by Bill Brewer
CHAPTER 4
Carolyn Fuller did not appreciate having to meet the Head of the CIA British office in her hospital-issued pajamas. Lying in her bed, with IV tubes in her arms and drains out of her chest, she felt vulnerable, or at least not very professional. The fact that she was here, involved in an operation, without even notifying the British office, was a breach of protocol for which she would be held accountable. Carolyn was someone who understood protocol and had a long history of adhering to it. This situation made her afraid her behavior was going to seem erratic, a stark departure from normal, a key flag for the agency to believe an agent had been compromised. She considered taking the tranquilizers the doctor had suggested so she would be unconscious when Richard Ramsey arrived, but she wasn’t one to shy away from her problems.
The CIA had posted a guard outside her room, and it was he who opened the door allowing Mr. Richard Ramsey to enter. Ramsey had an appearance the agency handbook would refer to as “non-descript.” He was just shy of six feet, and a little over 200 pounds. His brown hair had receded past the crown of his cranium, and his eyes were the color of mud. Carolyn knew that, in his career, he had some success as an agent, but the allure of bureaucracy with its lack of physical activity and danger had an early appeal for Ramsey. She had watched him play his politics well, and she knew that being the head of a foreign office was an important stepping-stone up the agency’s mountainous career path.
“You’re looking good,” he began.
“Thanks, I wish I could say I picked out the pajamas myself.”
With a polite chuckle, Ramsey replied, “Are you being treated well?”
“Yes the staff is very attentive, and the doctors are top-notch.”
“I understand you’ll be out in a week or so.”
“They’re telling me they want the lungs to heal enough so that movement won’t undo the surgery.”
“Well, that certainly makes sense.”
Carolyn smiled and nodded, but she was afraid her anxiety was beginning to show.
Ramsey squared his shoulders as he narrowed his gaze before saying, “I’m sorry if I seem blunt, but I have to say something here.”
Carolyn’s smile faded.
“What the hell are you doing here? With all the shit going down in the US, how is it that you’re here in London having been shot and lying in a hospital bed?”
Carolyn regretted not taking the tranquilizers. “I know it seems surprising and a little out of protocol, but I can explain.”
Ramsey pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat down.
Carolyn’s dry throat made it uncomfortable to swallow as she started to say, “I met David Diegert at a CIA safe house in Detroit. He had been brought there by an FBI agent, a professional colleague of mine, Jim Donovan.”
“Diegert? The guy who assassinated the president five days ago?”
“He wasn’t the shooter.”
“An accomplice then?” said Ramsey, raising his voice.
“Not exactly.”
“Then what was he… exactly?”
Carolyn’s mind raced for the right term to convey Diegert’s innocence in spite of his complicity with everything that led to the assassination of Peter Carson, President of the United States. “Diegert was a fall guy. He was set up to take the blame for the assassination. The real force behind the attack is far bigger and more powerful than he is.”
“A great big conspiracy theory. I look forward to seeing the evidence for that.”
“Have you ever heard of Crepusculous?” asked Carolyn.
Ramsey frowned as he turned his head. “Is that something I’m going to catch while I’m here?”
“It’s not a disease, it’s an elite organization of very wealthy and powerful businessmen. I told MI5 about them, and I think they’re probably questioning them.”
“You think businessman, not terrorists, are behind the assassination?”
Carolyn nodded. “I believe it warrants further investigation.”
“Was it a businessman who shot you?”
“It was dark,” snapped Carolyn sharply. “The attack was sudden, and the shooter’s face was obscured by a large hood. This isn’t a fucking joke. This is real, and it doesn’t end with the president’s death, it's way bigger than you realize.”
Ramsey snorted. “Height, weight, approximate age, male, female, the color of clothing? Your powers of observation must have picked up something. How are we ever going to find a suspect?”
“I gave all that information to the police at the scene. Finding that suspect is their job, ours is to protect the United States.”
