by David Khara
“A friend of mine will take you to a fishing boat where you’ll be reunited with Jackie.
“You’re not coming?” Jeremy felt his anxiety rise.
“I am, but first I have some cleanup to do.” The giant pointed to the van. “A half hour, tops.”
“Well, this mission is bringing out your typical game face, I see.”
“It’s more than a typical mission, Jeremy.”
“Oh really? What is it then?”
The giant took another drag of his cigar.
“This is war.”
Chapter 8
Washington, D.C., several weeks earlier
With his attaché case in hand, Titus Bramble hurried down the hallways of the Pentagon. Soldiers crossing his path gave respectful salutes, but Titus continued on without acknowledging a single one. His position didn’t merit this kind of greeting, but practically everyone knew about his glorious past in the military and treated him as one of their own. On any ordinary day, he would have returned their salutes, but this wasn’t an ordinary day.
The head of the paramilitary operations branch of the CIA’s Special Activities Division did not appreciate impromptu meetings. An obsessive-compulsive planner, he hated being caught unprepared. The meeting he was racing rather ungracefully toward had been hastily called by the highest command. No one had had the decency to give him the agenda or a list of attendees. This displeased the former Marine, whose feats in battle were written in blood deep in the jungles of Vietnam and South America.
In those days, Titus had a thick neck and a solid build, both of which had only grown tougher over the years. His body bore many scars, including an intimidating one on his face delivered by a Viet Cong bayonet. It started on his forehead and ran down his right cheek, but by some miracle, his eye had been spared. The North Vietnamese warrior had paid for it with a knife to the heart. Titus had long ago traded in his camouflage for expensive tailor-made suits. And these days he used his dagger to stab an entirely different breed in the back—those who lacked political savvy. New battlefield, new strategy, same philosophy: kill or be killed. That’s where he found his drive to stay one step ahead.
The man gave the aide-de-camp who met him outside the conference room a cold look. The snot-nosed brat looked well-groomed and in good shape, probably thanks to Pilates. He wore his uniform with the arrogance of someone whose only experience of war was viewing satellite images on a giant screen while seated in a comfortable chair. A power-hungry good-for-nothing with a cushy job, Titus thought as the boy extended a hesitant hand and introduced himself.
“Lieutenant Thomasson. Everyone’s waiting. Please follow me.”
“Negative,” Titus replied, not budging an inch. “First give me the names and positions of each person in that room.”
“I don’t have orders to do that.”
“You’ve just been given the order. Now respond.”
“But, uh... Well, there’s a general from the Marine Corps, an envoy from the White House, and two other men. I don’t know any of their names. I’ve just been asked to...”
“That’s enough,” Titus interrupted. “Open the door.” He needed to know just who those men were.
The lieutenant did a half-turn on his left foot and flashed a white badge with an American eagle past a sensor, which turned green. He opened the door and stepped aside.“I won’t be attending the...”
Before the man could finish, Titus had marched into the room, determined to impose his authority. The door closed behind him.
“Bramble, we were afraid you’d forgotten how to get around in the Pentagon. We’ve been waiting for you.” The man rose from his chair at the end of the rectangular table.
“Lamont,” Titus replied.
Travis Lamont walked over to the CIA representative. They shook hands, and Titus relaxed a bit. This was the White House envoy Thomasson had mentioned. He had survived both Republican and Democratic administrations. In fact, this portly fiftyish man in a tight gray suit had been a top advisor to three presidents. Despite his balding head and ill-fitting clothes, which made him look unkempt, Lamont was a savvy and prominent technology expert. He had a significant voice in the nation’s major decisions when it came to field operations. Titus and he had known each other for quite some time and had worked together on several projects, with no backstabbing thus far.
“Please, have a seat.”
“Why was I not informed of the agenda ahead of time?” Titus scowled.
“You know how DC works. Everything’s decided at the last minute. Sit. We’re about to begin,” Lamont urged as he returned to his place at the table, where three other men were seated.
