The Gaze of Caprice (The Caprice Trilogy Book 1)

by Cole Reid

  “Damn,” said Ren, “That was eight years ago and I don’t know that.”

  “You’re getting old,” said Bob, “Maybe you’ll be old and handsome like me.”

  “Well,” said Ren, “I didn’t work so much with satellites. We were downstream. Whatever the intelligence was is what we went on to collect our target.” Georgia let the men have their moment before she went on.

  “We didn’t want it to get out that a Caprice agent had dropped off grid,” said Georgia, “I decided to handle it in house, within Caprice.” Georgia paused, the topic was sensitive for an insensitive senior officer.

  “I told Mason to send Reagan Lee to kill Voloshyn,” said Georgia, “Lee went to Rome and found Voloshyn and killed him, but we recovered Voloshyn’s body with no head.” Several noises were made throughout the Room with the reoccurrence of the same gruesome detail.

  “Still,” said Georgia, “Reagan Lee remained on grid. Mason knew Lee took Voloshyn’s head but Lee never admitted to it. We needed to know how Voloshyn was able to drop off grid. The chips were—after all—tamper-proof. But Lee stole the evidence.”

  “Why didn’t you hit him with a yellow card or red card?” asked Bob. The most senior in age and rank, he didn’t like minutiae.

  “My hands were tied,” said Georgia, “A red card would come at the expense of a $7 million chip, plus all the time and money spent from recruitment and training. Even the yellow card wasn’t a good idea. We were having a massive attack to our system. One of our project managers was killed. Two of our agents were dead, one who wasn’t even on our grid. Your point is valid, we had to protect this secret but we didn’t have the secret to protect. My idea was to make Lee our best friend. I spent time with him in Paris, told him all about the days of the cold war. I wanted him to see us as people doing a job rather than a system. He never knew his mother so there was a weak spot there. We didn’t need to kill him or for him to drop off grid. That would have left us with nine out of twelve Caprice agents. We needed him alive and on grid. At that time, we didn’t even know how Voloshyn beat our system.”

  “You know now?” said Gael.

  “Well,” said Georgia, “This is the first time Lee surfaced in seven years. It made me think. There’s a pattern here. An agent kills another agent and takes his head.”

  “Should have renamed it Project Highlander,” said Philip. There was a giggle from those who got the joke.

  “It would make no difference now,” said Georgia, “But we all know how this game is played. It’s always the same. To the victor go the spoils. If your project is successful you get more funding. This interplay is no different. Voloshyn killed Gasset and took his head. Lee killed Voloshyn and took his head. The victor took the same spoil. So the question to me was what was the spoil for the victor? There can only be one answer, the chip. I asked myself why I would want another agent’s chip. When I explained the program to you three days ago I thought of something, something I left out. The satellite picks up the signal eight inches from the chip. The technicians called it Pinocchio’s Nose, the eight-inch gap. Like I explained, the chips are activated by brainwaves. The technology doesn’t prevent two chips from being activated by the same brain. Two active chips within eight inches of each other would make each signal cancel out the other. The satellite relay would jam. If you’re willing to kill another agent, you can walk right off our grid. And all these guys were killers.”

  “And that’s what you believe killed your project?” said Gael.

  “You can believe I’ve thought about this for six years since they transferred me here,” said Georgia, “The only reason I had this idea now is because I had to take you guys back through Caprice from the beginning. After it ended, I only thought about how it ended I never thought about the beginning. That’s where the answer was.”

  Gael gave Georgia a mini applause. Bob whistled. His whistle was easy to read. Keep your projects simple next time. The whole explanation was interesting. But focus took energy. The seven agreed on a proposal first announced by Georgia, to take a two-hour recess. They would reconvene and make their decision on what to do about Chessmaster.