Forcing a smile as he leaned forward in his chair, Ramsey said, “Thanks for the reminder, but I see the two issues as intertwined. My real dilemma is what do I charge you with?”
“Charge me? I didn’t do anything that I could be charged with.” Alarms went off in her room and at the nurse’s desk as her heart raced.
“Oh no? Not aiding and abetting a suspect, not obstruction of justice, not collusion with perpetrators of an act of terrorism? There are several charges I could level at you.”
“I’m innocent of all of that,” said Carolyn trembling in her bed.
Ramsey stood up, leaned over and said, “No problem, we’ll just get a polygraph in here and have you answer my questions.”
Dr. Gibson knocked on the doorjamb as he entered the room. “Excuse me, but my patient is not to have any visitors.”
Ramsey faced the younger man. “Don’t worry, Doc, Carolyn and I are professional colleagues. She doesn’t mind if I’m here.”
“She may not, but I do. You’ve upset her, and I want you to leave.”
“Just a few more questions.”
“In the hospital, I am the authority, and I decide what is in the best interest of my patients. Now I believe I have made myself clear. Please leave now.”
Ramsey glared at the taller man but yielded to his authority. “All right,” he said, throwing up his hands as he walked to the door. “We’ll talk some more when you’re feeling better.” With a hand on the shoulder of the big guard at the door, Ramsey said, “Officer Weiss here will guarantee your security while in custody.” Turning and standing so he filled the doorway. “I hope you’re feeling better soon.” Tipping two fingers forward off his forehead in a poor facsimile of a military salute, Ramsey turned and walked away.
“You all right?” asked Dr. Gibson.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” said Carolyn.
“Your vitals were going crazy. Who was that guy?”
“It’s OK, it’s just business.”
“Yeah, well when your business is the CIA that can be some deadly stress.”
Carolyn spun her gaze to look directly at the young doctor. She felt as exposed as when she walked the hall in her open-backed hospital pajamas. “How do you know who my employer is?”
“As a doctor, I’m concerned about everything that could affect my patient’s health. It’s my job to know.”
“OK,” said Carolyn giving the doctor a wan smile.
Sliding a chair up next to the bed, Dr. Gibson sat down. “Carolyn, I have something more to discuss with you.”
Carolyn’s smile faded as she sat up and leaned forward in her bed. “What?”
“We perform full blood diagnostics on every patient admitted to the hospital.”
“Yeah so?”
“So, a portion of your results reveal that you are pregnant.”
Carolyn brought her hands to her face and rubbed her eyes with her fists as she laid her head on her pillow staring up at the ceiling.
“We will be monitoring your condition and providing appropriate treatment while you’re an inpatient. Do you have any questions?” asked the doctor.
“No,” Carolyn said softly.
“OK, then, I’ll let you get some rest.”
“Thanks, Doc,” came her muted reply.
The threat of arrest, the implosion of her career, the destruction of the United States, all
dissipated in her mind as the horror of sharing parenthood with David Diegert pierced her soul. This had to be a mistake. She wasn’t in for an obstetrics appointment. The results must have gotten mixed with up someone who wanted a child, was ready for a child and had nothing but love to give a child. She wasn’t that person. This couldn’t be happening to her.
CHAPTER 5
By Panzer’s order, Dr. Zeidler removed Diegert’s restraints. He shaved, showered, put on a pair of gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt. He got to eat with both hands which made the food taste better even though he had mastered one-handed eating. Laying on his bed with his legs crossed at the ankles, arms stretched out with his hands interlocked behind his head. Diegert smiled to himself and thought of how the little victories are what help you endure captivity. Barney Pinsdale, Captain of the Sue Ellen sailboat, taught him that when they first met. Diegert recalled how he and Barney sailed across the Indian Ocean, the Red Sea and the Mediterranean, from Mogadishu to Alexandropoulos. That was real freedom. He now understood why Barney preferred life at sea, even if his boat was financed by transporting assassins from one job to another, leaving dead bodies in the wake.
