by S L Shelton
“What lead?” his boss asked.
“Serb chatter that popped up after the invasion,” he said, expanding his cover story as he spoke but slipping a smile on his face to relay a positive tone—as he had been taught by the CIA. “Nothing solid yet. That’s why I’m here, following up.”
“Make sure you log it,” came the reply. “I didn’t even know you were there.”
“Sorry, boss. Won’t happen again” Miller said contritely, bracing for questions but ready to deflect. “When are they supposed to transfer the Serbs?”
“In the morning.”
Uneasiness filled Miller’s chest; there wouldn’t be much time to fix the problem.
“Tie up the loose ends and get back to Germany,” the station chief ordered. “I want you on the interrogation team.”
“You got it,” Miller said, feeling some of his tension ebb as his cover story seemed to be enough to satisfy his boss.
The call ended abruptly.
Miller immediately dialed Jovanovich’s number.
“You could have told me your guys got popped in Gori,” Miller said accusingly as soon as the phone was answered, doing nothing to hide the anger he was feeling.
“That is our problem,” Jovanovich said coldly. “Not your concern. We will deal with getting them back.”
“It’s bloody well my problem if they say why they were in Gori!” Miller retorted.
“Who will they tell?” Jovanovich asked incredulously. “The Georgian army?”
“Try the CI fucking A.” Miller spat. “Georgia is handing them over in the morning.”
There was silence at the other end of the line.
“Sorry? What was that?” Miller said arrogantly. “Different story now, huh?”
“They won’t talk,” Jovanovich said more quietly, but his statement lacked conviction.
“You’re damn right they won’t,” Miller said.
“We have to change the exchange time and the location,” Jovanovich said. “Some of those captured know that location is ours.”
“Where then?” Miller asked as ice filled his gut, suddenly feeling his millions slipping away.
“I’ll have to let you know,” Jovanovich replied. “In the meantime, don’t do anything stupid.”
“Watch your mouth,” Miller hissed, losing control as the entire operation began to crumble in front of him. “If you want your money, you’d better get with the fucking program.”
“You’ve been warned,” Jovanovich said bitterly before ending the call abruptly.
“Son of a bitch!” Miller exclaimed, knocking his chair over before kicking it across the room. He stood in the center of the ruined building, flexing his fists open and closed, trying to regain some measure of calm…unsuccessfully.
“Shit,” he muttered as he grabbed his bag from the floor before running outside toward the beat-up SUV he had stolen.
Climbing into the vehicle, he muttered, “Don’t do anything stupid, my ass.”
He started the Rover and pressed down hard on the gas, sending a spray of dirt into the air behind him. “Who the fuck does he think he is?” he yelled, his fist pounding the roof, punctuating his words.
He was a mile down the road before he calmed down enough to begin forming a plan. After a moment of gripping the wheel and getting his temper under control, he decided it was up to him. The Serb prisoners had to be killed before the CIA got their hands on them; there was no way he could allow them to be interrogated.
“Time for a night Op,” Miller said as he pushed his foot down harder on the accelerator.
**
August 23rd, two days later—Berlin, Germany
Miller was exhausted. As he walked up the stairs to his boss’s office at the CIA office in Berlin, he breathed a sigh of relief at finally being ‘home.’ He had nearly been discovered while slipping into the Georgian military prison the day before, and he had actually been detained on the way out. It had only been his quick thinking that had allowed him to talk his way through the gate—that and showing a falsified NATO ID.
Crossing the border into Turkey had been the hard part. The roads were rough and border crossings treacherous, but then again, that’s the kind of sneaky shit the CIA had trained him to do.
He’d crossed about twenty-one hours ago, and the only sleep he had gotten in two days was on the flight from Trabzon, Turkey to Berlin. He was still trying to sew together his cover story for the station chief when he walked into his boss’s office.
“When are the Serbs being transferred?” Miller asked his boss as he walked through his open office door.
“You didn’t hear?” the station chief asked, looking up from his computer screen with an expression of disgust tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“No,” Miller replied as he dropped his bag on the floor and then plopped heavily into the chair in front of his boss’s desk. “What’s up? When do we start interrogations?”
“We don’t,” his boss replied, leaning back. “Unless you can squeeze information out of a corpse.”
Miller’s face displayed confusion, though he knew exactly what was going on. “Why? What happened?” he asked incredulously.
“Poisoned. All seven of them,” his boss replied without emotion in his voice—though his eyes relayed anger. “In their evening meal the night before handover.”
“Shit!” Miller exclaimed in disbelief. He cocked his head to the side. “Was it Jovanovich’s people?”
“We don’t know, but that would be a good guess.”
That’s good news for me, Miller thought. “So, what now?”
“Nothing, unless you got a solid lead in Turkey,” he responded as defeat entered his tone.
“Nope,” Miller said, looking genuinely perturbed. “That was a dead end.”
His boss shook his head as he swiveled his chair to look out the window. After a second of quiet staring, he took a deep breath and then blew it out slowly, revealing the tension he was feeling.