Titus took a chair next to Lamont, placed his attaché case on the table, and pulled out a tablet in a brown leather sleeve.
“Now that everyone’s here, I’ll make the introductions,” Lamont continued. “Across from us is General Bennington from the Marines Corps. On our right are Jonathon Cavendish, president of H-Plus Dynamics, and his assistant... Let’s see...” Lamont shuffled through his notes. “Ah, here it is: Fergus Hennessy.”
Titus examined the men at the table.
First, General Bennington: approximately his own age, similar build, gray buzz cut, green eyes, strong jaw. Clearly self-confident, versed in the system. If it weren’t for the missing scar, he could have been a look-alike. He had a brown dossier in front of him.
Next, Cavendish. He was in a stylish, well-made suit—maybe Armani. Thirty to thirty-five years old, thin, bony face, crooked nose. He appeared to be tall, but he didn’t seem to be long on personality. Titus thought he might be a British expat. He had never heard of H-Plus Dynamics. They were probably one of the military’s fortunate suppliers. Their CEOs were frequently seen with generals on the golf course and at fund-raisers for various pet projects. Suppliers were required to submit bids for the large national defense contracts, but the schmoozing never hurt.
Last, the assistant: a short man, about five-foot-two, maybe forty to forty-five, healthy-looking, piercing black eyes, square jaw. The subordinate appeared to be more at ease than his boss. He was certainly more quick-witted. Fergus: Scottish or of Scottish descent.
“What’s the meeting’s objective?” Titus asked.
“Direct, as usual,” Lamont teased. “We’ve asked you here because we’ve encountered a problem that requires your assistance, and...”
“What problem?” Titus interrupted.
“This one,” General Bennington replied.
He slid the dossier toward Titus with such force, it almost hit him. Titus opened the file and found two photographs. He examined both of them. The first one was a three-quarter view from behind of a bald tank-like figure in a green army jacket. The second one, taken from above, was of the same guy, this time wearing a T-shirt. Titus could see him from the front in this photo. He was chatting with a black man in athletic gear.
“If these photos are from the army’s tech department, it’s time to hire a real photographer,” he said dryly. “How does this concern me?”
The general was wearing a tense smile and fidgeting. The two civilians weren’t saying anything. Lamont intervened.
“The two photographs were taken thirty years apart. Our facial recognition program is bullet-proof. It’s the same individual in both of these images, but his looks haven’t changed in three decades.”
“So why are you interested in this particular person? What does he have to do with the military?”
“This man is an Israeli agent named Eytan Morgenstern.”
“Doesn’t ring any bells. Could there be a glitch in the system?”
“There’s no glitch,” the general said. “And you should know more about these photos than anyone else, Bramble, because they came from one of your units.”
The main players in the room exchanged glances. A long silence set in, too long for Titus’s liking.
“Let’s be clear, about this. No one is blaming the CIA for anything.” Lamont was trying to
be conciliatory.
“What would we be accused of?”
“Of withholding information that’s imperative for national security.” Bennington said. “I should point out that we haven’t had access to the entire file, just these images.”
Was Bennington really questioning the CIA’s competence and even its loyalty?
“I demand an apology and an explanation,” Titus barked. “How did you get your hands on these photographs? And what are civilians doing at this meeting?”
“Let’s calm down. Clearly, the general wasn’t thinking before he spoke,” Lamont said, giving Bennington a severe look. “I didn’t ask you here to put you or anyone else on trial. You see, we’re developing a special military project that our friends in the Marines will spearhead. These gentlemen from H-Plus Dynamics are undertaking the research, and Morgenstern could play a vital role in said program.” He turned to Cavendish. “Jonathan, could you please tell us a bit more?”
A seemingly indifferent observer to this point, Cavendish straightened in his chair and cleared his throat.
