by J C Ryan
The condition of the bigger Mercedes-Benz G-class model he’d been driving gave the dealer his first advantage. The dealer got his next opportunity to squeeze another five hundred dollars out of the deal when Rex told him he had no papers for the vehicle. Rex wished he hadn’t been forced to put some of the dents and scratches in it himself. It would have improved his bargaining power if the vehicle had been in better condition. But he was the one at a disadvantage and the dealer exploited that. In the end, probably just to make Rex feel a bit better and stop him from going to the opposition, the dealer made him a final offer, about one thousand dollars shy of the advertised price. Rex knew he lost in the process but took possession of the van, gave a fake name, and showed no ID, which cost him a few hundred more and drove away.
Sometimes it was best just to cut one’s losses and run.
Digger didn’t seem to care which type of vehicle they were traveling in as long as Rex opened the window on his side so he could hang his head out and enjoy the wind flowing over his face while his tongue was hanging out.
By the time Rex left Pagwara, he was confident he wouldn’t excite much curiosity in New Delhi, where the streets teemed with a population so dense that even New Yorkers would get claustrophobia on the sidewalks.
He’d arrived in New Delhi at about the same time his stomach told him it was lunchtime. Regretfully, he hadn’t had time to shop for appropriate food for Digger, so they’d once again shared a meal, sitting in a park. Digger was quite interested in the rhesus monkeys that roamed freely, but he was disciplined enough to obey when Rex commanded him to ‘leave it’ on the first indication he might chase them.
The monkeys in turn gave the big black dog a wide berth, but they chattered angrily at Rex. He supposed they were scolding him for having a beast with him that prevented them from stealing his food and anything else they might find.
He remembered being told about the monkeys before his Mumbai mission in 2008, but that time he hadn’t had the luxury of sitting in a park for a leisurely meal. It boggled his mind that they’d be tolerated, when they were so unsanitary, as bold as hoodlums, and dangerous. He’d even heard they could kill a child, and would, if they wanted something the child had and weren’t prevented from attacking it.
What kind of people tolerated that?
The same kind who tolerated the social scourge of heroin, he supposed. However, he had to admit he couldn’t hold his own country up as morally superior. A little cleaner, maybe.
When his lunch was finished, he stood, remembered to draw himself into a slight stoop, and made as if he looked around fearfully, although he was fully aware of everyone and everything around him. He commanded Digger to ‘come’ in a soft voice.
Digger gave him that curious “What’s wrong with you?” tilt of his head. He padded to Rex’s side and stayed close to his leg as they walked down the sidewalk. Rex took note of the congestion in the streets and decided to leave the van parked where it was. He paid a young boy to keep an eye on it and set off on foot.
People who noticed the dog parted a lane for the pair. Rex made a note to himself: You and Digger have to learn how to make people on the street feel comfortable — not afraid of you. Others were too engrossed in haggling for goods at the street vendors’ booths to even notice. Rex reflected that he needn’t have worried so much about blending in. Hardly anyone looked at him. People either ignored them altogether or stared fearfully at Digger. He began to feel better about bringing Digger with him on the errand he was pursuing. While on the one hand, it might make him stand out, on the other, he figured in a city of this size, packed with people, a man with a dog wouldn’t cause long-lasting memories.
Rex was hunting for an electronics store. He needed to buy himself a laptop or tablet. Though he had Usama’s laptop, he couldn’t use it, as he had no idea what type of tracking and monitoring software could be on it. Failing to locate what he needed on foot, he flagged down a bicycle rickshaw and asked to be taken to the nearest one. After a bit of haggling so the driver would allow Digger to ride in the back with Rex, they were on their way. Rex watched to be sure the driver didn’t take him on an unwanted excursion just to pad the fare, but he was soon lost in the congested city and gave up on tracking where they were going.
Half an hour later, the driver stopped, told him in rapid Hindi that he would wait, citing the indisputable fact that most rickshaw drivers wouldn’t be as lenient as he was and would not take the dog in their vehicles. Rex was grateful, though he was cynical enough to know the driver just wanted to assure himself of a fare back to his normal location. He thanked the driver and went into the store, leaving Digger in the back of the rickshaw.
Rex knew what he wanted. The question was whether it was available here. He was pleasantly surprised to find the store well-stocked with a broad variety of laptops, as well as the mobile broadband device that would allow him privacy to use it. When he got back to the aging but clean hotel he’d selected, he would be ready to create an online presence for his new identity, as soon as he had the papers he’d need. He could easily create a Google mail account, and Facebook would come later, along with other social media accounts that normal people, especially globetrotters like he envisaged to be, would have. However, first he had business on the Deep Web, to find a forger.
Digger and the rickshaw driver had established an uneasy peace treaty by the time Rex got back, about half an hour after he’d left them. The dog sat regally in the exact middle of the passenger seat, his head high and proud, surveying his new domain. The rickshaw driver must have endured taunts about the dog from passersby until he adopted Digger’s attitude, squared his posture, and stared disdainfully at anyone who jeered at him.