“Why the hell were they in Gori?” his boss asked quietly, as if to himself.
Miller shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said as the station chief swiveled back around toward Miller.
“Jesus, Dwight,” the chief said abruptly. “You look like shit. Go get some sleep.”
Miller nodded. “Okay, boss. Thanks,” he replied sincerely. “I’ll try to pick things up again in the morning when my eyes are fresh.”
As soon as he was out of his boss’s office, he breathed a deep sigh of relief. As weak as his cover story was, they hadn’t suspected him.
That was nothing but pure dumb fucking luck, Dwight. You know better than that, he thought on the way out of the building.
Once back in his apartment in downtown Berlin, Miller pulled the curtains closed tight and lay down on his bed, still fully clothed. He had just drifted off when his satellite phone chirped. He reached for the flashing light next to his bed.
“Miller,” he answered.
“We are still awaiting delivery of our packages,” the voice at the other end said coldly and mechanically, cloaked with a thick German accent.
Braun. Miller recognized the speaker immediately, sending a fresh wave of tension through his chest—Heinrich Braun was looking for his nukes.
“We’re going to have a problem with that,” Miller replied as he sat up in bed. “The Serbs have gone off the radar. I think the Russians have put the heat on them, and they aren’t going to trust anyone after their buddies were poisoned in jail.”
“That is unfortunate,” Braun replied. “How do you intend to rectify the problem?”
A wave of cold nausea assaulted Miller as he began to think quickly for a solution. He knew that if he didn’t answer correctly and satisfy the caller, he might be forfeiting his life. He was well aware that there were very few places one could hide from the people who had financed the raid on Gori. There was no way he could let Braun know that he had been responsible for the Serbs disappearing with those warheads.
/> “I can use the information we have and put the CIA on Jovanovich’s trail. But there’s very little hope of finding him before October,” Miller replied, trying to keep his tone even and steady despite the fear building within him.
“Are you suggesting we serve him to the CIA on a silver platter?”
“No. Not at all,” Miller replied quickly. “If he’s captured here, the investigation and handover could be managed by someone at State. I’m certain you have people at State who could guide him through the system to friendly hands.”
“So someone else should then complete the arrangements we made with you,” Braun snapped snidely, “and receive your payment, I would imagine.”
Miller bristled at that suggestion. The only thing worse than the idea of being found out was the thought of not getting his money; his resolve hardened, and he began to think of a way to salvage the Op.
The problem was that he had been on the outside of this arrangement and playing catch-up. Jovanovich, Miller thought. If he had just kept his people clear of the Georgians, this wouldn’t be happening. Damn those fucking SEALs!
“If I had more details, I might be able to come up with something,” Miller replied defensively as a plan started to form in his fear-riddled brain. “You’ve had me working half blindfolded from the beginning.”
“You were hired to facilitate a recovery and an exchange,” Braun said coldly. “Nothing more. Why should we trust you with more information when you have so far been unable to carry out the initial objective?”
“Screw it, then,” Miller said, testing his room to maneuver. “You find Jovanovich. He’s got your merchandise.”
There was another brief pause. “We have no one at State in a position to do what you suggest.”
Miller smiled at the success of his bluff.
“Then put me in at State,” Miller said, reaching for a long-shot solution.
“How would that benefit us?”
“I’m assuming you have the ability to sway minds in the executive branch. There’s no reelection for the current administration. They’ve got nothing to lose. Put me in at the Embassy in The Hague...into a position high enough to influence a decision,” he said, sewing his plan together as he spoke. “I’ll put Jovanovich on the radar with the CIA before I leave Berlin. They’ll find him eventually. When they do, I’d be in a position to work Jovanovich for the deal.”
“That will not deliver the devices by October.”
“That isn’t my fault. It was the delay in the Russian invasion and the goddamned Serbs getting captured. They were your pick, remember?” Miller snapped back in frustration, clinging to his only clear path out of the mess with his life and payoff intact. He got up and walked to his window, peeking through the curtain, suddenly very paranoid. “Look. I can get them back, but it’ll take time.”
There was silence at the other end for several beats before a reply came. “Very well. Do what you must. We will simply have to alter course on our October plan.”
That statement disturbed Miller. What’s in October? he wondered. Suddenly the term “October Surprise” came to mind.
It’s an election year! he thought. Could these greasy bastards be planning a terrorist attack a month before election?! With a Russian NUKE?!
He took a second to calm down before continuing. He was suddenly very aware of his treason up to that point. If his guess was right, and if he remained silent, he could be classified as an enemy combatant and relegated to the dark confines of a cell at Guantanamo.
His only visitors would be his interrogators, who would waterboard him for information morning, noon, and night. They would continue to torture him long after he had no information left to give. He knew this because he had been on the other side of the table plenty of times.
A cold shiver worked its way up his spine before he closed the curtain again, tightly, as if it somehow gave him protection from being discovered.
“Are you there, Miller?” Braun asked coolly.
