The Thin Black Line

by Simon Gervais

  ―

  Mike was seated on a chair facing the large bathroom’s mirror. He had removed his shirt and was wearing only a pair of blue designer jeans with his brown sandals. His wife, kneeling next to him, was applying a bandage across his left bicep and triceps. She had easily removed the shard of glass that had embedded itself in his arm. To close the wound, she had sutured eight stitches.

  Mike felt his wife’s presence with an electric intensity. His heart, beating beyond a normal pace, was telling him he would always love this woman. Feelings that had faded since the tragedy were coming back with a vengeance.

  “All right, you’re good to go,” Lisa said, finishing up the dressing. “We’ll change it tomorrow.”

  Mike stretched his arm and flexed his bicep.

  “Not a good idea,” his wife warned him. “You should take it easy for a couple of days.”

  “Will do, Doc,” Mike replied, smiling at his wife. “Thank you.”

  Lisa smiled back before adding, “Mapother did ask me a few questions about your health.”

  “Oh, really? What did you say?”

  Lisa grinned. “That I wasn’t sure yet. That I’d let him know as soon as I found out.”

  “I see,” Mike said, teasing. He approached his wife and pressed his body against hers. “And how are you planning to find out?”

  Lisa, still dressed in her Under Armour running gear, wrapped her arms around him. Her form-fitting shirt accentuated the curves Mike had always found irresistible. “Would you believe that women have a very acute sense of when their lovers are back in shape?” his wife whispered in his ear while slowly unbuttoning his jeans to reveal the rest of his muscular body.

  Mike responded to her invitation by pressing his lips into the crook of her neck. Her skin, soft as silk, tasted delicately salty. Sensing Lisa’s pulse accelerating, he pressed his body harder against hers. He looked at her beautiful face as he carefully traced the contour of her lips, then kissed her passionately, loving the slow sensuous dance of her tongue finding his as he reached for hers. Their kiss became more urgent, more demanding, which led them to the floor.

  For the first time since the disastrous fatal day, they made love with total abandon, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying, but confident they’d never grow apart again.

  CHAPTER 18

  Brooklyn, New York

  Four short knocks on the door jolted him out of sleep. Looking at the empty space next to him, he remembered hearing Lisa slipping out of bed. On her pillow, she had left a note written on a small piece of paper. Picking it up, Mike read:

  I didn’t want to wake you. Charles Mapother called and said that because you hadn’t called back, he’d be here at 1:00 p.m. He wanted me to remind you he’d be bringing someone over. I’m off to get a few things for the BBQ. Oh, and I told him you’re back in shape!

  Mike beamed, thinking about the magical moment he had shared with his wife. They both knew that something had changed. Their lives wouldn’t be the same. But they would never be alone.

  Hearing another series of knocks, Mike got out of his bed and picked up the pair of blue jeans Lisa had so eagerly removed an hour ago. To hide the bandage on his left arm, he grabbed a black long-sleeve shirt from his dresser before hurrying to the front door. Looking through the peephole, he saw Mapother standing in front of his door with another man he immediately recognized.

  Jonathan Sanchez? It can’t be! How long has it been? At least a decade, maybe more. The guy still looks like he’s in his twenties.

  Sanchez was shorter than Mike by two or three inches, but his weight was at least ten pounds more—all muscle. Though his name suggested a Hispanic heritage, with his blond hair and green eyes, Sanchez looked like an all-American boy in his white shirt and blue jeans.

  Realizing he’d been standing at his peephole, Mike hurriedly opened the door to let the two men in.

  “Good to see you again, Mike,” said Mapother, who was about to shake hands with him when Mike and Sanchez embraced like brothers.

  “How have you been, old friend?” said Mike.

  “What happened to your ugly mug?”

  “If you’re with him, you know what happened,” Mike said pointing to Mapother.

  Sanchez took a step back. “Yeah, I know. One hell of a job you did there, brother.”

