by Ethan Jones
“Yes, yes, they will be handed back to you at the exit.”
Javin followed the commander down the hall and stayed two steps behind him.
The colonel remained in the interrogation room.
They came to the large entrance hall. Two soldiers at the reception desk saluted the commander. Gogollari approached them and asked for Javin’s backpack. When it was handed to him, Gogollari brought it to Javin, who was standing near the door.
He rummaged through the backpack to make sure the contents were all there. When he confirmed everything was intact, he nodded at Gogollari. “It’s all good.”
“This way.” Gogollari pointed at the door. “Wait for me outside.”
Javin hurried his steps in front of the commander and quickly went down a flight of wide steps. He headed toward a sleek black Mercedes-Benz, which he knew was Gogollari’s issued car. He stood near the car, waiting for Gogollari, who seemed to be taking his time. The night was crisp and chilly, with sharp wind gusts, but Javin was glad to be out of the stifling heat of the pungent interrogation room.
A moment later, Gogollari appeared at the door. He was on his phone, giving orders to someone. Javin did not speak Albanian, except for a few basic words to get around, but it was clear Gogollari had a tone of frustration in his voice. He descended the steps slowly, then ended the call before he drew near to Javin. “That was a very close call,” he whispered to Javin. “The colonel is raging mad.”
Javin nodded. “That was to be expected, and that’s why I needed to call you.”
“He’s still very suspicious.”
“Do you think he will let this go?”
“I’m not sure, but I will make him—”
“Gogollari, we’re not finished here!” The colonel’s shouting cut off Gogollari.
He turned to see the colonel at the top of the stairs. He was pointing his pistol at Gogollari. “I can’t let you take that spy away.”
“Are you crazy? Put that gun away.”
The colonel shook his head and took a couple of steps. “I figured out what happened. He called you before my officers caught him. Or maybe this meeting was prearranged. In any case, you have a personal interest in Canada. Your two children study in Montreal.”
A dark frown spread across Gogollari’s reddened face. “Leave my children out of this. And if you don’t put that gun away, you’ll be court-martialled for insubor—”
“You’re the one going to jail for treason, for helping a spy steal secrets of our military base.” The colonel was now at the bottom of the stairs, barely twenty yards away from Gogollari.
Javin glanced around. He could not see much in the dim-lighted grounds, but it seemed no officers were observing the exchange. Javin’s eyes then went to the entrance behind the colonel. No one appeared to be looking through the windows or the glass doors.
“You’ve gone crazy, but this madness needs to stop. Now!” Gogollari turned toward the colonel and began to march toward him.
Javin stepped forward behind Gogollari.
Then a gunshot echoed like a cannon.
Gogollari wobbled on his feet, then began to fall backwards.
Javin dashed in and caught him before he hit the ground. Blood was gushing from Gogollari’s right leg. The bullet had pierced the outside of his thigh.
Javin held Gogollari up, and the officer shifted his weight onto his good leg.
“Yes, this will teach you and your spy.” The colonel advanced a few more yards, keeping his pistol trained on Gogollari’s head. “On the ground, both of you.”
Javin reached for the commander’s pistol in his left shoulder holster. He cocked the Makarov and fired a single round. It slammed into the colonel’s chest, and he fell to the ground.
The colonel’s hand groped for the pistol that had fallen next to him. He tried to wrap his fingers around the pistol’s handle, but then his hand stopped moving. His body relaxed, and he drew his last breath.
Javin dropped the pistol and laid Gogollari slowly on the ground.
Four officers burst out of the command post. One of the officers dashed to them and asked, “What . . . what happened here, sir?”
Gogollari tipped his head toward his wound. “The colonel . . . I don’t understand why the colonel shot at us. What did you see?”
The young, clean-shaven officer shook his head. “Nothing, none of us saw anything.” He gestured toward the other three, who were leaning over the colonel’s body. “We were at the desk, when we heard the first round. It sounded like a car backfiring. Then we ran out only after we heard the second gunshot.”
