The Mac Ambrose Series: 1-3 (Boxed Set)

by HN Wake

  “Ok. Thanks Ed.”

  “Sure,” Ed said. “Hey Frank, have you got an issue with Mac?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Shame if you do. I really liked that one. Solid old-school.”

  Odom hung up without comment.

  He scrutinized his options. He could choose to do nothing, for now. It would buy him some time in case Mac was just doing one of her ‘oops-failed-to-report-in’ routines. Maybe she was diving in the Philippines. However, if it turned out she was ‘off the ranch’, the longer he failed to report the breach, the worse he looked. The hallway whispers would start. Odom didn’t catch her…it was a cardinal break…on the job too long…lost the respect of his operative.

  The second option was to flag the breach immediately. Run it up to Director Hawkinson now. Get this grenade off his desk. Now. However, Hawkinson would immediately ask, “You didn’t see this coming?” Odom would have to admit that no, in fact, he hadn’t seen it coming. Whispers hissed in his mind. Odom’s out of touch…lacks authority over his operatives…will cost him his career.

  The third option was to take just enough action to proverbially ‘cover his ass’. Such action would have to be swift but mild so that it didn’t immediately sound alarm bells. No whispers in the hallway for that third option.

  As a deliberate, cautious man, he played out the three scenarios in his mind. He didn’t want to pick the obvious third option, only to regret it later.

  But in the end, he chose the third option.

  He picked up his phone and dialed Security. “We need a trace on Agent AD99. Last known Hanoi.”

  “Yes, Sir. How far back?”

  “Go back two months.”

  “On it.

  He folded his hands together on his desk and dropped his head onto them.

  Thirty minutes later, Odom’s desk phone rang.

  “This is Beam from Security reporting back to you on the trace on Agent AD99.”

  “Yes, go ahead.”

  “Sir, we’ve got no physical leads on Agent AD99. And no electronic vapor trail. She basically… Well, Sir, she’s gone off the grid.”

  “When did we lose her?”

  “As you suspected, the last use of any of her assigned Agency ID was in Vietnam. Hanoi to be exact.”

  “Beam did you say?”

  “Yes, Sir, Jim Beam.”

  In the darkened office, Odom’s lips tightened. He stared at a dark corner.

  Beam squeaked, “Sir, It’s my Agency name.”

  Odom’s voice was ice. “How long have you been in this Agency, Beam?

  “Three years.”

  “In that time, have we successfully wiped out your humor?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good.” The clock on his screen read 5:55 a.m. “Run a full electronic trace on her going back 12 months. All files. Report only to me. Understand, Beam? Only me.”

  “Understood.”

  Capitol Hill, DC

  Through the windshield, Mac watched the sun sneak over the horizon, lightening the sky above the rotunda. A very faint smell of gasoline permeated the Alfa. If she decided to keep the car, she would have to fix the gas lines.

  The laptop showed the wifi hotspot had found four bars. On the screen was the Wells Fargo home page for the Julep Foundation.

  She completed the transaction, transferring $1,000,000 to the SFG Lobby account and sent an email. “Mr. Koen, we are pleased to inform you that the transfer of USD 1M has been made from the Julep Foundation to the SFG Lobby account. We are thrilled that our donation could help in the work of the SFG Lobby.”

  She leaned her head back against the leather headrest.

  She remembered sitting in the dark in a different car fifteen years ago, staring at a target’s house in a Jakarta neighborhood, the seat sticky with sweat. It had been probably six hours into the watch when a second floor window had lit up. An adrenaline rush had crashed through her. It pulsated through her fingertips, tingled and expanded up along her arms. She had pushed up from the seat, doing something, anything to alleviate the discomfort. Only later did she recognize the extreme intensity for what it is: an adrenaline rush compounding a constant state of fear of discovery.

  In the Alfa, her inbox pinged with a copy of an email from Koen to Amanda. “Forget the due diligence on Bodie. She’s fine.”