“Our company is conducting studies in hopes of improving the physical performance of the nation’s fighting forces,” he began cautiously. “If what we’ve seen in the photos provided by the general is true, if this Israeli agent, indeed, does not age, our project would benefit greatly if we could conduct medical exams on him.”
As an experienced public speaker—an important quality for someone in his position—Titus knew all about talking without actually saying anything, and he recognized it immediately in Cavendish’s explanation.
“Well that didn’t clarify things at all,” he said.
“There’s nothing else to tell you,” Lamont said. “We need this Morgenstern and for that, we need your help.”
“All you had to do was ask,” Titus said. “If he’s a Mossad agent, that will complicate the interception. We’re not on the best of terms with Israel. I’ll see what I can do, but it may take some time.”
“Well there you go,” Lamont responded. He was sounding cheerier. “It always works out when all the cards are on the table.”
“You do understand that I’ll also be looking into how you acquired those photos,” Titus said.
“Go right ahead,” Bennington responded. “There was really no intrigue. Information circulates all the time. Aren’t we on the same team here?”
Titus would need to keep an eye on that man.
“Gentlemen, seeing as we’ve reached an understanding, I would like to end the meeting,” Titus said as he returned the unused tablet to his briefcase.
He stood up, as did the four others. He shook the hands of the two corporate pawns and the nasty general and headed toward the door of the conference room. Lamont joined him and opened it with the help of his badge. He extended his hand. Although Titus was feeling anxious and irritated, he thought it wise to accept the gesture.
“Find this guy, and bring him to us alive,” Lamont said. “Time is of the essence. This is a crucial project. I’m not joking. If we don’t get results on your end, we’ll have to take more aggressive measures.”
Typical Lamont—friendly, but making maximum use of his authority. The underlying threat was clear. Without unconditional collaboration, Titus could expect an early retirement—without the cushy pension.
“You can count on me,” he promised.
Titus Bramble hurried out.
~ ~ ~
Fifteen minutes later, after a debriefing session, Jonathan Cavendish and Fergus Hennessy arrived at the limo that was waiting for them. The chauffeur got out and rushed to open the door.
Hennessy held out his heavy briefcase to Cavendish, who took it immediately.
“How was I, sir?” the latter asked anxiously.
“You lack confidence, but that will come with experience,” Hennessy replied as he lit a cigarette.
“You’ve started up again?” Cavendish asked.
“Yes,” Hennessy replied. “Electronic cigarettes didn’t cut it. One day I’ll quit.”
“What do you think the CIA will do?”
“I have no idea, and I couldn’t care less. Mr. Morg and I have a little affair to settle, and setting America’s most elite intelligence agency on him gives me a great deal of pleasure. Plus this little cat-and-mouse game will work to our advantage. Two birds, one stone.” He smiled as he threw his cigarette out the window of the limo.
Chapter 9
New Jersey, present day
Jeremy was doing his best to keep Annie dry and warm as the motorboat sped toward a faint light offshore, spraying water all the way. The baby and he had boarded the nautical vessel a few minutes earlier, along with Greg and an older man with a husky voice and craggy face. The older man, who had introduced himself as Eli, was steering the boat.
They soon glimpsed a fishing trawler. Reaching it, Eli maneuvered the motorboat next to the larger vessel. Greg was the first to climb aboard via a rope ladder attached to the rail. He held his arms out to Jeremy, who, after a moment of hesitation, entrusted him with Annie so he could hoist himself onto the deck.
Without wasting any time, the man named Eli stepped on the gas and headed back toward the shore.
“Hand her back!” Jeremy ordered.
Greg complied. Holding babies probably wasn’t Greg’s thing anyway, Jeremy figured.
“Sorry about what I did earlier, but I was just following orders,” Greg said.
“I get it, but now that you bring it up...”
Jeremy shifted his daughter to his left arm. He pulled back his right arm and delivered a punch to Greg’s jaw.
“Now we’re even,” Jeremy said.
“I guess I deserved that,” Greg said, rubbing his jaw. “But don’t try it again. Come on. Let’s go inside. Your baby girl must be getting cold.”
