by K. T. Tomb
Sabbatical... that’s one way to look at it, Judge thought to himself. Personally, I would have called it a search for my sanity.
Michael continued, “Judge, no one here at the museum blames you for what happened over there. After all of the devastation and warfare in the region, it was a complete surprise to all of us that anything—”
“I really don’t want to talk about it, Michael,” Judge said in a short tone.
Michael let his words trail off quickly as he took a good look at the man he’d worked with for close to a decade. He knew Judge had been upset by everything that had transpired in Iraq, but he hadn’t known the depth of the scars it had all left behind. The simple fact that Judge called him Michael instead of Mickey hinted at the possibility that those scars made the Mariana Trench look like a box canyon.
“Okay, tell me, what do you want to work on? We’ve got quite a few things going on at the moment. There is an interesting discovery in Australia that we could use your expertise on and there is a renewed search for the Diamond Heart in Punta Arenas,” Michael said as he flipped through his assignments log. The American Museum funded archeological digs all over the world, and Michael kept them all running smoothly from his large corner office in Washington, D.C. “I’ve heard the boys from the Smithsonian have been nosing around both sites. Having you appear at either one would send them running, I am sure!”
“I was thinking of staying in-house for a while,” Judge said.
The statement shocked Michael. “What? You want to do clean-up? You’re joking, right?” Michael tried to meet his eyes with Judge’s, but the younger man refused to look up and his normally short black hair, now unkempt, shaggy and long, obscured his ice-blue eyes. “Come on Judge, what the hell is going on with you?”
Judge finally looked up, and Michael almost jumped back at the anger and pain he saw in his friend’s eyes. Somehow, Judge managed to keep a tremendous amount of those plainly visible emotions out of his voice when he replied, “There is nothing wrong, Michael. I just need a little time to gather myself before heading out into the field again.”
“Fine, that’s fine,” Michael said, “but just know that I am always available to talk. I mean, God knows there’s plenty of clean-up to do back here, it’s just that you’ve never been interested in doing anything of that sort before.”
“That was before,” Judge answered, “and this is now. I’ll start tomorrow, if that’s okay?”
“Sure, we’ll get you restarted on the payroll immediately. Do you still have the same bank account for the direct deposit?” Michael asked as he punched a few buttons on his computer.
Judge shook his head. “No, I’d prefer cash if at all possible. My accounts are all frozen. Please don’t ask.”
Michael really didn’t have to. It would make perfect sense to him, seeing as how federal agents had been in touch with the museum management almost immediately after the Iraq incident. They had even interrogated him for a couple of hours. Instead of questioning Judge, Michael nodded and reached down to the lowest drawer of his desk. Inside was a lock box. He pulled it out and placed it on his desk, then pulled the keychain that hung around his neck over his head and riffled through the keys until he found the right one. He fit the key in the lock, opened the box, and took two thousand dollars in twenty-dollar bills out of it. He placed the money into a plain white envelope and pushed it across the desk toward Judge, along with his old identification badge. “This should hold you over until payday. Are you still at the same place in Georgetown?”
“Nope, sold that place for cash when I got back. That’s how I financed myself for the last year,” Judge said, standing up and walking to the door. “I have my eye on a place close by. I have enough for a down payment. Thanks, Michael. See you in the morning.”
That place, of course, turned out to be the makeshift crate apartment in the basement. He’d fashioned the crates into an apartment, complete with a plywood roof, before he left the museum after meeting with Michael. He’d told the guards he was looking for something. His reputation kept them from asking any questions.
There are advantages to being an archeologist/novelist who also happens to be a former CIA agent and suspected killer, Judge thought dryly. During the week, Judge’s internal clock got him up two hours before the security guard shift change. It had taken him a day to figure out their schedules and how to circumvent them. He’d slip past the sleep-deprived third-shifters with ease, take a bus to a 24-hour gym five miles away, work out for a couple of hours, shower, change clothes, and then head in to work. There had been an unending stream of questions when Judge had first started back, and he had avoided him well enough to build a solid wall between himself and his fellow co-workers. From eight in the morning until five in the afternoon, Judge worked with five people who laughed and joked as they cataloged the finds of the field crews. Several times at the beginning of the year, they all worked on material that Judge himself had sent back to the museum.
