“Try some white vinegar and club soda. And next time use a bib.”
***
After finishing with Frankie the Divot, Cole Sudden had planned to head back to Boston, grab a bite on the road and take a shuttle to New York. He wanted to speak to his book agent, Cristina Parker, about his latest thriller featuring “Jake Harms,” who, in the purple prose of one publicist, is “an indestructible freelance soldier of fortune who works for ultra-secret Government agencies and travels the globe making love to beautiful women and slaying evildoers.” Then he hoped to take a couple of days off at his home in Southport, CT. Instead, he drove to Bangor International, a joint civil-military public airport where a company jet was waiting for him. The fact that the C.I.A. laid on a plane just for him was an indication of just how serious the situation was. Whatever it was.
He called Nigel, who told him he had to be in Washington in four hours for a meeting at Langley.
“Langley? I thought we were never to show our faces there.”
“I don’t know what’s up. But apparently it’s all hands on deck.”
“What happened? Did Donald Trump declare war on North Korea?”
“See you in D.C., Cole.”
He went up to the cockpit to say hello. The two pilots on the Citation II were unfamiliar but friendly. The flight crews seemed to be getting younger all the time. The “flight attendant” was, as usual, both capable and attractive. Sudden knew she could mix a wonderful Bloody Mary as well as shoot the eyes out of a fruit fly. Despite that, when she put down his drink and a bowl of mixed nuts he decided to flirt with her.
“I’ve heard about you,” she said, smiling, after his first sally. “Gee, I wish I hadn’t gotten married last month.”
“Congratulations,” he said. “But I will remain hopeful. The agency divorce rate is very high. You may be available by the time we land.”
She laughed.
“Let me know when you want anything else. Which means more nuts. This flight wasn’t scheduled. We had no time to stock up.”
Sudden pulled out his iPad and opened up the Scrivener writing software program he’d recently started using. Under “Recent Projects” he found the draft of Uncertain Death, which was the fanciful title he gave to the thriller he was currently writing, using his not-too-original pen name, Cole Swift. As with his other novels, the title would be changed many times before the book ever saw print. I suppose I should have named it Uncertain Title, he thought.
Many writers he’d met during his nascent literary career were highly disciplined, putting in six to eight hours a day at their desks, rain or shine, seven days a week, churning out a set amount of words. Some could churn out 2,000 to 3,000 words a day. Others, only a couple of hundred. One popular author told him that on some days he just sat at his desk waiting for inspiration that never came and turned out no copy. Sudden assumed the man was insane.
Sudden relished discipline, and when he he had long stretches at home or on vacation (and once when in a hospital recuperating from an assignment), he could put his nose to the grindstone as well as any dedicated writer. But the exigencies of his “other” occupation rarely allowed such opportunities, so he was often forced to write when he could. Today, on the two-hour flight to D.C., he wanted to add some description and color to the narrative of his book. The trip up the New England seacoast, during which he’d taken notes using his cell phone’s recording app, had provided plenty. In his final editing, which he would do at his desk at home, he’d put in the finishing touches. He even had a crib posted above his desk, to remind him to use more “smells, sounds, colors, textures, trees, insects, animals, plants, flowers, clothes, verbal misdirection” and a dozen other writing ploys. Given his erratic writing regime, the Scrivener software was proving to be a godsend. It allowed him to separate chapters in files, but at the push of a key he could compile and save the whole document in a WORD format. Sudden was frequently more paranoid about losing his copy than about people trying to kill him. Some of the techies in the unit had taken to calling him “Flash” for all the thumb drives he carried around. It was, he supposed, better than being called “Thumbs.”
The Scrivener program also had a “cork board” function, which put each individual chapter on a virtual index card, which then went on a virtual cork board. Each index card could be labeled with a small description of what the underlying document contained. The size of the cards could be adjusted, so that an entire book could be “pinned” to the board. And the cards could be moved around on the board, and the program automatically adjusted the order of chapters in the main document.