  The two hours went by quickly but the back and forth didn’t. There were so many arguments made. Ren was arguing in favor of cutting a deal for Mason. Edward wanted a deal as well. Georgia had done enough to build sympathy for Mason. She hung the failure of Caprice on herself—poor planning from the outset. Most in the room agreed Caprice wasn’t Mason’s fault. And Gael admitted he was good for Filartiga. In the end, Gael voted to disavow Mason to salvage what could be salvaged from Filartiga. Disavowing Mason meant disavowing anything he might have said to the Venezuelans. They would have to decide for themselves what was true. Everyone at the table accepted that Mason would most likely be tortured to verify anything he said; it was something they would have to live with. In the end, they all voted to disavow Chessmaster, to let the Venezuelans keep him—in whatever condition he was in. Even Georgia voted to disavow him. She made the case for how loyal he had been on Caprice and how it was her fault he had to move to Filartiga but she knew the job. The job was bigger than Mason or her sympathies, symbolic or otherwise.

  • • •

  It was late when they left the Room, already passed 10:00pm. Georgia played her hand well but wasn’t done playing. She had her insurance policy. She went to her office and used a secure line to call the Venezuelan ambassador. She would negotiate for Mason on her own, with a $308 billion bargaining chip. She was uninhibited. It had all gone well. She didn’t even worry about cutting the deal with the ambassador. She knew when she had a man by the balls and was used to negotiating balls-in-hand. Her mind was stuck on other anatomy. It had bothered her all night and kept her up, frustrated that she hadn’t recognized the flaw before, Pinocchio’s Nose.

  Chapter Twenty Pinocchio’s Nose

  Gael took just enough time to grab his attaché case from his office. He left the Room last. He didn’t want to see or speak to anyone. He had seen and spoken to enough people for one day. He made his way back to his office for his attaché case then made his way to the elevator. He wasn’t concerned if he forgot anything. Stepping into the empty elevator felt like good food hitting his stomach; it was filling. Talking to someone after handing over a good agent was like swallowing the flag. It was as symbolic as flag-burning, only he had to feel the movement of the decision through his bowels. The empty elevator meant he didn’t have to talk, but it made the elevator ride nauseating. Handing over Chessmaster weighed on his stomach as the descending elevator made him feel weightless. The combination of the two did a number on him. He sent up a prayer but more official—an SOS. He only wanted one thing, the elevator to hit garage-level without stopping. Fair or unfair, his prayers were answered. It took the better part of a minute but the ride to the bottom was smooth, straight and uninterrupted. The garage on sub-level four wasn’t high. It was wide with a low ceiling. The garage was lit but dark. Even in a garage with numbered spots, Gael forgot where he parked. The day wore him out and his brain along with it. The electricity was still flowing but the bulb had blown out. They didn’t have assigned spots, not even senior officers. It was too much a risk. His mail was delivered under a fake company name. He lied about his employer, always. And it didn’t even earn him a company parking spot. It did earn him a company car. All cars were registered to a fake company. It kept the driver’s identity secret. Not having assigned parking spots made the driver difficult to target. Car bombs were efficient, if the driver was the target. The target would be killed when starting the car. There was no waiting for a clear shot or opportunity. The car was the opportunity. The bomb could even be detonated by remote or cell phone. It was better than a sniper. The assassin didn’t even have to be in the area. But the lack of assigned spaces made it less efficient. The cars weren’t registered under individual names; it made the driver hard to identify. If the driver’s parking spot could be determined, it was the next best thing. But the Agency didn’t g
ive their officers assigned spot. For senior officers, it was an insult. But it was for their protection. It didn’t protect Gael from himself. He couldn’t remember where he parked.

  • • •

  All cars were sedans, black, navy, green or gray. They were typical. They had to be low enough to fit in the garage and bland enough not to add any flavor. There were no SUVs, coupes or hatchbacks. No car had leather seats. Leather was expensive and impractical. Overseas, the officers ran the Agency. At home, the accountants ran the Agency, so everyone rolled like an accountant—by the numbers. Gael had to use his key to find his car. It came from off to the right. He had to walk longer than he wanted to, to get to his car. Ironically, he found his car was parked near another car he recognized. It was a black Hyundai Accord ’07. The plates and perfect parking job were also a give-away. It was Georgia’s car. Gael had thought he was the last one. From the Room to the garage, was the same for all of them. They all had to pile upstairs and grab extras. They couldn’t carry unnecessaries into the Room, so they left the unnecessaries at home—home being their offices. If Georgia’s car was still in the garage, Georgia was still in her office. That was the best logic Gael had at the end of a long logistical day. He didn’t think passed his first thought. He figured she was hiding more than he had, trying to be the last one out.