“Mess with me any more, and I will be trying that again—trying it and nailing it. I still don’t trust you a hundred percent. So you go first. I’ll follow.”
They headed toward the cockpit and descended into the crew’s quarters. The two men followed a passageway with heavy metal doors on both sides before ending up in a small canteen room.
Jackie was there, sitting at a table with a steaming cup of coffee. She was giggling like a schoolgirl at jokes delivered by some dude who looked like he was straight off the pages of GQ, the kind of guy whose hair was perfectly styled before he rolled out of bed in the morning. Jeremy bet he had a year-round tan, not from tanning booths, but from spending his winters in the Caribbean. He was sitting down, so Jeremy couldn’t see exactly how tall he was, but he looked lean and lanky. Guys weren’t Jeremy’s thing, but he had to admit the man looked sexy in his jeans and black sweater. And no man that hot needed to be shooting the breeze with the woman he loved.
Jackie turned toward the door. When she saw her husband and daughter, she shot up and rushed to them. She gave Jeremy a tender kiss and swept Annie into her arms.
GQ boy stood up and held out a hand. “Dr. Avi Lafner.”
And a doctor to boot, Jeremy thought. He had hoped the man couldn’t read or write.
“Jeremy Corbin.” No handshake.
“I know! Eytan’s told me so much about you,” Avi replied.
He actually seemed a little star-struck. Why was that? Maybe the guy wasn’t so bad, after all.
“We made the necessary preparations for your little girl. I’ve brought formula and baby food, plus plenty of toys. We even have a travel crib for her.”
“Thanks, Avi,” Jackie said, smiling.
She pulled a lock of hair behind her ear, a gesture that seemed entirely too flirtatious as far as Jeremy was concerned.
“I’ll give you some time to yourselves while we wait for Eli to come back with Eytan. The baby’s probably hungry, and you two have some catching up to do.” The doctor and Greg left.
“Alone at last,” Jeremy declared as soon as the two men disappeared. “So, Mrs. Walls-Corbin, it looks like I haven’t been sorely missed!”
“Me? Who would I be jealous of?”
Jackie let out a little laugh and started tending to the baby. She changed her diaper and pulled a bottle out of the bag Avi had left.
“What’s Greg doing here?” she asked, giving Annie her bottle.
“Let’s get Annie settled, and we can fill each other in.”
After Jackie had fed Annie and put her in the travel crib, they sat down at the table, coffee mugs in hand. They spent the next fifteen minutes recounting the events of their respective evenings. The attack at the sheriff’s department, the crazy basement hostage situation—no detail was spared. They spent several minutes discussing Greg’s surprise identity. One thing was certain. The Walls-Corbin family was in serious trouble, and neither one of them had any idea what it was.
“Here,” Jeremy said, handing his wife the bag Eytan had packed for them. “Eytan said you have to get into street clothes.”
Jackie took out a pair of jeans, a gray crew-neck sweater, and a pair of boots with flat heels. She put on a wool hat and completed her metamorphosis by slipping on a black bomber jacket.
Avi returned, followed by Eli and Greg. Eytan came in last. He had to duck to pass through the doorway. Jeremy was hoping they would now get an explanation.
“The two of you good?” he asked.
Jackie and Jeremy nodded.
“Perfect. I’ll introduce you to everyone. Eli Karman is my case officer at Mossad.”
“Was,” the man corrected.
A flash of irritation flickered on Eytan’s face.
“Avi Lafner is—was—a physician for our division.”
“Chief,” GQ cut in. “Chief physician.”
“As for Greg, he was responsible for ensuring your safety once you moved to New Jersey. Jeremy, you might have noticed that I chose my geekiest agent.”
“Unlike my two friends here, I have no corrections to make,” the geek said with a grin.
“Nice to meet everyone,” Jeremy replied. “But uh, we think we need a little more info. Right, honey?”
“Yeah, that would be nice.”