  Mike nodded his thanks. It felt good to see his friend again. Besides his wife, Sanchez was the only one still connected to his previous life.

  “Sorry about your losses, though,” Sanchez said.

  “Me too,” replied Mike grateful his friend didn’t dwell on the subject.

  But Jonathan wouldn’t do that. He’s as awkward as I am in these situations. And he’s lost friends in combat before; he knows it isn’t necessary to speak much.

  Mapother changed the topic. “I was aware you guys knew each other. I was told you’ve served together. But that’s all I know. Would you care to enlighten me?”

  Mike and Sanchez exchanged glances.

  “You want to tell him?” said Mike.

  “I’ll let you do it, Mike. You’re the officer, after all.”

  Mike shook his head. “Go ahead, Joe, you’ve always been the better storyteller.”

  “Ok, then. It was in Kosovo, May 1999,” Sanchez started. “Mike was there with a tiny contingent of Canadian Special Forces. Their mission was to assist us with acquiring targets of opportunity for NATO’s warplanes.”

  “Weren’t you with Delta at the time?” Mapother asked.

  “I was. Mike and I worked together for weeks conducting reconnaissance patrols to pinpoint the exact locations of our targets.”

  “Wasn’t that part of Operation Picnic?”

  “That’s right, Charles,” Mike replied. “Picnic’s objectives were to identify Serbian units’ supply lines, SAM and AAA sites, while remaining undetected.”

  “Our team consisted of Mike, who was our CO; myself as the senior NCO; and eight other guys—two Canadians and six Americans,” Sanchez continued. “Our operational task, which lasted six weeks, was to collect photographic evidence of Serbian war crimes.”

  “And,” Mike continued, pointing to Sanchez, “he was the man who took the pictures of the mass graves that were later used in special judicial courts.”

  “Don’t be so modest, Mike,” Sanchez said. He looked at Charles Mapother before continuing. “Mike and his team are the ones who enabled us to send the intelligence we collected.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We were ambushed on our way to the extraction point. Two guys went down in the first few seconds, and I took a bullet in the knee,” Sanchez said, lifting his cane. “Before we knew it, we were pinned down by overwhelming enemy fire.”

  “What happened?” Mapother inquired.

  “Mike, who’d stayed behind to secure the site with the two other crazy Canucks from JTF-2, managed to outflank and kill enough of them to ensure our retreat.”

  “There’s no mention of that in your military file,” Mapother said, his eyes on Mike.

  “Charles, you know how it is,” Mike said, shrugging. “A lot of things don’t make the files.”

  Suddenly aware that his guests were still standing in the entryway, Mike invited them in and offered them something to drink.

  “I think a celebratory beer would be in order,” Sanchez said.

  “Charles? Anything?” Mike asked, already in the kitchen.

  “Bottled water, if you have some,” he replied.

  A few seconds later, Mike approached them and handed Sanchez and Mapother two ice-cold Heinekens.

  “I asked for a bottle of water, Mike, not a beer.”

  “Sorry, Charles. I only heard the word bottle,” Mike answered as he sat down. “Would you like me to get up from my very comfortable chair, walk back to the kitchen, throw away an untouched beer, and g
rab you a warm bottle of water instead?”

  “No, thanks. This will do,” Mapother said, chuckling.

  Mike and Sanchez clanked their bottles together, and each took a long pull of his drink.

  “Listen, Mike,” Sanchez said, placing his beer on the coffee table next to him. “There’s something you need to know.”

  “That sounds official, Joe,” Mike said. “Does it have something to do with the reason why you’re here?”

  “More or less, my friend.”

  “All right. I’m all ears.”

  “I’m the one who approached Lisa while she was at the hospital.”

  Mike cocked his head. “About what?”

  “I asked Jonathan to go see your wife at the hospital, Mike,” Mapother explained. “I wanted him to convince her to come and see me—”

  “So you could persuade her to join your organization,” finished Mike. He took another long pull of his beer. “I have no problem with that, Charles.”