Patience and endurance; Diegert figured he’d need a lot of both before he was going to get on the other side of this ordeal. As he contemplated his place in life, a distinguished looking man of African descent stood at his door waiting to be acknowledged. He and Diegert made eye contact and silently considered one another. The man was tall, maybe 6’ 2”. He was lean and fit looking although his clothing made body assessment difficult. He was dressed in a loose-fitting cotton shirt covered by a dark green tunic, sashed at the waist and draping his lower body like a skirt. The drapes were open on both sides revealing black canvas pants and black boots. His ensemble looked to Diegert like he’d just walked out of Tatooine.
“Well you gonna come in or what?” asked Diegert.
The man crossed the threshold, offering his hand. “Hello, I’m Avery Forsythe.”
Diegert shook his hand, feeling the strength and the callouses. He also noted that the right hand had a deformity in the first two bones of the palm. They were indented, perhaps having healed incorrectly after being fractured.
“I heard you were coming. You’re the trainer who’s supposed to get me ready for whatever they have planned for me.”
“I prepare my pupils for the path that destiny has laid before them.”
Diegert tried not to smirk, but it came through anyway.
“We all follow a path that life has laid out before us,” said Avery. “My teaching is to help you recognize the path you are on and maximize your skills and abilities for life’s journey.”
“I thought this place was going to be a bit more prescriptive in its expectations.”
“Expectation is nothing more than a long word for bias. A preconceived notion that can be communicated but is rarely perceived as it was intended.”
“Woo… how do you get anything done?”
“Outcomes are achieved by finding the person whose path is aligned with a specific need.”
“Sounds like you go through a lot of people before you get what you need.”
“We are getting ahead of ourselves, but I’m refreshed by one whose intellect will be as potent as his ability to kill.”
Diegert’s eyes widened at the last part of the statement. “I guess the mystical stuff is over.”
“Oh no, far from it. You and I will travel a path that is filled with betrayal, corruption, violence, and death.”
“That’s the shit that got me here.”
“Precisely, your path led you here. We achieve our objectives and accomplish our goals by finding the right people on the path from which we have a need.”
Diegert, with nothing more to say, stared back at Avery Forsythe with curiosity and apprehension.
“You and I will spend time in training, and I hope you will find it meaningful. Right now, though, I have a different mission to complete with you.”
“What’s that?”
“The drugs you were given at the Ambassador were Benzodiazepines. They’re an anesthetic that is memory toxic. I want to discuss some recent events with you to jog your memory and assess it for loss.”
“Ok, I feel good. I don’t feel like I’ve lost memory.”
“Sometimes we can’t know what we’ve lost.”
“Right.”
“Can you tell me about your experience in the Army?”
Diegert recalled how his time in the Army did not end well. He was dishonorably discharged for striking his superior officer. Being dishonorably discharged is just one speeding ticket away from being a felon, which reduces your employability to under the table wage work.
“When I think of the Army, I recall the training I received with firearms and defensive tactics. I gained the critical skills required of all soldiers; to fight and kill with efficiency.”
“So you’re comfortable with killing?”
“I’d say I’m skilled at it, but not really comfortable.”
“Do you feel guilty about killing?”
“Yes, but I’ve learned to compartmentalize it. It’s not a resolution for how it makes me feel, but it’s a method of coping.”
Avery tilted his head, looking at Diegert with a hint of suspicion.
Diegert held eye contact and his tongue on the subject.
“Do you recall shooting the President of the United States?”
“I didn’t shoot the president. I pointed the gun, but it was operated remotely, and someone else pulled that trigger.”
“You pointed the gun.”
“Under duress. I was sent a video on my phone of my mother with a gun to her head. I had to point that gun.”
“I see the details of that incident are fresh in your mind.”
Diegert shrugged his shoulders and nodded.
Avery went on, “Do you recall how you escaped and made it all the way to London?”