“Judge, did you fall into a pit of artifacts in India or did you just ransack the National Museum of New Delhi?” Taj Franklin once asked, to the shock of everyone in the room. Taj seemed immune to Judge’s meanest looks, thanks to a heavy dose of hero worship.
Judge gave the barely out of college boy a dark look. “What the hell is that supposed to mean, you muppet? Cause it sounds as if you think I’m either stupid or a thief.”
Taj’s eyes grew to the size of Frisbees. “No, nothing like that, sir. That’s not what I meant at all. It… uh… I mean… I was just kidding around, okay?”
Judge turned his back on him and hunched over a desk to continue examining an ancient gold coin with an archer impressed on it. “I’m not a kidding-around kind of man anymore, Taj.”
The rebuke had shut the kid down, but it didn’t last long. He kept his distance from Judge for the most part, but he never truly stopped trying to chip away at his hero’s wall of seclusion.
On the weekends, Judge spent most of his time in his crate apartment, bouncing his ball against the wall. All the while, he replayed the catastrophe in Baghdad over and over in his mind. Michael had said no one at the museum blamed him, but Judge blamed himself, and as it turned out, so did the CIA.
“And Sara blames me, too,” Judge mumbled between throwing and catching the ball. “She blames me for everything, and she’s right.”
Chapter Two
As Washington D.C.’s cherry blossom trees lost their flowers and their charm and summer began to bake the sidewalks of the nation’s capital, Judge’s attitude showed no signs of thawing. Michael kept his distance, deciding that his friend needed more time to heal, despite being back on the job for five months. He was responsible for Taj’s attempts at breaking through Judge’s walls. It hadn’t taken much, though, because the kid had always desperately wanted to follow in Judge’s footsteps.
“You can’t blame the boy,” Michael said to himself. “Those feet of yours have traveled an exciting trail in life.”
Judge had graduated from high school with a thirst for adventure and no taste for four more years of book learning. The U.S. Army seemed the perfect answer, and Judge quickly proved himself to be a great soldier. It didn’t take much for his superiors to notice his potential and leadership skills even before he was out of basic training. They methodically pushed his limits and then expertly pushed beyond them, and Judge never faltered. He grabbed every opportunity of advanced training he got and completed Army Ranger School faster than any other person in history. For six years, Judge served his country tirelessly, racking up medals and scars while doing things he never expected to tell anyone about.
Judge would still be there if it hadn’t been for General Wallace and his daughter. Lucy had looked good swimming naked in the officer’s pool, and she’d said she was lonely, so Judge had joined her. Turned out, Lucy’s fiancé didn’t like other men keeping her company, and General Wallace didn’t want rumors about his little girl swirling around the base. So, Judge got a special rea
ssignment that landed him at Thule Air Base, just south of the Arctic Circle. The cold and desolation had crushed many weaker men, but it awakened Judge’s thirst for knowledge.
During the day, he pumped the scientists for information about their search of the skies for little green men. In his downtime, he earned two undergraduate degrees online: one in linguistics, the other in archeology. Both were inspired by his extensive travels. With degrees in hand, Judge cashed in his commission and went straight to Georgetown University’s graduate program. His discipline paid off and he quickly earned a master’s degree in archeology.
While most of the graduates met with their families at the end of the march across the stage to “Pomp and Circumstance,” two men in dark suits and darker sunglasses waited for Judge. Judge didn’t know them, but recognized their type right away. He had seen plenty of men like them before during his missions in Afghanistan and debriefings in Iraq. They all had neatly cut hair, square jaws, and were slightly above normal height and musculature. They also all seemed to have the same last name.