Sudden had worked all over the world and was possessed with a memory that was both vivid and near-photographic. But the Internet was also invaluable. There was literally nothing that could not be found through a search engine. In one of his books, when he wanted to arm a villain with a truly unusual murder weapon, a search of rare animal venoms came up with the maculotoxin produced by bacteria in the salivary glands of the tiny blue-ringed octopus that lives primarily in the coral reefs of New South Wales. The toxin is 10,000 times more deadly than cyanide and kills within minutes by blocking sodium channels, causing motor paralysis and respiratory arrest. There is no known anti-venom. Many of Sudden’s personal experiences eventually wound up, camouflaged, in his thrillers. In the case of the octopus maculotoxin, it was the other way around. Sudden’s C.I.A. unit now kept a small stash handy.
CHAPTER 8 - THE UNIT
C.I.A. Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
When Sudden’s jet arrived at Andrews Air Force Base outside Washington, a company S.U.V. was waiting for him. When he got in, the driver told him that another plane with another C.I.A. operative was due in momentarily and both agents would go on to Langley together. The driver saw Sudden glance at his watch.
“Don’t worry, sir. We’ll make it.”
A few minutes later the driver said, “There it is.”
Sudden watched as a lumbering Lockheed C-130 Hercules turboprop landed and taxied to their position. The rear cargo hatch was lowered and a solitary figure carrying a duffel bag trotted over to the car and climbed in the back with Sudden. The man was about Sudden’s size, with a wide freckled face, pale skin, pale eyebrows and a mop of red hair. The door was barely closed when the driver floored the vehicle.
Sudden introduced himself to the man, whose name was Brin Yunner.
“We’ve met,” Yunner said, smiling.
“Are you sure? I usually don’t forget faces.”
Especially ones that look like yours, not to mention the red hair, Sudden thought.
“I was wearing a ski mask,” Yunner said, “and most of the time you had a cloth over your face. I was one of the guys who waterboarded you.”
That was a showstopper.
“You son of a bitch.”
“Sorry about that, pal.”
Sudden gave him a stare he usually reserved for Ukrainian mobsters and people using cell phones in movie theaters.
“You don’t know how sorry you and your pals almost were.”
“Just doing my job, Sudden. Hell, you should be proud. You’re one of the few humans who didn’t break.”
Humans? Was the C.I.A. waterboarding animals now?
“There was nothing to break. I was innocent.”
“Well, there’s that.”
“Hey, guys,” the driver said. “If you’re gonna fight, take it outside. I just cleaned the upholstery.”
He had the S.U.V. up to about 90 and was weaving in and out of traffic like a madman.
“Maybe later,” Sudden said.
Years earlier, a mole at Langley had identified Sudden as a traitor in an effort to throw investigators off his own trail. Suspended, Sudden was turned over to the “specialists” at an agency “farm” in Maryland. After Sudden was cleared, he threatened to kill anyone who tried to torture him again. Given his reputation, it was a threat taken very seriously, and the agency tightened up its procedures in cases of internal sec
urity breaches.
“Look, Sudden,” Yunner said. “I know you’ve got a beef with me. I can’t really blame you. But it looks like we’ll be working together on this thing, so let’s try to get along. The stakes are pretty high, wouldn’t you say?”
Sudden was confused, but tried not to show it. He’d assumed Yunner was just catching a ride to Langley.
“I know why I’m going to the meeting,” Sudden lied. “Why are you invited?”
Yunner shrugged.
“Probably to get my ass reamed. The thing died on my table. Didn’t get much out of it. A real cluster fuck. Wasn’t really our fault, you know. We were careful, but we were dealing with a new physiology. They should have warned us. Hell, I guess they didn’t know. But we’re low men on the totem pole and shit flows downhill.”
Sudden, the writer, was annoyed at Yunner’s mixed metaphors, but intrigued nevertheless. What the hell was going on? What thing?
“It’s not like we asked for the job. But we can’t waterboard in the States anymore. It’s one of the reasons they’ve kept Gitmo running. Not that it did much good. But it was a last resort. Nothing else worked. Electricity, pliers, hallucinogens, heat, cold, you name it. We ran out of ideas.”
Sudden was appalled.
“What the hell is wrong with you people?”