  She turned up the volume on the car radio. A news brief began on NPR. “New gun legislation was reported out of the Judiciary Committee yesterday. The Senate floor will take up the debate in one week. The bill was introduced by Senator Payne. (Senator Payne’s voice) ‘How long will it take us as a nation to finally say enough - we will no longer allow malls, supermarkets, movie theaters and schools to be sites for massacres? It’s time to regulate assault weapons.’ This week has seen a significant increase in lobbying efforts from the SFG. Many Senators are keeping their votes close to the chest prompting long time Congressional observers to predict the legislation will fail on the Senate floor.”

  Mac turned down the volume.

  In her mind, it was ten years ago. She had been sitting at a laminate table in the back of a Hong Kong cafe spooning and winnowing a big scoop of Vietnamese noodles, when she looked up and recognized a man walk through the front door; he had been a senior officer from Beijing’s secret police and he had been looking directly at her. The adrenaline had swelled like a wave over her skin, cresting down her limbs.

  Her spoon had hovered.

  The pulse had reached her fingers, her toes. Her heart had clanged in her chest.

  She had lowered the utensil.

  Her leg muscles had tensed.

  She had slid her sunglasses down on her nose, shifted the chair away from the table, stood and inched down the rear hallway past the restroom.

  In the back alley, she had surged into a sprint, racing around the corner, down a second alley. She had dived through the door of a karaoke bar and slipped into a private booth, silently gliding shut the booth’s door.

  It was the first time she had recognized the adrenaline could be harnessed, utilized.

  In the Alfa, her inbox pinged.

  Koen had emailed again to Amanda. “Need immediate transfers as follows, keep the remainder in the account:

  PAC for Mr. Purdue, LA ($50,000)

  PAC for Mr. Malcolm, SC ($50,000)

  PAC for Ms. Richter, MO ($50,000)

  PAC for Mr. Rydell, NC ($50,000)

  PAC for Mr. Caldwell, AK ($50,000)

  PAC for Mr. Ron Peter, KY ($100,000)”

  Mac leaned back again. There was one more email she was waiting for.

  This time her memory reversed only five years. She had been in a cheap hotel room in Hanoi, watching a video on her laptop of the still, silent room next door. A sheet-draped form slept on a bed. She had been staring at the screen for eight hours. She had contemplated banging on the shared wall or walking out into the hallway and knocking on the target’s door, waiting for him to answer. She had imagined she had screamed at him. “The Chinese are coming.” It would have blown the operation but it would have relieved the monotony.

  That had been the moment of yet another realization. She had become what the old timers called ‘hardwired’. She no longer feared - instead she willed - the rush of adrenaline. A red flag, they had said, heralding the time to get out.

  The sun was high above the rotunda. A few staffers, the early birds, were heading to their offices.

  Her inbox pinged. This time, Koen had emailed the Congressman. “That donation arrived. My secretary will transfer. Thanks for lunch.”

  Mac turned the key in the ignition, starting the old car, and took a last look at the Capitol Hill dome.

  After 20 years, there were plenty of reasons to get out.

  24

  22 years ago - Oakland, CA

  The windshield wipers screeched across the slippery glass of the old BMW as it pulled up in front of a dilapidated clapboard house. Joe hefted her duffel bag out of the backseat. Through the drizzl
e, they sprinted alongside the house. Taking her hand, he hustled her through the basement door into the dark and switched on the overhead light.

  The front room was an homage to second-hand. A worn corduroy sofa sat against the far wall. A banged-up 30-inch television rested on the floor. A huge bookshelf of crates sagged under the weight of hundreds of LPs, a turntable and two outsized speakers. The metallic scent of dust mixed with an earthen mildew.

  It was exactly what she had imagined.