“Agents Smith and Smith, so good of you to attend graduation,” Judge said with a bright smile and an extended hand. The two men turned to each other and then back to Judge, their faces frozen into expressionless masks.
Agent Smith on Judge’s right spoke first. “Were you expecting us?”
Judge shook his head, but not his hand. Right Smith finally took it and Judge gave it one quick pump. “I thought the chances were good. It isn’t every day that a former Ranger graduates with a master’s degree in archeology, with a specialty in Middle Eastern history, Arabic and Farsi,” he said, turning to Left Smith and shaking his hand. “I guessed that would be kind of like catnip to the ‘Cats in Action.’”
“You did, Ranger? Well, it turns out we are rather curious about just how smart you really are. Is it just book smarts and fast reflexes, or is there something underneath?” Left Smith asked.
Judge’s eyes narrowed. “You want a demonstration? Sure, I’ve got time to waste.” He turned around and closed his eyes. “You are both about 200 pounds, although Left Smith is a donut or two away from 210. Right Smith is actually left-handed and recently injured his right hand while playing softball. Left Smith likes to bowl, but is too cheap to buy his own ball or shoes. His wife probably kids him about it. You two haven’t worked together before today.” Judge turned around and said, “And if I asked you how I did in my Arabic class, neither of you would be able to answer me.”
The two CIA agents nodded, and Right Smith said, “Very good. It is amazing how much you can tell from a handshake.”
Left Smith sneered. “Yeah, well, just for the record, I weigh 199, and haven’t had a donut in months.”
“You keep telling that lie,” Judge said, “and maybe someone will believe it one of these days.”
Agents Smith and Smith loaded Judge up in the back seat of a black Suburban parked close by and took him to a field office where they explained that the Agency needed a man like him: someone with a good combination of field experience and the right kind of book smarts. The incumbent person would undergo six months of training and then spend another year as a junior field agent.
“You would not be James Bond, Jason Bourne, or even Jack Ryan,” Left Smith said. “You’d spend most of your time talking to contacts in the country and filling out reports. Still, there is the occasional incident that would require your Ranger skills. So, what do you think?”
Judge thought about making them sweat by hemming and hawing, asking for time to think about it. Then he noticed the sure look in Right Smith’s eyes.
“You’ve already packed me up, haven’t you?” Judge asked.
“It only took us ten minutes,” Right Smith said matter-of-factly. “You’ve been living a rather spartan life, soldier.”
Judge discovered CIA training was nothing compared to Ranger School or living in The Suck. Judge tried to make friends, but quickly realized he had little in common with his fellow trainees. Most were as serious as steel and they thought he was twice as thick. None of them doubted his abilities when it came to marksmanship or hostage recovery simulations. When asked things related to their tasks involving deduction and reasoning skills, they all expected him to fall flat on his face. Their whole demeanor began to change when they found he consistently scored at the top of the class.
One of the blond-haired, blue-eyed, former fraternity boys asked the lead instructor, “How does he keep beating us?”
The instructor just shrugged. “Maybe because he observes while the rest of you fight to be observed.”
When training ended, Judge found himself taking a trip to Langley, Virginia. Not normally a gawker, he couldn’t help but stare at the massive compound that stretched out from the lot he’d parked his motorcycle in. The half-moon entrance made of concrete and glass reminded him of the mouth of a massive creature just waiting to eat him whole.
“Scary-looking, ain’t it?” A voice with a deep Southern accent came from behind Judge, making him turn quickly. Staring up at the building was a short, rotund, balding man, holding a Starbucks venti cup in one hand and a battered brown briefcase in the other.
“Yeah, but isn’t that kind of what you’d expect from the CIA?” Judge answered.
The short man gave a smile that would impress a shark. “Well, I reckon you would. It’s designed to frighten and impress, all at the same time. How’s it going?”