Gogollari nodded. “Good, good. This is what happened here: The colonel had a nervous breakdown and fired at me.” He motioned at his wound. “Javin, I mean Mr. Pierce, saved my life, holding me, so I didn’t fall and break something. I . . . I had to return fire in self-defence, but I didn’t mean to kill him.”
The officer nodded, but did not say anything. He just shook his head.
Gogollari picked up the Makarov pistol and returned it to his holster. He made sure to rub his hands over it, as if wondering if he had done the right thing.
Javin knew Gogollari was wiping Javin’s fingerprints. He nodded to himself. I need to make sure that weapon is spic-and-span clean. And I have to clean my hands of any gunpowder residue.
Another officer ran toward Gogollari. He spoke in rapid Albanian, and Javin did not understand any of the rattle. Gogollari responded slowly, in a calm tone. Javin picked up the words “police” and “ambulance,” as they sounded quite similar to English. The officer nodded, then ran inside the command post.
“What’s going on?” Javin asked.
Gogollari said, “I’ve asked him to call the military police, so they can investigate. Of course, they’ll ask you questions. You’re the only witness to what happened here.” He exchanged a knowing look with Javin.
Javin nodded, then glanced at the officer still standing. “Help me bring him inside.”
Gogollari shrugged. “I can walk. Just give me a hand and get me to my feet,” he said to Javin and leaned on his shoulder.
Javin put his right arm under Gogollari’s waist and lifted him up. They walked slowly toward the entrance. Gogollari dragged his leg behind, wincing occasionally. When they came to the colonel’s lifeless body, Javin cast a glance at the colonel’s pale face. I didn’t want it to end this way. But you insisted. He shrugged and helped the commander up the stairs, hoping this would be the end of the complications in this operation.
Chapter Three
CIS Headquarters
Ottawa, Canada
Ten days later
Javin parked at the furthermost corner of the massive parking lot. The agency never slept, so he was lucky to get an empty spot. He jogged toward the massive marble building, the CIS Headquarters on Ogilvie Road. He did not want to be late for his eight o’clock meeting with his boss. Javin had ten minutes, plenty of time if the procedure at the main entrance’s security checkpoint went quick.
When Javin worked at the HQ building, all he needed to do was flash his credentials to the guards, who were familiar with his face and his good-spirited banter, and they would wave him through. Those good old times were gone. Nowadays, he rarely came, maybe once a month, and there always seemed to be different guards staffing the checkpoint. After an attempted attack a few months back, the security protocol was tightened. All personnel underwent a thorough check, including the obligatory pat down.
Javin was slightly annoyed when the fresh-faced intelligence officers put his briefcase through the X-ray scanner and asked him to walk through the metal detector. One of them examined his badge at length, eyeing Javin suspiciously and comparing his face to his photo ID. The process reminded Javin of his early days in the Service. He had done this exact same job for a few weeks as he learned to read faces and trust his instincts, rather than just go by the approved rules.
After getting back his ID, Javin climbed the stairs, taking them two or three
at a time. His boss’s office was the end of the fourth floor, right by where he himself used to have an office. He slowed down for a moment when passing by that door, where now hung a sign with another man’s name.
He walked down the long hall and slowed down only when he drew near his boss’s door. Hugo Martin, Director of Intelligence for the Europe Division was imprinted on the solid wood door. Javin flattened the front of his black jacket, tightened his tie’s knot, and knocked on the door.
“Yes, Javin, come in,” Martin called in his deep baritone voice.
Javin opened the door. “Morning, boss. How’s your day starting?”
“The sun’s smiling down on me.” Martin stood up from behind his mahogany desk, the centerpiece of his office. Long, tall bookshelves occupied the right side of his office, while a series of black file cabinets were lined up on the opposite wall. Behind Martin’s desk, the floor-to-ceiling bulletproof glass window showed magnificent vistas of the Ottawa River and the surrounding park. The city’s skyline rose in the distance, with the tallest skyscrapers reflecting the weak but gorgeous rays of the sun. Spring was definitely coming early to Ottawa this April.