When Rex returned, the driver greeted him effusively. Rex knew it would cost him, but he was happy he didn’t have to haggle again to allow Digger to stay in the seat next to him.
THEY WERE ON their way to a part of town where Rex believed they could find someone to help with his most pressing need – the identity papers that would give him legitimacy while he was in the country. He’d never had to find such a person before, as CRC had always provided his legend, or cover story, and the papers to go with it. But he’d been trained in how to locate a forger in case he ever needed one.
During his previous day’s work online, he’d accessed the Deep Web and obtained the names and locations of forgers in New Delhi. One had even had an impressive website, he was amused to see. Instead, he’d made note of a commenter on the fancy website and contacted him anonymously. After a couple of hours of back and forth, the commenter had trusted him enough to give him a name and the name of a shop in New Delhi.
It wasn’t a printing shop, or anything one might have expected. It was a tobacconist’s shop, and the forger was not there. To reach his ultimate destination, he’d have to pass muster there, though. A code word and name for the commenter would suffice to get him an interview. Only if the interview satisfied the proprietor of the tobacconist’s shop would he be given the next step.
When he entered the dark but aromatic shop, the tinkle of a little bell announced his presence. Rex didn’t smoke, but like many non-smokers, he appreciated the aroma of a fine pipe tobacco, as long as it wasn’t being burned. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply while waiting for the proprietor to appear from the back of the shop. The first he knew that he wasn’t alone was when the proprietor said sharply, in English, “No dogs allowed.”
Rex opened his eyes. “Service dog,” he explained.
“No exceptions. Out.”
Rex hadn’t expected that. He’d researched at an internet café before selecting this method of keeping Digger with him, and he knew from his research that India had enacted a statute similar to America’s ADA, Americans with Disabilities Act. However, making a scene wasn’t in his best interests.
“Okay. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Outside, he loosely wrapped the leash around a nearby bicycle stand. He whispered to Digger, “Guard”. Hop
ing that would make the dog resist if anyone interfered with him, Rex went back into the shop. The proprietor was waiting for him, but he’d gotten off on a bad foot. He understood that put him at a disadvantage now, and he almost decided to go back to the hotel, wait another day, and find another source. Before he gave up today, however, he’d give it a shot. If the price was more than he’d been led to believe, or if the proprietor gave any off vibes, he’d be out of there in a heartbeat.
When the proprietor saw him coming in sans dog, he smiled and acted as if there had never been an earlier confrontation.
“Welcome, sir. How can I help you? Perhaps a fine Cuban cigar, as your country has banned them.”
It was the second time he’d made Rex as an American, and Rex wanted to know how before he did any business with this man. The simplest method was best. He asked.
“It is no mystery, sir. Your Hindi accent is flawless, and you look like you are perhaps from a rural province. But no Indian would have argued that your beast was a service dog. You assumed you would be permitted a liberty, and that trait belongs to Americans.”
Rex was stung. He’d blended with natives of the poorest countries and the richest, and to the best of his knowledge he’d never before blown his cover with ‘ugly American’ syndrome.
“I sincerely apologize. I am very reliant on the dog. I only wanted to keep him safe.”
“He will be safe enough outside, if he can defend himself from the wild ones. Let us quickly conclude your business here so you can attend to him.”
“Very well,” Rex answered in English. “I require a certain delicate service. It’s my understanding you can introduce me to one who can provide it.”
The proprietor betrayed his amusement. “Ah, now you think you can do such business directly. Give me your telephone number. Someone will call you.”
“No phones,” Rex demurred. “Email, and he must introduce himself as…” he paused to think. This wasn’t going the way he’d expected, so he hadn’t prepared a cover.
“A panderer, perhaps?” the proprietor suggested.
“What? A pimp?” Rex was confused now. Had the man mistaken the type of delicate service he’d meant?
“It would be a good cover,” the proprietor explained, amused again. “Your email address, then. I will require payment in advance. It will be dangerous for my shop to be involved in such arrangements when you are clearly an amateur.”
Rex paid the man $500 for the introduction to the forger without even haggling. He was completely humiliated by the exchange.
An amateur! I’m going to have to be more careful. And what the hell is wrong with me? I’ve done this before.
But he hadn’t – not this specific thing. He’d never had to. Only now did he realize this was one area where his training had been less than adequate. The trouble was, to survive, he’d have to become an expert in it in a hurry. The one thing that could trip him up, both now and in the future, was for his identity, and the official documents establishing it, not to stand up to scrutiny. For that lesson to be learned in a way that didn’t threaten him was well worth $500, though the introduction shouldn’t have cost even half that.
Another lesson learned about doing business in India.
Rex walked past Digger in a brown study and opened the driver’s side door to the van. Digger’s sharp bark brought him back to alertness. Bloody hell! He’d almost forgotten the dog!
“Well, come on, then,” he said, irritated at Digger because he was irritated at himself.
Digger looked at the loose wrap of the leash around the bike stand and then looked at Rex.
“Come on, it will come loose.”
Digger sat down, yawned, and whined.
“You’re such a baby,” Rex scolded as he walked back and unwrapped the single loop. “You could have just walked away. That wouldn’t have stopped you.”