In a moment of decision, the one that committed him, he decided his patrons were more powerful than the government and that they had a better chance of finding and killing him if he betrayed them. He quickly banished thoughts of Gitmo and the imagery of his face covered in a wet cloth with buckets of water spilling over it.
“Give me two weeks to get the ball rolling on the search for Jovanovich,” Miller said, avoiding acknowledgment of the mention of October or any possible surprises. “Then get me as high up at The Hague as possible without raising too many eyebrows. The bigger the signature on the appointment, the easier it will be to avoid questions.”
“Very well. We will move as you suggest,” Braun replied before abruptly ending the call.
“Okay. Bye then,” Miller said into the severed connection. “Creepy old bastard.”
For the next four hours, Miller tossed and turned, unable to sleep despite the debilitating exhaustion he felt.
“Shit,” he muttered in the dark as he sat up again. “Shit, shit, shit.”
**
HEINRICH BRAUN was pissed off. As soon as he hung up on Miller, he walked into the office of his employer, William Spryte—one of the famous billionaire brothers and the executive officer of a little-known fraternity called Combine.
Spryte was watching stock market indicators on his desk monitor when Braun entered the office with a subtle clearing of his throat. Spryte motioned him in with a wave of his hand.
“News, Heinrich?”
“Yes sir,” Braun replied emotionlessly.
After closing the door, Braun went over and stood rigidly in front of Spryte’s desk—an old habit from his Stasi days.
“Well? Is it worked out?” Spryte asked without looking up.
“I’m afraid not, sir,” Braun replied, prompting Spryte to raise his gaze at the old spook. “It may yet. We have time, but it would seem the Serbs have disappeared with the devices.”
Spryte set his jaw to the side like a young boy about to throw a temper tantrum.
“I thought we had eyes on them,” Spryte said, withholding his ire.
“The Georgians captured a handful of the recovery team,” Braun said without emotion. “Our man on the inside was in no position to intervene.”
Spryte slapped the surface of his desk with the palm of his hand. Braun didn’t even blink. He had seen the rage this man had to offer. He knew he could handle anything thrown at him.
“Prepare a message for the board,” Spryte said after regaining his composure a bit. “If the polls look beyond our ability to manipulate, we’ll burn the house down behind us.”
Spryte was clearly talking about the economy. If their presidential candidate couldn’t win, even by rigging the election, then Combine would ensure the new president’s only job for the next four years would be digging the world out of financial collapse.
“Yes sir,” Braun replied and then turned to leave.
“And Braun,” Spryte added. “Make sure it’s clear that everyone is to participate—all fifty members.”
“Yes sir,” Braun replied and then left the room.
**
September 29th, 2008 – About a month later
WILLIAM SPRYTE read the fresh set of polls as he ate his breakfast—they showed what nearly everyone was already thinking—the US would have its first African-American president. This angered Spryte beyond words.
It won’t matter, he thought. By the time the new president is sworn in, the world will be deep in recession—possibly depression. Then we can take ownership again.
He sent another message to all members of Combine: Our polls confirm our suspicions. Sell everything. Crash the markets.
Later, he smiled as he watched the markets sell off on the TV and his computer—wave after wave of stocks lost more than half their value. When the excitement became too great, he rose and walked to his window overlooking Central Park to bleed off some of the tension.
He looked down on the masses, scurrying about the street below, on th
eir way to either consume or produce. Each one, in some direct or indirect way, had added to his wealth just by being alive.
He had rarely felt such a visceral physical response to his own actions—it was nearly euphoric. He spoke to them, his subjects.
“It’s time to remind you who is really in charge.”
two
Twenty-Two Days Until Event
April 24th, 2010—Twenty months later, at the REI in Fairfax, Virginia
“Scott.” I heard my name called in a sing-songy voice from a couple of aisles over. “Paging Scott Wolfe.”
The voice belonged to the woman I had been dating for the past couple of months, Barb—Barb Whitney.
“Over here,” I called out as I continued to weigh my choices on a purchase.
A moment later, she came around the corner to see me holding the harness I had just picked out for her. A climbing harness.
“Is that for me?” she asked with a flirty smile.
I grinned back. “It is your birthday,” I replied, holding it up for her inspection.
“Can I try it?” she asked, the flirt in her tone becoming more pronounced.
I bent forward to let her step through the leg holes and helped her position it correctly before tightening down the straps.
“Oh!” she squealed as I cinched the butt straps tight.
“It has to be tight,” I said preemptively, in self-defense. “You don’t want to slip out.”
“No. That wouldn’t do,” she replied wistfully. “Though it would be poetic to die on my birthday.”
“That’s dark,” I joked. She slapped me playfully.
There it was again…the playful whack when I said or did something she didn’t like—a slow training process, teaching me how to behave around her. I wondered if she knew how obvious it was.
“In a cute way,” I continued, testing the theory.
She leaned over and kissed me on my cheek. Yep, I thought. The carrot and the stick.
But Barb was gorgeous, smart, ambitious, and very giving—and I was really bad at relationships—so I had decided weeks ago to see how far we could make it.