  “You understand why I had to do this?”

  “That’s not difficult to understand,” Mike replied. “I’m the one you wanted, and you knew the only way I’d say yes was to already have Lisa onboard.”

  Mapother acquiesced. “After everything that befell your family, I knew you’d stick with Lisa no matter what.”

  “You don’t know her very well if you think she would have fought me over taking on whoever was behind the death of the rest of our family,” Mike said, thinking about how fierce his wife had become.

  “You’re right, Mike. I wasn’t sure how she would react,” agreed Mapother, studying his beer’s label. “But your father’s still alive.”

  “I don’t know for how long,” Mike replied. “The government has been trying to locate him since his kidnapping. They don’t have much to show for it.”

  “I know,” Mapother said. “Keep the faith.”

  “Yeah,” Mike mumbled. “Easier said then done.”

  The three men finished their beer in silence with Mapother typing something on his smartphone. He was the one who broke the silence. “Where’s Lisa, by the way?”

  “She’s probably at the grocery store shopping for the barbecue,” Mike said. “She should be back shortly. Why?”

  Mapother looked at his phone. “We’ll have to take a rain check on the barbecue, I’m afraid. I just received a message from the office. I need to get back, and I want you guys to join me. There’s a lot we have to talk about.”

  “All right,” Mike said. “Let me call Lisa. She’ll join us there.”

  ―

  A black Yukon Hybrid was parked in front of Mike’s condo tower. The driver—a tall, broad-shouldered black man wearing a tailored gray suit —walked around the huge vehicle to greet them. Mike remembered him as one of the two guards at the hospital.

  “Good day, Mr. Walton. I’m Samuel Turner, the director’s driver.” He extended his hand, and Mike shook it.

  “Pleased to meet you, Sam. Call me Mike.”

  “Actually,” Mapother cut in, “Sam is a lot more than a chauffeur. He’s my personal bodyguard, and he used to be with the FBI Hostage Rescue Team.”

  Turner smiled modestly, then opened the back door for the three men, who all climbed into the big SUV.

  “Welcome to my second office,” Mapother said once Turner had closed the door behind them.

  As the Yukon pulled smoothly into traffic, Mike took in his surroundings. The Yukon’s rear compartment had been highly modified. Instead of the regular second- and third-row bench seats, four leather captain’s chairs faced each other. In the center was a communications console with two laptops on an extendable platform. Two twelve-inch LCD screens played two different news channels.

  “Control, Mobile One. We’re heading to location Charlie. ETA fifteen minutes,” said Turner over the SUV’s communication system.

  Mike looked at Mapother with raised eyebrows.

  As if reading his thoughts, the IMSI director explained. “Control is IMSI’s communications center. They’re on watch twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. They monitor all our assets across the globe, including me. In fact, they like to know where I am all the time.”

  “Where’s your office located? Exactly, I mean,” he asked Mapother.

  “The Brooklyn Navy Yard,” Sanchez said before Mapother had a chance to reply.

  They passed under the Brooklyn Bridge and made several turns onto secondary streets before approaching a fenced area. A double gate opened upon their approach. He hadn’t seen Turner push any buttons on the front console; it most likely was activated from a remote location. The chain-link fence was ten feet high, with barbed wire looping around its top. Beyond the gate, dozens of concrete wall panels had been aligned on each side of the road, forcing the Yukon to follow one preapproved route that led to a central checkpoint. The configuration reminded Mike of several army bases he had visited.

  Mapother confirmed what Mike was thinking. “Our cover is as solid as it gets, but we can never be too careful. And for every security measure that you can see, there are another two that you can’t.”

  They arrived at a large guard hut with a nine-foot concrete-and-steel fence behind it. A man dressed in a nondescript security guard’s uniform walked over to the Yukon’s driver-side window. Two other uniformed men, one of them with a German shepherd, circled around the Yukon.