Digger gave a soft growl, hopped into the open driver’s door, and stepped across to the passenger seat. He turned his head away as Rex got in after him.
“What, you’re mad at me? What’s wrong with you?”
On the way back to the hotel, Rex tried to think what he’d done to make the dog mad, if that’s what this act was all about. Was it tying him to the bike stand in the first place? But Digger could have gotten loose for any reason he wanted, whether to free himself to defend or just because he was tired of sitting there. Furthermore, Rex knew Digger knew it. So why had he acted helpless when they were ready to leave?
For ten minutes, dog and human rode together in a mutual snit. Then it dawned on him. Is it even possible? Rex questioned in silence. Could it be that Digger had been trying to tell him there were people on the street – witnesses. Lots of them. If Digger had demonstrated he wasn’t really restrained, it would have had two consequences. One, the majority of people would have been terrified when Digger pulled loose, and it would have caused a scene. And two, it would have broken character for both of them.
If so, just how smart is this dog?
Rex had almost blown it.
This wasn’t like him. Not like him at all. He’d made several mistakes today, and if he kept making them it was going to get him killed, maybe both of them. One way or another, he was going to have to get his head back in the game, immediately.
“Thanks, buddy,” he said to Digger. “I’m sorry. You’re right, and I’m an idiot. Let’s just hope you can keep me straight until I can shake this… whatever it is that’s making me stupid.”
As soon as he’d said the word stupid, Digger turned and looked at him finally. He grinned that goofy dog grin and woofed. Rex reckoned Digger had accepted his apology. Or maybe he’d just said, “Don’t let it happen again.” Rex didn’t know what to believe of his companion’s abilities anymore, but he was sure there was very little that would surprise him after what he’d seen today.
When he got back to the hotel, the email was waiting for him. In it, instructions for where to meet the forger, along with an admonishment that if he wanted papers for the dog it would be another one-thousand US dollars. It was a bargain — Rex would have paid ten-thousand.
33
Washington, DC, June 30, 10:00 a.m.
JOHN BRANDT HAD spent most of the previous night and evening second-guessing what he was about to ask his best female agent to do. It was distasteful in the extreme, but he was in a hurry, and the only thing his Old-Timers team had turned up for leverage on Bruce Carson was his membership in the ‘gentlemen’s’ club.
Gentlemen my ass. No gentleman would behave in that way. Illicit sex club would be more like it.
Marissa Bisset was due to meet him in his hotel suite any moment. He trusted her to downplay her looks, as exotic as her French name, in case someone was watching him. But it would be difficult to gain leverage on him, even if someone saw what they might have thought was a call girl entering his hotel room.
Brandt had been widowed for over thirty years. His wife, a fellow field agent, had been killed in an operation gone bad, the fault of an inexperienced handler. It had been the precipitating factor in forming the group that eventually birthed CRC.
So, if he wanted to indulge in a call girl now and then, there was no reason, other than legal, that he shouldn’t. But everyone in this corrupt town overlooked the illegal. It was only useful to someone that could use it to blackmail him. He wasn’t worried about that.
Brandt shook himself from that train of thought. Marissa, and in fact his entire team of female agents, had been trained to promise much and give nothing when their assignments were honey traps. He always told them they were not required to go beyond the limits, which they alone set for themselves. Brandt didn’t want to know the extent of those limits. But he thought this assignment might stretch Marissa’s.
If the prize had not been certain knowledge of what Carson had done to get Rex Dalton killed, he would not have asked it. While he waited for Marissa to arrive, he decided he would give her every opportunity to turn the assignment down. He hoped s
he wouldn’t.
To take his mind off it, he reminisced about recruiting and setting up this team. It had been just before he’d recruited Rex. He’d always preferred to keep women out of the equation. Partly because of what had happened to his wife, and partly because he’d accepted many assignments in countries where women were at risk for fates far worse than death. But after one mission was made infinitely more difficult than it should have been because a woman was needed for surveillance in the home of the target, Longland had persuaded him to rethink it.
He’d recruited four women after that, making sure they were diverse in age, appearance, and ethnicity. He’d trained them in a separate facility and with different skills than his male teams. Naturally, he’d given them defensive training, from martial arts to firearms and explosives, but he’d always tried to use them on assignments where he was relatively certain they wouldn’t have to use it. Any of them could pass for anything from a waitress to the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar corporation.
Their most valuable training was in cyberespionage. Any of them could have handled the assignment Brandt had in mind, but Marissa was the best. She also had the looks that the Old Timers had determined would most appeal to Carson. Her shoulder-length, raven hair and azure eyes suggested her French heritage, and her thirty-five years gave her a mantle of maturity that men found alluring, as well as a full figure that women envied, and men coveted. Only Brandt and her sisters-in-arms knew of her keen intelligence.
Every beautiful young woman learns as a teenager that men can be threatened by beauty and intelligence combined. Some hide their intelligence, and some hide their beauty. Others don’t hide either and find it difficult to attract a man, and some, like Marissa, hide one or the other as the mission requires. This mission would require both her quick wits and her beauty.