  Two summers before he and his friend had driven out in his BMW, the back seat piled high with bags and records, smoking out the open windows all the way through the green cornfields of Iowa, the endless miles of Wyoming, and the scorching deserts of Nevada. Between the two of them they had $600. They had gotten jobs at Berkley cafes serving authentically acidic espressos and foamed cappuccinos from imported Italian machines. Joe had enrolled at Berkeley.

  He was the most independent person she knew. Her pride verged on wonderment.

  He carried her duffle bag past the kitchen, the first bedroom, and into the back room. A blue color-washed billboard covered the wall; a buxom model leaned over the side of an old flatbed in the middle of a wheat-field sea, her sad Mona Lisa smile was turned to the camera. Scattered around the room were five laundry baskets filled with crumpled clothes. Next to the bed, a lamp, a candle and an ashtray sat atop a stack of books.

  Mac explored the adjoining bathroom. An alcove shower sported a bench seat tucked under a window. A full ashtray rested on the cracked window frame. “Tell me you do not smoke while you’re in the shower!”

  He poked his head into the bathroom, grinning. “Maybe.”

  “That’s priceless.”

  His head disappeared. “Saves time.”

  As she peed, she asked, “Where did you get that poster?”

  “Off a billboard.”

  “Gives your room character.” She stepped back into the bedroom. “It definitely was not the blonde that made you bring it home.”

  He looked genuinely offended.

  “Alright, alright, it’s the truck, I get it.” She nodded toward the hall. “Should we go out and do something?”

  They had driven out to Gray Whale Cove beach. White capped waves crashed near the shore, pelting spray into a grey sky. They held hands as they walked along the empty beach, sharing stories, settling into a familiar rhythm that was somehow new. They watched a seagull grab a crab. Their footsteps traced the line between wet and dry sand.

  She squeezed his hand. “It’s cool out here. California. This weather is totally groovy.”

  “You get used to the fog.”

  “How’s work, school?”

  “Good. Long hours. When I’m not working, I’m studying at the cafe.”

  “You got enough money?”

  “Fine.”

  “Are you pissed your parents didn’t help out?”

  “Nah. I don’t see the point in sitting around blaming my parents.”

  She glanced at him. Was that an intentional dig? She ignored it. “What are you studying?”

  “Business and engineering.”

  “You were never the dumb one. How much longer?”

  “Two more years.”

  “Then what?”

  “I dunno. Own my own business, maybe.” He changed the subject. “So how was last week?”

  “Crazy. Big. Huge really. Thousands of kids in black cap and gowns in one section of the basketball arena screaming their heads off. The rest was full of parents. The commencement speaker talked about following your heart. About listening to that quiet voice inside, what you really want to do, not what everybody tells you to do”

  “Were your parents there?”

  She dropped his hand. “Yeah.”

  “Did your sister make it?” He picked her hand back up.

  “Totally.” She grinned. “She stayed with me. Spilled bong water all over my bed. She’s moving to Northern California.”

  He stopped, brought her close, wrapped his arms over her shoulders, pulled her head into his chest. “I’m glad you came. I’m glad you’re here.”

  Tasting salt, they finally kissed.

  He stopped in his tracks as they reached the parking lot and the BMW. “The Peace Corps?”

  She nodded.

  “Where?”

  “Indonesia.”

  He was silent.

  She tried to make it light-hearted. “It’s my great adventure. To go see the big, wide world. While I’m young and foolhardy and full of excitement and enthusiasm.”

  “It’s kinda the end of the earth, Mac.”

  She turned toward the crashing waves. “I think that’s half the appeal. Living outside your comfort zone. Listening to that little voice inside that’s telling you what you want instead of what you should. Stepping into the fear instead of turning away.”

  He brushed hair out of her eyes. “There are other ways to get out from under your mother’s shadow.”

  “It’s not just that. I need to prove to myself I’m a good person.”

  “Two years working in the jungles should do it.”

  In the deep night, a candle threw reverse shadows on the walls and the piles of books. They were naked; sheets were tangled at the foot of the mattress.