  There were two thoughts on Gael’s mind, home and bed. Rush hour traffic between Langley and Alexandria, Virginia could be between forty-five minutes to an hour. At 10:45pm, traffic was a non-event. Gael made it home in just over twenty minutes. His house was like him, solid and freestanding. The house was entirely redbrick. A red door faced the street. Green shutters flanked the windows. A green plastic garbage bin stood guard. It was an historic home. Like the city, the house and its occupant had a history. Missing from the house was the Star-Spangled Banner that rightfully should have been displayed from a second-floor flagpole. Agency employees weren’t allowed patriotism. The flag was too telling. It said government employee or pensioner. He left early and came back late. He was no pensioner. The garage fit the house. It was old-fashioned. There was a simple wooden gate, no remote control. Gael had to get out of his green Toyota Corolla to unbolt the gate by hand. With the gate open, he drove inside and left his car parked on the inside. He got out to bolt the gate from the outside. Attaché case in hand, he walked toward the front door looking once over his shoulder. The door had two locks, the knob and the deadbolt. The alarm system was the last security measure. It was basic. There was nothing exceptional. His house wasn’t a fortress. It didn’t need to be. The car and the house made him look anonymous—a pencil pusher. He was an ordinary citizen of suburbia. His house was secured but not secure. He was sixty plus, a divorcee with a grown daughter. There was no apparent reason for someone to be after him. He was too boring to have anything exciting. A decent thief could read as much. And that was the way the Agency wanted him, not worth the time.

  The Agency wanted him to be looked at with no one thinking twice about him. It was optimal. He closed the door and walked toward the antique buffet on the far wall. He laid his keys and attaché case on top of the buffet for temporary storage. The end of the day was kept inside the buffet’s carved door. A crystal brandy serving set was stashed just inside. He pulled out one glass and a brandy holder, with no brandy but The Glenlivet. He let two fingers of Glenlivet scotch hit the glass before deciding on a third. He left the brandy holder on top of the buffet for safekeeping and took his attaché case and keys to his study. In the study, was a chair more expensive per pound than anything else in the house. A dark black leather ottoman matched the upholstered chair. Gael sat in the chair putting his feet up on the ottoman. He found the on-switch to the lamp behind the chair. He sipped his scotch a half-finger at a time. The chair was black like a psychologist’s chaise longue. Gael liked it that way. He always said his study was his psychologist’s office and Johnnie Walker was his psychologist. That was until he acquired a taste for single malt scotch. Then he switched to Glenlivet. He dangled the last swallow in the glass over the armrest. He dangled it for a very long time.

  His study had no plaques for golf, tennis, poker or anything else. There was nothing standing out. He wasn’t a standout. He did have books, volumes. There were old encyclopedias, still valuable in an Internet age. The encyclopedias were encyclopedic. There was archived information that wasn’t available on the Internet, things like currency exchange rates from before the Internet. For an aging intelligence officer, the old school was the best school. Its lessons could not be ignored. He eyed the room and its many volumes. He liked it. It was intelligent. The stupid thing would have been to throw the volumes away, to consider them obsolete. Throwing them away would make them obsolete. Time had nothing to do with it. Intelligence work had taught him that. Like the whisky that floated in the glass in his hand, he had aged gracefully. He pulled the glass to his lips and took his last trip to Scotland for the evening.

  There was one thing on his mind, his teeth. He was a man of habit and he had brushed his teeth most nights whether he slept at home or in the office. He had only two distinct memories when he turned in for the night without taking care of his teeth. But tonight was different. In giving up Chessmaster, he had given up his successor, the son he never had. It was the reason he accepted the disgraced Chessmaster to his already successful project. He thought Chessmaster deserved a chance to rebuild his career. He saw a pattern of behavior in Chessmaster’s file. It seemed familiar. It reminded him of his own operational history, updated with a modern mind. He saw a bright future for Chessmaster despite Caprice. With Filartiga he wanted Chessmaster to prove him right. Still, Chessmaster was in custody and the project itself was more important than an old man’s sympathies. An old man knew that.

