Cigarettes for Two: A Lee Thomas Novel (Spy Dreams Book 3)

by Tom Fugate

  I looked at her, “Have you had breakfast?”

  “No,” she said softly as she shook her head.

  “Fine. We can have breakfast and have a little talk. You need to know what is going on in the part of this operation that you have not been read into. Until I got word from my Boss the Russian angle was a very minor part of this puzzle. When did you find out about Leonid’s access to nukes?”

  “Yesterday morning. For when we checked back through some of the raw data it was suddenly there. I swear to you that I never saw it before yesterday.” I believed her. Someone was trying to use the two people I had met last night as scapegoats. Not my problem but I knew people who would look into why someone farther up the food chain than Sylvia was covering information up.

  “It sounds to me as if someone is setting you up for a fall. Somebody higher up than you was afraid that something unauthorized might be found out. Be thinking about anyone who might have been able to hide that data. We will pass the names along to someone who can make heads roll.” I never looked at her as I spoke; instead I kept my eyes on the road. I did not need to see her face to know she was worried. I pulled into a Shoney’s. She looked hungry, I was hungry and the breakfast bar was waiting.

  We managed to get a table as far away from anyone else as possible. The staff probably thought we wanted to be isolated to keep from being seen, which we did. What they did not know was that their thoughts that it was probably someone having an affair were totally wrong. As long as no one could over hear me I could have cared less why they thought I wanted to be isolated. Sylvia was no dainty flower when it came to breakfast. She ate like a linebacker. We talked softly so that our voices would not carry to anyone else.

  “I don’t know how anyone you answer to can find out anything. The Agency will just stonewall any questioning. I am probably screwed over.” She sounded as if she had resigned herself to a career change.

  “Do you know who I work for?” I was grinning one of those ‘I know something you don’t know’ grins.

  “I guess you are DEA or FBI. I did not even find out your name until I got to Key West last night.”

  “Ever heard of the GIA?” Her blank expression gave me the answer. “We exist, you can even look us up in the phonebook, but our public mission is mostly for show. You are now working with the blackest operations group you could imagine. If something major did not officially happen we were probably there. If my boss wants something done it gets done. If General John Fleming gets his dander up against you disappearing might be a good option, but he would probably find you anyway.”

  “I have heard a General Fleming mentioned around Langley a time or two. I thought he was just some presidential advisor. He runs an agency that I have never heard of?” She was puzzled. People working in intelligence can be easily surprised when stepping outside their area of expertise. “Remember when those Libyan jets got shot down by F-14 Tomcats over the Med on a Wednesday morning in August 1981?” She nodded. “I have personal knowledge as to why ground attack planes were foolish enough to take on F-14’s, but the reason was an event that never officially happened. There are covert operations and then there are nonexistent operations. Guess which type I work on.” She got real thoughtful after I said that.

  We talked a while longer and I filled in her background file with impressions of a real person and not a set of data. She had been out of school about two years. Her field work had been simple enough, simple data pickup with a tourist cover. Two times she had been sent to retrieve information from dead drops while she was with the Paris station. She had been sent to East Germany and Hungary by the station in Berlin. Why her? She was available and could not be traced back to the Berlin offices since she had never been there. Right after that she had been sent back to the states and put into analysis, her undergraduate degree was in Computer Science. Before this operation was over I would have to find out if she had met my old roommate Mark Saunders.

  By the time we got up to leave she knew basically what was going on with this operation. I had not told her about my being authorized to use extreme measures on the KGB man if necessary. That information was on a need to know basis as far as I was concerned and right then I did not feel that she needed to know. Back in the parking lot I saw a sales flyer for a massage parlor under my windshield wiper. The business did not exist but the address was one of my dead drops. I crumpled the flyer and then walked to the front of the Porsche and appeared to check if the hood was closed. She looked a bit puzzled as I paused at the left front wheel for a moment and ran my hand over the top of the tire. She did not see me pull the magnetic key box from the wheel well. After we were in the car I handed her the box. She opened it to find a locker key.

  “What is this,” she asked after she looked at it.

  “We have to stop and pick up your credentials and weapons. That is a key to a locker that serves as a dead drop. You do know what that is don’t you?” I was ribbing the new kid and from the look on her face she realized it. She rolled her eyes and did not even answer my question. I can be a real smart ass sometimes and sometimes I try to be.

  The locker was at a Greyhound bus station. Sylvia did just what she should have done. She went into the building, spotted where the lockers were and went to the locker and got the small bag out of it. The only real trick to that situation is to not seem to look for the lockers. You have to spot them fast and then go straight to them as if you already knew where they were. I had gone into the bus station first so that I could cover her if the need arose. She walked right in and I noticed her looking for the lockers but I seriously doubt that anyone else did. The girl had a good basic skill set, but then I had met and been trained by some of the same people at the FARM. We would have to compare notes on our instructors. The FARM is the almost legendary CIA training site that is rumored to be in Virginia or Maryland or maybe even West Virginia. Does it exist? I have been there. Where is it? Sorry that is need to know and you don’t need to know.