Martin shook Javin’s hand, then gestured toward the small rectangular desk by the file cabinets. “Oh, I almost forgot this.” He swung on his heel and grabbed one of the green folders at the edge of the large desk.
Javin was not surprised at Martin’s elegant spin. He was in his late fifties, but ran ten kilometers every day and never ate red meat or fried foods. Javin watched his health too, and limited his animal protein consumption. Occasionally, though, he sank his teeth deep into a well-done porterhouse of Alberta beef.
“Have a seat,” Martin said.
Javin sat at his usual place, with his back against the file cabinets.
Martin opened the folder on the desk, then swung it around, so Javin could read the report. He leaned back on his swivel chair and said, “Second page. Transcript from the Albanian State Police, confirmed by Interpol on the next couple of pages.”
Javin speed-read through the pages. A large weapons cache had been intercepted two nights ago while heading to the port of Durrës, Albania’s largest seaport. A wide network of fixers, financiers, and intermediaries had ended up behind bars. The number was fifty-eight, and more arrests were expected. One of the most prominent names was an army colonel, who was killed in an unrelated, accidental shooting ten days ago in the military base from which the weapons cache had originated. According to the report, the investigation could reach the highest levels of Albanian politics, including former members of parliament and the current deputy minister of defence.
Martin brushed back his gray hair and gestured toward the report. “You did an excellent job, Javin. Your name is correctly nowhere in the reports."
Javin nodded slowly. “Thank you, sir. I had great support from Mr. Gogollari and the rest of the team.”
He was referring mainly to his partner, Claudia Aquarone. She had been in constant contact with Javin, providing everything he needed, from logistics to background intelligence, to setting up, and almost real-time cover for his always-evolving operation.
“Yes, the Albanians are quite happy. Catching the shipment goes a long way in improving their image and their reputation as a reliable ally in the global war on terrorism. The commander is recovering very well, and sends you his best wishes.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“Now, on the topic of your team, it’s time to bring Claudia back to the field.”
Javin frowned but did not say anything.
Martin studied Javin’s crumpled face. “Say what you think.”
Javin shrugged. “You make the decision if she’s ready or not . . .”
“But you disagree.”
“Yes, I disagree.”
Martin leaned forward. “You know, when you came back after going through . . . issues, many people thought you weren’t ready.”
Javin’s frown deepened. “Yeah, and they were very wrong.’
“The same could be said in this case.”
Javin nodded. He could see Martin’s line of reasoning. Javin shifted uncomfortably in his seat and rubbed his chin. “Yes, but these two cases are quite different. Claudia, well, her op went sideways. Perhaps not directly her fault, but still . . . Me, well, I had no control over what happened to my wife . . .”
Martin gave Javin a warm look. “I don’t mean to re-open old wounds, Javin.” His voice had taken on a soft, fatherly tone. “But both you and Claudia were a mess when you returned to the agency. This life is all about second chances. You got yours, and she will too.”
“Understood, sir. Whom will she be paired with?”
Martin grinned. “Eh, do I need to spell it out?”
Javin shook his head. “I’m not sure this is going to work, sir.”
“What’s the problem, Javin? Claudia has shown she can handle herself quite well under pressure, even much better than before. She has learned from the past.”
“Claudia’s not the problem, Martin. I . . . Maybe I’m the one who’s not ready for a partner, especially a female one.”
Martin folded his hands across his chest. “I’ve read your psych evaluations, Javin. You’re making excellent progress. All assessments are off the charts.”
Javin nodded slowly. “Those . . . eh, those reports can be misleading.”
Martin frowned and cocked his head. “Are you telling me you cheated in these tests?