  Gael wondered whether to brush his teeth or not. He figured the scotch was good enough to kill any bacteria, enough to survive till morning. But he remembered habits. With the weight of his decision on his shoulders, he felt like returning to the ordinary. He took his feet off the ottoman and returned them to the floor. Making his way to the bathroom, he passed the antique buffet and set the empty glass near its matching brandy holder. The bathroom was down the hall from the buffet. His bedroom was adjacent to the bathroom. His marital bedroom had been upstairs, near his daughter’s room. Over the years, both daughter and wife had vacated. He converted the guest bedroom to his own. It saved him the stairs. The plan was simple, to brush and to bed. He stood in front of the mirror looking at a face dominated by forehead. His hair seemed to start from the back hoping to grow forward. Despite his age, he had few wrinkles. His forehead was the only guilty party. Three deep lines ran the majority of his forehead. The lines would have been less noticeable if he had hair to distract. His hair stopped battling for attention with the lines on his forehead. After the surrender, his hair retreated.

  He put a conservative amount of white paste on the clear bristles. The toothbrush was like so many things in the house, simple. Like his car it was green. He put the toothbrush in his mouth and suddenly felt a spasm. It was his neck. A sudden violent motion sent his head forward. The motion was out of his control. He couldn’t prevent his head from smashing into the mirror. Time slowed. He seemed to experience every millisecond of his head hitting the mirror. It felt entirely out of control. That’s what it felt like. That’s what he remembered.

  • • •

  Gael woke up in a dream-like state. So unnatural was the feeling, it didn’t feel like waking up. There was the temperature. He didn’t feel temperatures in his dreams, not like this. There was an awkward relationship to gravity. His feet felt the lack of contact with surfaces, so did his back. He felt like he was floating or flying. But his hands were stuck behind his back. He looked up and realized he couldn’t see sky or ceiling but his familiar off-white carpet. He was prepped enough for fieldwork. He had even spent a short time as a field agent. The training was quick but it came back. He wasn’t flying. He was hanging. His feet didn’t feel the
floor because he was hanging from the second floor balcony by his feet. He shifted his wrists against each other and felt plastic cut deep into his skin—plastic cuffs. His analysis of the scenario was quick and accurate. He was immobile, a prisoner in his own home. The only thing he didn’t know was the warden’s identity. He looked up and saw his feet were likewise tied together. Chain from the basement had been neatly tied like a noose around his legs. The chain was wrapped around several balusters of the upstairs balcony. He wasn’t going anywhere. He knew it. He wasn’t just a prisoner. He was a target, at the mercy of a professional. The footsteps came from behind him. The warden moved around him. The face was hard to recognize. He had seen it before but not enough. And he was upside down.

  “Cold,” said the warden. Gael’s vision was still blurred but began to focus on one thing, the warden’s face. He kept thinking. The face was familiar. Thinking while upside down was thinking upside down. His memories went back-to-front not the other way. He found it.

  “You’re Reagan Lee,” said Gael.

  “It’s a Triad technique,” said Mr. Li, “Your body temperature is going to steadily drop. There are exactly one thousand tiny cuts all over your body. You probably don’t feel them, just the effect.”

  “Tell me,” said Gael.

  “You’re bleeding to death,” said Mr. Li, “It’s happening slower because you’re inverted. It’s going to give you an awkward feeling of your body shutting down. It’s supposed to be quite painful, something like frostbite.”

  “Why kill me?” said Gael, “Is it the vote? We’ve already voted on Keig.”

  “I said it’s a Triad technique,” said Mr. Li, “I didn’t say it’s an interrogation technique. But that’s typically what it’s for. It’s going to hurt worse and worse while you hang there or you can give me the answers quick and I’ll use this when I have what I need.” Mr. Li showed Gael a familiar object. It was a .357-caliber revolver. It was Gael’s home security system before he had a home security system. He slept with it under his bed.