  His chin rested on his hands between her breasts. He inhaled the clammy scent of their first, hurried coupling. “I’m telling you, he slept with his feet out the door.”

  Her head, nestled in clasped hands, shook in disbelief. “In a motel?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “In the middle of Indiana?”

  He grinned. “Uh huh.”

  “So literally - as in - his bare feet were hanging out the motel room door onto the cement walkway outside?”

  “Second floor.”

  “They were really that stinky?”

  He nodded against his hands, watched her small breasts shimmy with laughter. He gently lifted himself up, covered her body with his weight, pressed his forehead against her ear. “Mac, show me how to find you.”

  She did.

  The bedroom’s deep shadows were heavy on her back as she sat on the floor watching him sleep. His chest - with more hair than her trip two years ago - rose and fell. His snores resonated in the small room. She smiled in the gloom. Back in his family’s mansion, they had discovered together that he snored.

  She was safe here. But she was not content.

  Her ambitions ensured their separation.

  She stared at the buxom blond in the poster, sensing the taunt within the Mona Lisa smile.

  He woke slowly, blinking then focusing. He slid up against the wall, clicked the lighter, throwing a second flame into the darkness and inhaled. “So how long do I have you?”

  “I leave tomorrow.”

  He squinted through a stream of errant smoke. “Better make it a memorable weekend then.”

  She climbed up on him.

  The next day, the drive to the airport through the mist was quiet. The car roared, occasionally belching. His hold on her hand was tight. “So, I’ll see you in two years.”

  “For sure.”

  They pulled up to the airport drop off. His voice was somber. “Be smart, Mac.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I do.”

  “Come find me when you get back.” His aquamarine eyes were strikingly light against the fog outside the window.

  Her eyes welled.

  “Mac, I don’t wait for you. I’m just me and you’re just you and who knows what will happen?” He pushed her hair back. “Just take care of you on your big adventure and come back in one piece.”

  25

  North Capitol Hill, DC

  Every chair in the top floor ATF New York Avenue building conference room was occupied by a man in either a blue or a grey suit. Another six men leaned against the back wall. All eyes were trained on an email exchange displayed on a large screen.

  In a hoarse voice,
Cal interpreted for the room. “This initial email is from Scimitar’s COO to Chuck Boare dated three months before the July shipment. As you can see, their code isn’t complicated.” Cal directed a laser pointer to highlight a single line on the screen. “The A’s are begging us for mgs.” He translated the email for the room. “We are confident - given the timing - that the COO means Afghanis when he types ‘A’s’ and machine guns when he types ‘mgs’ so he’s basically saying, the Afghanis are begging for M4s.”

  On the screen, the laser pointer jumped to Boare’s reply. “What if we transfer P’s July package to A?” Cal interpreted again. “Here, Boare suggests the transfer of the 88088 Pakistani Army shipment to the Afghans. And here —” Cal pointed to the next line. “— the COO responds, with a ‘risky’.”

  Cal’s laser pointer moved to Boare’s email response. “Worth twice. :) Blame it on chaos in P.”

  The anger in the room grew as the men digested Boare’s intent.

  Cal stirred their anger when he said, “The smiley face is a particularly nice touch.”

  He turned to the room. “So, I think we can agree that this is clear intent to resell. Boare follows this note immediately. His next email is quite compelling.”

  All eyes read the next line quietly to themselves. “Pre-empt P income that is turning off soon.” Cal again translated. “This is a direct reference to the Pakistani Counterinsurgency Capability Fund that is due to expire next year. Scimitar Defense has gotten $40M in contracts via PCCP since 2009. So Boare is literally referring to when the PCCP will no longer provide them easy funds.”

  In the heavy pause, chair legs scraped across hard wood flooring. No one spoke.

  Cal turned back to the screen, his pointer followed the email conversation when he said, “On the next line the COO asks a question to Boare.”