  Turner opened the window and handed his ID card to the guard. “The director is in the back with Mr. Walton and Mr. Sanchez.”

  “Unlock the door so we can take a look,” ordered the guard.

  Probably former military police, Mike thought. Suspicious eyes, square jaws, wide shoulders, and crew cuts always gave them away.

  Mike heard the automatic locks pop open. The guard opened the rear door of the Yukon and stuck his head in.

  “Director,” the guard said simply before closing the door.

  After giving the ID back to the driver, the guard went inside the hut. Moments later, the heavy steel gate slowly rose.

  “Welcome to the compound, Mike,” Mapother said.

  Just beyond the wall was a medium-size gray concrete building that looked more like a storage facility than an intelligence headquarters. He could see no windows. An iron ladder led to the roof of the square-shaped building, where numerous antennas of different sizes were visible.

  Their vehicle took a slight right, then headed downhill to an entrance marked by a large, solid garage door. “There is no other entrance but this one,” Mapother said. “It opens automatically from the control room when, and only when, they receive the green light from our security people.”

  After the garage door opened, the Yukon continued making its way inside an underground garage. Thirty or so vehicles of all sizes were parked inside. Turner stopped the Yukon close to the only door that Mike could see. Mike opened his door and stepped out of the SUV. As he approached the steel main door, he realized that it had no handle or knob.

  “You need a pass and a seven-digit code,” Sanchez said, pointing to a little black electronic keypad installed on the wall. “If you’re missing one or the other, you can’t gain access unless you’re escorted by a member of the security team.”

  “Got it.”

  “We’ll set you up with everything you’ll need first thing in the morning,” Mapother said. “But right now let’s go to the control room.”

  Mapother swiped his card and punched in a code. The door opened with a soft click to reveal a long hallway with white marble flooring and walls. Mapother led the way, followed by Sanchez. As he passed through the cool marble hallway, he looked for motion detectors and video cameras. Just because he didn’t see any didn’t mean that they weren’t there.

  As they proceeded down the hall, they passed many abutting hallways, each lined with a series of black doors. Mike noticed
once again a lack of knobs or handles on these doors, just keypads.

  Perceiving Mike’s interest, Sanchez said, “Depending on each person’s security clearance, they can enter certain areas while others are off-limits. Everything is monitored from a central computer, and all entries and exits are recorded.”

  “So we know exactly who comes in and when,” Mapother added. He turned toward Mike to make his point. “All IMSI employees have been vetted by both the highest security clearance available as well as by me personally. I know every one of them. But you can never be absolutely sure of anyone, can you?”

  At the end of the hallway loomed a double door made of darkly tinted glass panels. Mike and Sanchez followed behind, listening to Mapother as he continued. “Every employee knows the stakes here. Let me tell you this, Mike—we’re playing a game of chess in the dark. A game of chess in the dark against a very dangerous enemy that seems to have an unlimited supply of pawns.”

  The control room was like nothing Mike had ever seen before. The wall opposite the door was covered entirely with flat screens projecting the latest closed-caption news from the United States and around the world. Four rows of desks were topped with state-of-the-art computers that Mike hadn’t even seen on the market yet. Behind each computer screen was someone either speaking into a headset or typing on a keyboard, about twenty in all. Men and women were represented equally, and by their appearance Mike guessed that they had served in the military or law enforcement.

  On the wall to Mike’s right hung LCD monitors showing global maps on different scales. Over a blown-up map of Zurich, Switzerland, Mike could see a large blue dot moving around.

  “The blue dot is our asset,” Mapother pointed out.

  Mapother led them into an enclosed area at the rear of the room, overlooking the floor. “This is the bubble,” he explained. “A perfectly soundproof area. And this,” he added, pointing to an attractive black-haired woman in her thirties, “is Anna Caprini, my eyes and ears when I’m not here.”