“No, no, of course not. What I’m saying is that they may not show the full picture of who I am now.”
Martin thought about Javin’s answer for a long moment, then said, “Give this a try, will you? If the arrangement doesn’t work, we’ll see what needs tweaking.”
Javin nodded. “Okay,” he said in a quiet tone.
“Good. So, we can file away the weapons op.” Martin closed the folder and slid it to the side. He returned to his desk and picked up a new one. This one was black, the color of an operation that had not started yet.
Javin pulled out his tablet from his briefcase and set it up in front of him.
Martin handed Javin the black folder and sat down. “Your next mission, yours and Claudia’s, it’s more complicated than the one in Albania. This one will take you to Istanbul. Last night, one of our teams lost a flash drive that you and Claudia need to retrieve.”
“What’s in the drive?”
“Classified intel about Turkish government involvement in the wars in Syria and Iraq. Illegal oil trade deals. Very damning evidence for a lot of politicians and businessmen.”
“Okay.” Javin’s voice remained calm. “Who has it?”
“It’s in a police station vault. They found it after the team was chased out of town. The flash drive is encrypted, and, according to our records, still intact. But it’s only a matter of time before someone in the police or the MIT cracks the encryption.”
Javin nodded. The MIT—Milli Istihbarat Teskilati, or the National Intelligence Organization—was Turkey’s primary intelligence gathering agency. They had the people and the tools to break any security encryption, and eventually decrypt the files. “When are we moving out?”
“A government plane is flying to Sofia, Bulgaria in four hours. You and Claudia will board that one.”
Javin nodded. “Assets on the ground?”
“Two. Not a hundred percent reliable, but that’s all we’ve got.” Martin tipped his head toward the folder. “It’s all in there.”
“Okay.”
“Questions?”
“Not at this time.”
“All right. Retrieve the drive and come home. As always, leave no traces.”
“Will do, sir.”
Chapter Four
Beechwood Cemetery
Ottawa, Canada
Javin glanced at the bright blue eyes looking at him from the small heart-shaped photo etched on the beige granite headstone. His trembling fingers touched the cold, hard surface and ran down along his edge o
f his wife’s photo. Javin touched her face and closed his eyes, feeling a couple of tears trailing down his face.
His mind raced to the dreary night almost three months ago. The snowstorm had started around midnight, when he had last talked to Steffi. She needed to give the final touches to her article appearing on the next day’s front page of the Ottawa Times , the city’s and Canada’s largest daily newspaper. Steffi promised to be home before morning.
She never came.
Instead, a phone call woke Javin up around five a.m. A horrible accident on Chaudiere Bridge. His wife, yes, his wife of three years was . . .
Javin drew in a deep breath and clenched his hand around the top of the headstone. “I love you too, honey. Always will.” He sighed, then brought his hand to his mouth. He gave his departed wife a kiss, then got up from his knees.
He glanced to his left and noticed a blue Jeep parked behind his rental car. It was Claudia’s vehicle, and she was sitting in the driver’s seat and talking on the phone. He turned around and took a moment to gather himself, then began to walk toward her.
Claudia put her phone away, then stepped out of the Jeep. She brushed back her long black hair, then lifted her sunglasses to the top of her head. Her large black eyes fell on Javin’s face as she gave him a small, restrained smile. “Hello, Javin. How are you?”
“Eh, okay. You?”
“I’m all right. Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”
Javin shrugged. “I was . . . eh, I was done. How long have you been waiting?”
“Just arrived. Martin told me I might find you here.”
“What’s going on?” Javin stepped closer to Claudia. She was about his height, five-foot-ten, but her three-inch heels made her look a bit taller.
She glanced around.
The closest people were an elderly couple crouched near a headstone about a dozen or so yards away. The woman was sobbing quietly, while her husband had wrapped his loving arm around her.
Claudia said, “Got a note from our man in Istanbul. MIT is now involved in the investigation.”