“What are you getting so high and mighty about, Sudden? For Christ sake, your unit kills more people than we torture. Besides, we’re not talking about a person, are we?”
Sudden decided to let it drop. To ask more would reveal just how clueless he was about what was going on. He’d wait for the briefing. The fearless agency driver, who had used highway shoulders and jumped curbs, got them to Langley with 10 minutes to spare.
“How did you do at the Indy 500?” Sudden asked as he got out.
“Those guys are pussies,” the driver replied.
***
It had been so long since Sudden had been in the hallowed halls of the C.I.A. headquarters that he wondered if his I.D. still worked. It did, and after the usual fingerprint and retina scan rigmarole he and Yunner were directed to the third floor, where a stern-faced Marine guard ushered them into a richly paneled conference room at exactly 1 PM. A dozen or so people stood or sat around a long oblong table, chatting in hushed tones.
There were several large flat-screen televisions on the wall behind what was obviously the head of the table. At that end were a few people Sudden recognized, including Penelope Parsons, the no-nonsense black woman who was the agency’s Deputy Director. She was standing next to a pile of what looked like briefing books, each sealed with a red tape. Nigel Buss and Rebecca Soul were sitting at the far end of the table. No one was talking to them, although a couple of the men in the room occasionally glanced in their direction. They weren’t looking at Nigel, a tall, balding man with thinning blond hair and an aquiline nose. Nigel’s paunch seems smaller, Sudden noticed. Could it be that he’s finally hitting the gym? More likely he’s pulled his stomach in a bit sitting next to Rebecca, who was getting all the stares. Sudden joined his colleagues.
“Cheap seats, again, I see,” he said. “Where are Bill and Mike?” Those were the other two field agents in the unit. “I thought this was all hands on deck.”
“Turn of phrase,” Buss said. “Mike is still recovering. He’s home now, but the docs want him to rest.”
Sudden knew that his colleague must have been pretty banged up to need so much time off. Well, that went with the territory when dealing regularly with some of the world’s most vicious thugs.
“As for Bill,” Buss continued, “I was only allowed to bring one operative to this party.” He saw the confusion on Sudden’s face. “Rebecca is an exception. She was invited by Parsons.”
Sudden looked at her.
“Don’t bother asking,” Rebecca said. “I don’t know why I’ve been included. But I’ll sit with you guys so you won’t feel lonely.”
“Why did you pick me for this, Nigel?” Sudden said. “Was I the closest agent?”
“No,” Buss said.
Sudden winked at Rebecca.
“When he needs the very best,” he said, “I guess it’s an obvious call.”
“Un-swell that head of yours, Cole,” Buss said. “It’s just that when I need someone with a warped imagination, I naturally think of you. You write fiction. This should be right up your alley. Besides, Parsons also specifically requested you.”
“What should be right up my alley?”
Before Buss could answer, the door to the conference room opened and an elderly man with a cane walked in, escorted by Philip Hupps, the C.I.A. section chief for the Middle East. Sudden knew who the old man was, too. As head of Mossad, the Israeli intelligence service, Tal Ben-David, was a legend. Small in stature and bent by age — among his peers his nickname was “the gnome” — Ben-David was feared by friends and foes alike. Foes, for the obvious reasons; friends because they never knew where they really stood with him.
The Mossad chief shook hands with some of the people at the head of the table, and nodded at the rest. Then, he set eyes on Rebecca Soul. He walked down to where she was sitting. She and her two companions rose at his approach.
“Rebecca, how nice to see you again,” Ben-David said as she kissed him on both cheeks. “Are you enjoying your time with BURY?”
The use of the unit’s nickname was intentional, of course. It was Ben-David’s way of showing that there few secrets he didn’t know.
“How have you been, Uncle?”
Sudden looked at Buss, who shrugged.
The old man turned to the other two men.
“I am not really her uncle,” he said, “although I might as well have been. Our families were close, and I believe Rebecca may have spent more time at my house than my own grandchildren. She was a wild child, but sweet. Mossad’s loss was the C.I.A.’s gain.”
Rebecca introduced Buss and Sudden.