  She put the bag into the supposed backseat area of my Porsche. That area is only good for very small children or small bags of whatever. I took the time to drive her around our area of operations, at least the area that we would probably be in the most. I was not worried about using my car this time since I would only be passing through and not actually creating any reason to watch. Then again there were two people in the car and with no stops we were just a couple passing through. Besides, if any of Robertson’s people saw me now they might decide that they had gotten my attention and I was checking them out. Which I was?

  During our driving around we also went shopping. I dipped into the bag of confiscated drug proceeds in the strong box of my car and let Sylvia gather some essentials. If she was going into some of the clubs she needed to dress the part. I trusted her judgment with the clothes. While she shopped I wandered around the mall and made sure we were not being followed. Well not followed except for the people supposed to be following us. Our minders were very good and kept their distance. I spotted them easily but that is what I do. Why did I have no input into her choices? My fashion sense for men’s clothes is almost nonexistent; forget about me helping with women’s fashion.

  In the mid 1980s a young woman walking into nice, trendy clothing stores in South Florida, buying expensive things and paying cash was not uncommon. After I had cruised around the mall I was waiting for her at the food court. I had finished a frozen lemonade, walked around and was halfway through an Orange Julius when she came walking up. My vantage point had my back toward a wall and had a good view of the area I knew she would approach from. It would have been possible to get behind me but never easy.

  She walked up leaned down and kissed me on the cheek and then whispered, “There are two guys watching you to the left. They are eating soft pretzels and nursing sodas.” After making us look like a couple she said in a voice that could be heard by people near us, “I’m finished. Shall we go home?” Her grin when she said go home was r-rated. I think she was getting into
the situation. There was a short moment when I wondered if she really meant that or if it was just staying in character.

  I stood up put an arm around her waist, my left arm so that my gun hand was free. “You missed the two men six rows of tables away on your six o’clock, the ones with the pizza slices. Those four are all with us. It is the nervous looking guy with the corn dog that I am not sure about. He is off to my right.” Her training was good. She did not immediately look around, but looked in the indicated directions as she naturally turned toward them. I kept my arm around her as we headed for the car. I could say that I was trying to maintain the cover but that would be mostly a lie. No normal heterosexual male would resist a chance to put an arm around Sylvia Pyne. She was not stop traffic beautiful, but she did have something about her.

  Chapter 12

  The car was parked outside of one of the less used mall entrances. I had parked far enough away from the door that there were few cars anywhere near mine. A glance told me that we were not under surveillance. When we got to the car she put the store bags in the backseat. I had her get the bag from the dead drop and she put it on her lap. She opened it. There were three guns, ammunition, various credentials, a few various holsters and a hand written note inside the bag. The note was from John and was the address of a private gun club. He had arranged range time for us. There was only one thing to take care of.

  “Take a look at your credentials.” She took out the leather fold over wallet. She was now in possession of the badge and id of a Deputy US Marshal. The name on that id was hers. There were also credit cards, driver’s license, a firearms permit and other items in the name of Sylvia McClure. She now knew who she was for the operation.

  “Is this legitimate?” She asked this as she held the Marshal’s id below the dash level where no one outside the car could see it. She did have good instincts.

  “Yes it is. You will probably have to give it up when this is over, but it is legit and the computer records will back it up. Do not have those credentials in your possession unless I tell you to. You are going by the name on the driver’s license. We did not have time to create a legend so just use general details from your own life if you have to tell anyone about yourself. Change the locations though. Now let’s find that gun range.” I started the car and we pulled out of the mall and into traffic. This is one of those times that my pre operation scouting paid off. I knew where the address of the range was in relation to the mall. We were there in about fifteen minutes.

  As we parked the car Sylvia got the credentials out of the bag that also held the guns. After the car was parked I handed her the key to lock her Marshal’s id in the glove box. She carried her bag toward the club house while I opened the front of the Porsche and got into the lock box. I got out the carbine, a couple of magazines and a box of ammunition for it. I also got some of boxes of ammunition for the guns I was going to fire and a pair of empty clips for the Commander sized 1911 that was in the small of my back. I also grabbed what people who do not go to firing ranges would have thought odd. The odd item? It was a staple gun. Staple guns and masking tape are two of the most used accessories used at a firing range. These things I put into a small bag that I kept in the car. Sylvia was signing some forms as I walked in. She smiled sweetly as I walked up. The help behind the counter was an older woman who smiled at me and handed me a clipboard with a release form before saying a word. I took the clipboard and began to fill out the form.

  “I will need to see some identification. I have already seen hers.” She turned her head slightly toward my companion as she spoke. I took out my wallet and pulled out the Lee Williams driver’s license. The woman looked at it and wrote down the date of birth, license number and address. “You can’t be too careful with all of the lawyers around today. People will sue if they drop something on their toes.” Her accent was more southern and less neutral than many people in Florida.