Judge’s eyes tightened on the stranger. The Southern accent was suddenly gone, replaced by a thick Maine clip. “Impressive. Both the building and your command of accents. Which one you gonna do next? Valley girl?”
“Nah, brah, don’t have the jugs for that, ha!” The stranger said, “I was just looking to trip up that well-documented expertise in observation you have, don’t cha know. Can ya guess which one is right, eh?”
Judge’s ears rang with the different dialects the man had thrown at him, but he knew the answer. “None, of them, Ed. You’re from Ohio, but I don’t know it because of your accent. It is in the bio I asked for, but somehow, didn’t receive.”
Ed Veering nodded. “Yeah. I didn’t want you to have that so I could run that little test. How did you get it?”
“Trade secret, sorry. As for your accents…they are mostly spotless. The California one is a little clichéd but then, truth be told, so are most people from California,” Judge said. “It is good to meet you. And for formality’s sake, I am Judge Foster, junior agent. Good to meet you.”
His new mentor started off for the building. “Right back at ya. I am Ed Veering. As you know from my bio, I’ve been with the agency for some twenty years. Welcome to the team; I hope you stay with us even half as long.”
For the next six months, Ed showed Judge the ins and outs of working as an operative for the CIA. As Left Smith had promised, most of what was assigned to him was office work, making contacts in the field, and to Judge’s disappointment, absolutely no spy vs. spy intrigue. More often than not, he found himself getting on his motorcycle and going home at exactly 5 p.m. He and Ed worked well together, and the work was challenging. Still, Judge found that he was constantly wishing for something exciting to happen. Unfortunately, only too soon, he found out that sometimes wishes get granted.
“All right, Judge, time to fly solo,” Ed said on one spring morning. Neither the expression on his face nor the tone in his voice did anything to deliver the intended dread. Judge whipped around in his chair, unable to hide his excitement. “We’ve gotten word that there is an archeologist who is working with a man we know for a fact is funding several terrorist cells. We’re not clear on the details of his operation, but we think he is using the artifacts she ships to the Israeli Museum of History as a way to smuggle the money and guns into Tel Aviv. I need you to meet with her and find out, for certain, if she’s a willing participant in any of this or just a naïve artifact digger. If you can put a stop to the illegal shipments, that would be great, but that is secondary.”
�
��Sounds good,” Judge said. “What’s her name and where is she?”
“She’s Sara Goldstein and right now she is touring the American Museum, in D.C.,” Ed said.
Judge nodded. “Guess I won’t be needing my passport for this one. Who is her backer?”
Ed threw a folder across his gray, standard government-issue desk. “Gionni Gallo. He’s the king of high-fashion socks. He’s worth a billion dollars on the books, but we think he’s got more from selling things we not very keen on seeing certain people have.”
Judge went back to his office to learn everything he could about Sara Goldstein and Gionni Gallo. Sara turned out to be quite an open book. She’d grown up in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, attended Brown University for her undergraduate and graduate degrees in archeology, and then traveled the world managed to somehow to get herself planted knee-deep in every high-profile dig she could sneak onto. She was well-published as well, and Judge even remembered reading some of her papers for research. The last few years, she had been focused mainly on Jewish artifacts.
Gathering intel on Gionni had proved a little more complicated, but the agency had plenty of info on him. He came from old family money, and spent his twenties succeeding in shoving a good bit of it up his nose. Now in his thirties, Gionni had embraced the fickle world of high fashion, and somehow convinced the world that it was a good idea to spend $50 on a single pair of socks…his socks. His success had rounded up lots of big friends in his corral, and too many of them had unsavory connections; the kind that made moves on a global scale.
Judge decided the best plan of attack in this case was to play the archeology connection with Sara. So, he headed over to the American Museum, hoping to run into her and quite literally, that was exactly what happened as he walked through the front door. Sara was yelling at someone as she stepped through the door and smashed right into Judge; the impact knocked her to the floor. Judge immediately rushed forward, bent down and offered her his hand.