Diegert had been led to a trap.
“Time is of the essence in this process,” said Avery. “Please answer the question.”
“No, I don’t remember. I can’t recall what happened.”
“You see, the drugs can be toxic. There’s no way you could get from Detroit to London without a functioning intellect, but now you can’t recall.”
Diegert almost smirked while nodding his head. He looked at Avery, ready for the next question.
“Do you recall being helped by anyone? Did you meet anyone?”
Diegert recalled Carolyn Fuller, the CIA agent, who saved his life and made the whole trip to London possible. There was no way though that he was going to share one shred of memory about her.
“No.” He shook his head. “I can’t recall anyone helping me at all.”
Avery arched one eyebrow. “Do you recall fighting with Javier Perez?”
Perhaps against better judgment, but with bravado, Diegert replied, “I kicked that fucker’s ass.”
“What were you fighting about?”
“He’s an asshole and deserved even more than I gave him. When I have the chance to kick ass on a spoiled rich dickhead, I do it.”
“Do you remember where the fight took place?”
Diegert did, of course, recall it all, the exchange of Fatima’s son Hamni for the detonation device. The fact that Javier was a better fighter than Diegert ever expected. And that Fatima got away with Hamni after shooting Carolyn.
“No I don’t remember, but it doesn’t matter because I will kick his ass any time, any place.”
“One last question,” said Avery. “I want you to answer this question immediately after I ask it. Do you understand?”
Diegert nodded, and Avery squared up looking directly into the younger man’s eyes.
“Do you know Carolyn Fuller?”
“No, I don’t know anyone by that name.”
The tell was there. Diegert’s eyes flinched to the right for just a fraction of a second. He did not want Carolyn’s name to be
known to Crepusculous. Diegert wasn’t sure that Avery saw it, but going to all this trouble to ask the question, he knew the mystical man was looking for a tell.
“I see,” said Avery. “Well, that is all quite enough for now. We covered a lot of ground.” As he exited the room, Avery said, “I’ll let you get some rest and be back to train with you again.”
Just before the door Avery turned to Diegert and said, “Minwaadizi.”
After Avery walked away, Diegert’s bells were ringing. That was an Ojibwa word. He hadn’t heard Ojibwa, the native language of his mother, spoken for such a long time. Avery’s effort to learn and use an Ojibwa salutation was surprisingly impressive.
CHAPTER 6
Dr. Marie Zeidler, in addition to caring for David Diegert, also saw his mother, Denise. As the Director of Medical Services in the underground labyrinth of Panzer’s secret activities section within LPU, Dr. Zeidler realized that the patients she treated performed acts of moral turpitude for their common employer. Ambivalence rumbled inside her as a result of providing care for people who killed people. It was an annoying distraction which often made her regret winning the full academic scholarship to medical school she was awarded from Klaus Panzer’s “Light the Way” foundation. She was only one year into her five-years of obligation.
Denise was an oddity that excited the young doctor. Upon her arrival, Dr. Zeidler had ordered blood work to be performed on the mother of David Diegert. It was undoubtedly unprecedented that she would treat an assassin and his mother. Some of the guys she had cared for were so tough and cold it was hard to think of them as even having a loving mother. Here now, she was examining the results from the lab of the woman who raised the deadly David Diegert, the assassin of the President of the United States. At first, Denise Diegert needed sedation to calm her. Valium did the trick, and Dr. Zeidler was able to conduct her exam. During her assessment, she found a healthy, fit 47-year-old woman with a height of 5 foot 10 inches and a weight of 135 pounds. Her jet black hair, which framed an exotically beautiful face, was braided into a long ponytail. She seemed to be someone who was physically active and capable of endurance. The analysis of her blood though revealed a red flag. Now that Denise was comfortable in her quarters and the Valium had worn off, Dr. Zeidler paid her a second visit. The apartment was spacious and well furnished. It was bigger than the entire house in which Denise lived in Minnesota.