  “That is a fact. What are the fees?” I let my normal accent come out. I naturally have an accent typical of the Blue Ridge Mountain area of Virginia. That accent is similar to others in those mountains, but not the same. Virginia Mountain is not quite Tennessee Mountain or West Virginia Mountain and Kentucky could be another story all together. North Carolina was a sound all to its own.

  “You from Tennessee?” Now I knew the reason for her more pronounced accent. She was a transplant, long time but a transplant none the less.

  I shook my head, “No, I’m from Virginia.” No danger in telling her that, my cover identity was also a Virginia boy. “We are going to need some targets.”

  “Pick any of them on that table.” She pointed to a table near the door that led to the range. Various and sundry targets were stacked there. “The fee is $15 per hour for the pair of you. Settle up after you finish. Need eyes and ears?”

  “I need some hearing protection. These sunglasses are rated as safety glass. I think Sylvia needs some of each.” Sylvia nodded.

  “There are shooters muffs on the table and a box full of safety glasses. Get what you need and just bring them back to me when you finish. Be careful and have fun.” She smiled a genuine smile.

  “We’ll try hard to do both,” I said as I picked up my bag and headed for the door. I grabbed some ear muffs and Sylvia grabbed muffs and glasses. I also picked up three standard FBI type silhouette targets.

  The firing line was a covered bench, a handy thing when the sun got hot in Florida. There was no one else on the firing line when we got there so I put the bag on the bench and took out the staple gun. Going down range I stapled two of the silhouettes to target frames at the 10 yard marker. I walked on out to the hundred yard line and fastened up the last one. Sylvia showed proper range discipline and did not attempt to handle any guns while I was down range. When I reached her she got out her new Smith .38 Special and loaded it with the full five rounds and laid it on the bench. There was also a Walther PPK in the bag. She locked the slide on it back and removed the magazine. There was one more gun, a Beretta .25 caliber. This is a very small gun which makes it easy to conceal. The disadvantage is that it is a very small gun. Small guns don’t have any knock down power, but are still much better than being unarmed. As a whole people do not want to be leaking out of new orifices in their bodies. She loaded the magazines for both of her semi automatics. I put on my earmuffs and she followed suit after putting on the safety glasses.

  “Let’s see if you can hit anything.” I was kidding but the determined look on her face told me that she was trying to prove something. She picked up the revolver.

  She turned to the target and went into a classic shooting stance for someone who has had government training. Her feet were shoulder width apart, shoulders square to the target and the gun was held out in front of her with both hands on the grip. The five rounds in the gun went down range in a very rapid double action string. Pretty good, all of the shots were center mass of the chest area on the target. Stepping back to the bench she opened the cylinder and ejected the spent cartridges and laid the gun on the bench.

  “Not bad,” I said to her as she picked up the Walther magazine and began to put .380 caliber rounds into it. When she was finished with that one she loaded the Beretta magazine also.

  I was facing her with my left shoulder toward the target that I would be shooting at. Reaching to the small of my back I pulled out the small .45 and swung toward the target. My thumb moved the safety lever down into the fire position as I swung the gun onto the target. I did not turn my body to completely face the target. The gun came up and six shots went downrange in rapid enough succession that they sounded like ripping cardboard. All of my shots were in the head of the target. All of the holes were in a circle less than three inches across and centered on what would have been the nose if the target had had one. I stepped back to the bench with the gun still locked open on the empty magazine. There I put the spare magazine from my belt into the gun and dropped the slide. Removing that magazine I opened a box of ammunition from my bag and added one
round to the mag. I reloaded the other magazine and put it into the holder on the left side of my belt.

  Yes, I was showing off, but she needed to realize that she was around thoroughly dangerous people. This was not a training operation where no one died. This was very real. I reholstered the .45. You do not have to shoot a lot in a practice session if you accomplish what you want to accomplish. I had verified to myself that the gun was firing where I wanted it to fire and that it was functioning properly. I decided not to shoot the little revolver that was in the watch pocket of my jeans.

  “Head shoot the target with the Walther. Then you can shoot center mass on my target with the Beretta.” She nodded and put the magazine into the Walther, stepped to the line and dropped the slide, chambering a round. Her six rounds were all well within the black of the target head. Not bad for a gun she had never fired before. Her group with the Beretta in the center of my target was acceptable. A small gun like that is not going to fire an extremely small group except in the hands of someone who has fired it a lot.

  “How did I do?” She was grinning at me when she spoke.

  “I have seen a lot worse. With any luck you will not have to answer the question of whether or not you can shoot someone.” She started to speak, probably to say that she could. I held up my hand. “No one ever knows for sure until the moment arrives. Hopefully training and reflex with get you through the first time. After that you can’t be sure if you could do it again. My first mission was a bitch but training got me through. Eight people died, I killed seven. You are never the same after something like that.” I got thoughtful for a moment. I cannot say that I had not thought of that operation in a long time. The truth is I thought about it very often.