“Ah, yes,” Ben-David said. “Nigel Buss. Your unit is unique. We have great admiration for your insight and innovation. Perhaps at some point we can have a chat, if your superiors approve.” He smiled. “Work out some sort of exchange program.”
Well, so much for our unit’s secrecy, Sudden thought, as Ben-David turned to him.
“And Cole Sudden. I admire your work. And your novels. You are a talented writer. And, of course, it is a wonderful cover.” He winked at Sudden. “By the way, we have added your octopus toxin to our arsenal of potions.”
“Good Lord,” Buss said. “Why don’t we just set up a Facebook page.”
The Mossad chief laughed.
“Imagine how much I would know if my Becca, here, divided her loyalties. But, alas, she now serves only you.”
“You don’t have to vouch for me, Uncle. I spend more time being polygraphed than any other C.I.A. employee. Now, tell me, are you the reason I am here?”
“Yes, Becca. I hesitated to involve you, but since what you will hear concerns your father, I felt it only proper.”
“My father?”
Ben-David looked at Buss and Sudden.
“Etan Soul was the best agent I ever had. We still mourn him, as a colleague and a friend. He was like a son to me.”
“Excuse me, Tal, but we are about to start.”
It was Parsons, who had walked up to them.
“Of course, Penny.” Ben-David tuned to the other three. “It will all become clear in a moment.” He smiled. “Or, maybe not so clear. I’m not sure what any of this means. It’s quite fantastic.”
He walked to the head of the table with Parsons and everyone took their seats.
“Rebecca,” Buss said, “hasn’t your father been gone for many years?”
“Yes, he died of cancer in 1994. And, no, I have no idea what this is about, or how he could be involved.”
The lights in the room suddenly dimmed and the flat-screen TV’s came to life. Parsons began to speak. Within a moment, she had everyone’s rapt attention. The only sounds were an occasi
onal murmur or gasp as she brought up different videos or pictures, narrating as she went along. Sudden knew that this was not a room, or an audience, given to exclamations of shock, but he understood.
He was as stunned as everyone else.
CHAPTER 9 - ANOTHER ONE
Penelope Parsons asked to have the lights turned back on. The room was deathly quiet. Sudden looked at Nigel Buss, who raised his eyebrows. They both looked at Rebecca Soul.
“My father never said a word to me about this,” she said quietly.
“I don’t blame him,” Sudden said.
A man thumped the table.
“Why has it taken so long for Israel to share this information?”
The question was more like an accusation. Sudden didn’t know the table thumper.
“I think I will let Tal explain that,” Parsons said.
Ben-David stood slowly and faced the room.
“I am sure that everyone in this room has seen Raiders of the Lost Ark, that delightful movie where Harrison Ford turns over the Ark of the Covenant to the American Government and it is promptly boarded up in a crate and shipped to a huge warehouse, and just as promptly forgotten.” The Mossad chief’s English was perfect. “Well, every government has such a warehouse, even us. Ours is smaller, of course, but God only knows what’s in there. Perhaps even the Ark!”
The old man chuckled.
“But no matter. That’s where Zyster’s attaché case wound up. We found out who Boltke was through that address on the letter, which was his wife’s by the way. She was quite forthcoming when our agents visited her. Relieved, actually. They acted properly. After all, she was basically an innocent, as were Boltke’s children. And, of course, the Eichmann incident was fresh in her mind and I am sure she didn’t want to antagonize us. All in all, it was quite a coup. Two war criminals were eliminated and we were even able to roll up the small network of Nazi-lovers that still existed in Argentina. By the way, the stamps did, indeed, turn out to be valuable. The money they brought came in handy because, you see, at about that time, we had a small problem with our neighbors. I believe you Americans refer to it as the Six-Day War. Zyster’s attaché case was not as important as half a million Arabs breathing down our neck. So, it went into storage, remembered only by a couple of analysts who had started working on it. Fortunately, one of them, who was very young at the time, is still alive and working for us. When he heard about what recently happened, he put two-and-two together and somehow retrieved Zyster’s materials.”
TWO SUDDEN!: A Pair of Cole Sudden C.I.A. Thrillers Page 20