret. A distinctive prickling at the back of Rex’s neck as he walked away from his old home had given him the sense he was being followed, and now, after two espressos, an Americano, a macchiato, and a trip to the john, it finally seemed to be passing.

  I can’t tell anymore if it’s paranoia, the drugs, or reality. That thought crossed his mind so often it had faded into the background, his own personal “Ocean Sounds” white noise generator like the one Heather had bought at Sharper Image or Brookstone or one of the other dozen stores in which she’d loved to spend their paychecks while pretending she didn’t know how he’d made his.

  The brunch crowd was beginning to arrive, so Rex stood and made a last trip to the men’s room. Between his chronic anxiety and the coffee, he hoped it was unoccupied. Instead, he found the door locked and a panicked voice shouted, “I’m in here!” when he jostled the knob.

  Rex redirected his attention to the corkboard over the water fountain between the men’s and ladies’ restrooms. Neon fliers announced obnoxiously well-intentioned local events: Recycling for Life! Tuesday afternoon. Greenspaces for Health! Third Saturdays monthly. Community Garden Organic & Local! Contact Sally Rutherford.

  Then a plain white notice with a badly photocopied picture of a handsome, light-haired man caught his eye: Ike Graves of Graves Diggers returns to the stage for a one-night show! The show was scheduled for later that night at a coffee house some blocks away.

  Years ago, when Heather had still been interested in going out, he’d taken her to see Graves Diggers at a nearby venue, trying to impart to her some of Rex’s passionate appreciation of music. She’d never quite understood why music spoke to him as it did, couldn’t know what it meant to feel the empty space inside fill to overflowing with vicarious emotion. Though she’d liked the band well enough, she’d laughed when Rex hunted down their demo EP on CD and listened to it until it was too scratched to listen to any longer, and been annoyed when the loss depressed him.

  The next day, she’d bought Rex an iPod. It was one of the only gifts she’d ever given him that fit.

  A click heralded the unlocking and opening of the men’s room, but Rex had already taken the flier and headed for the front door.

  Rex took the subway from Brooklyn to Manhattan, then hit a hot dog cart on his way to meet with his boss for a post-mission debriefing. Though the original New York location at 7 World Trade Center had been destroyed in the attacks of 9/11, it hadn’t been long before the Company regrouped and acquired a new office near UN headquarters. With a gourmet hot dog in one hand and his attaché
case in the other, Rex looked like any other well-heeled businessman in the neighborhood.

  Few of the people bumping into him on the sidewalk would ever have guessed they were being watched by security officers as soon as they turned onto this block. Even fewer would have been able to spot the measures in place to keep this Company bastion safe, but Rex knew where each camera, each microphone, and each sniper-trained agent was located.

  Unlike some agents, Rex had worked in the field and at satellite offices both domestic and abroad. That well-rounded career path was what had put him in demand for the latest self-policing trend inside the Company: covert international tradecraft evaluations. Internal Affairs officers weren’t popular in any agency, but in one like the CIA, they were especially loathed. Fortunately for Rex, its clearance was such that only his direct superior was fully aware of his mission parameters.

  For good or ill, even Rex was often unaware of why he received the orders he did or what repercussions followed his fulfillment of them. As a servant of the US Intelligence community, Rex’s job was to contribute small pieces of a much larger puzzle that he was never intended to understand personally. If he hadn’t learned years ago to compartmentalize his curiosity, to detach from uncertainty, he would have burned out. At the moment, he needed something to fill the gaps in his life left by Heather-and-Piper’s absence; espionage was all Rex was good for anymore.

  Maybe it was all I was ever good for.

  Taking a seat on the bench outside the entrance just to agitate the guards, Rex tucked into his dog, polishing it off with an alacrity born of indifference. He tossed the wrapper in the nearest bin, pretended to check his watch, and then proceeded into the building. After clearing the lobby’s security checkpoint, Rex headed to the third elevator—set up to service only the floors the CIA used. He swiped his ID to activate the elevator, and it opened with a ding. Once inside, he had to select the proper floor. The button scanned his fingerprint to verify he was who his ID said he was, and the lift zipped upward.