Everything in her life was geared to her goal. She had honors’ in high school, Bachelors Degree in Criminal Justice with honors, and five years on the Baltimore Police force while completing a degree in computer science. All of this effort was to make herself of value to the FBI.
Sarah Collins was accepted on her first attempt into the FBI, and brought to the J. Edgar Hoover building in Washington to work as a Special Agent. She was in. She loved it. The first three years.
Somewhere in the workings of the hierarchy of the FBI, someone, a very high up someone, decided they would form a special team of agents to get close to suspected terrorists. They would infiltrate the terrorist organizations to their very core.
Sarah would never forget the day she’d been summoned into her section chief’s office. Chief Maynard Briscoe was considered to be an old pompous prick by the young agents. Everyone wondered when he would announce his pension plans and give them a break. Sarah would never complain about Briscoe. Her father had taught her to always be respectful of her superiors and work within the confines of the department. “Respect the department and those who work in it, and it will take care of you,” her father had said.
But that day, a chilly February afternoon as light snow fell outside the J Edgar Hoover Building in downtown Washington D.C., Sarah stood to attention in front of Briscoe’s desk. There was no chair. He liked Agents to stand in front of him.
Briscoe shuffled some paper, coughed several times, and regarded Sarah through bushy eyebrows. “Agent Sarah Collins, you are being considered for a special team, and I want to know if you’re up for the challenge?”
“Yes, sir,” Sarah said, eyes straight and focused on the picture of the President and the American flag behind Briscoe’s desk.
Briscoe opened Sarah’s file. “Agent Collin’s, you have shown exemplary work as an agent, and that is why you were chosen for this assignment.”
“Thank you, sir.” Sarah allowed the beginnings of a smile to edge her lips.
“Now, you need to know that you will be getting quite close to some of our chosen terrorist targets, and you may have to perform some special . . . ” Briscoe looked away from the file, and fidgeted with his tie. “You may have to perform some special functions.”
Sarah’s throat constricted slightly. “Functions, sir?”
Briscoe coughed again, and with his hand covering his mouth said, “Agent Collins, are you ready to sleep with terrorists to infiltrate their organizations?”
“Excuse me, sir?”
Briscoe dropped his hands to the desk. “We need to be able to get close to these people; our intelligence department feels this is the best way to do it. Are you ready for this challenge?”
Sarah looked at the floor; her hands began to sweat, “I never really thought of anything like this before sir. I knew I’d be putting my life on the line when I joined the department . . . I never questioned that . . . but this assignment . . . I’m not sure . . .”
Briscoe slide another file from underneath Sarah’s, and as it came into view it gave her more of a shock than the assignment she’d been offered. The file was marked Jonas Ubani, and a bright red flag was attached.
Briscoe saw the tension in Sarah’s face and the rapid movement of her eyes. It was exactly the reaction he’d been looking for. “I understand you know this individual?”
“Yes I do.” Sarah answered. There was no way she could lie about it, the file would probably have everything about their relationship. “We met four years ago. Jonas was an intern in the emergency ward where I brought my police partner when he was shot in the arm . . .”
Briscoe raised his hand, “There’s no need to go into the details—it’s all here in the file.” He leafed through the pages, “Yes, you met, you fell in love, and you managed to keep your arrangement secret. It seems you knew that FBI would question your affair with a known enemy of the United States of America.”
Sarah stiffened, “Jonas Ubani is not a terrorist . . . sir. He is a good doctor at Mercy General in Baltimore. He left Nigeria because he was vocal about the government’s corruption.”
“Yes, that is in the file as well, but he claimed that an American oil company was part of the corruption. That is what got him the red flag.” Briscoe said.
“Yes sir, I understand that, but . . .”
“No, there are no buts where the state department is concerned. You know as well as I do, that a person who is red flagged can be removed from our soil at any time. Your good Doctor Ubani is no exception.”
“Yes sir,” Sarah said. Her face was now visibly flushed. There was nowhere she could go with this argument. Her secret affair with Doctor Jonas Ubani was in the open, and her future with the FBI was on the line.
Briscoe closed Ubani’s file and slid it back under Sarah’s. “I know this is quite unfortunate that the good Doctor Ubani has been red flagged, and this may in fact be all a misunderstanding. But here is what I’m prepared to do. You accept this assignment, and this red flag disappears.”
Sarah felt her knees almost buckle. She took a deep breath, there was no way out, “Yes sir, that is most generous of you . . . can you give me some time to think about . . .”
“You have until the end of the day,” Briscoe said.
Sarah whispered a, “Yes sir,” and walked out of the office. Her cubicle was down the hall, and she returned to it and slumped in her chair.
Her dilemma had no gray area. Accept the assignment, sleep with some terrorist, and get her lover Jonas red flag taken off his file, or not accept the assignment and see what Briscoe would do to ruin her life.
The sound of a golf ball bouncing out of a putting machine came down the hall. The sound was from Briscoe’s office. Pock, pock, pock the machine sounded as the ball returned to Briscoe’s putter again and again.
The sound infuriated Sarah. For the first time in her career she doubted the wisdom of her superior. She marched back towards Briscoe’s’ office. She decided to accept the assignment, but they’d have to remove the red flag from Jonas Ubani’s file first.
Under her breath as she stood in front of Briscoe’s door, she muttered, “You pompous old prick.”
Special training took place two weeks later. For two months she learned the culture of possible extremist groups. She was taught how to be submissive, walk behind a man, the customs of cooking and etiquette of numerous Asian countries. Her head was swimming with the possibilities of which group she would be chosen to infiltrate.
At the end of the training she was ushered into a boardroom, and shown a series of photos of what looked like young hippies from California. A senior agent named Caulfield said, “This is your target. They’re after America’s oilfields and infrastructure.”
“I’m protecting big oil?” Sarah asked.
“You’re protecting America,” Caulfield answered. His eyebrow did one arch. A motion that said, “Don’t question—just do.”
Sarah had walked out of the room crestfallen. No, she would not be chasing some of the deadliest terrorists who were trying to blow up Americans. She would be chasing a group of American hippies who wanted to mess with American Oil. Perhaps if her assignment had been different, something to do with Al Qaeda, Sarah might have felt better about what she was doing to protect Jonas Ubani, but this assignment of protecting oil—only heaped the insult onto the injury. Jonas Ubani hated everything there was about oil, for what it had done to his country.
She had met intern Jonas Ubani, with the kindest eyes, the soft smile and lilting African accent mixed with his years in a London Medical school, and she was smitten. She’d asked him on a date. They’d been inseparable ever since.
Until she joined the FBI, when she found that Jonas Ubani had a file. The file was flagged. Jonas had led protests in Nigeria against the oil companies. The oil companies that took the oil and gave the profits to the government, and the government gave nothing to the people.
Jonas had left Nigeria before the Police came to get him. He had to
ld Sarah, “They had a special name there. Officially they are called the Mobil Police Force of Nigeria. Their unofficial name is the Kill and Go. Because that is what they do.”
Sarah knew Jonas would not like her new assignment. She shouldn’t have told him. But she did. They met over dinner, a little Nigerian Café in downtown Baltimore. Sarah had Jollof of chicken and rice. It reminded her of a Jambalaya, but without the seafood, and more of a cinnamon and ginger flavor. Jonas had the Suya with Rice, the Nigerian take on a Kabob.
They shared a Mango Sundae for dessert. They both had a sweet tooth. Sarah remembered the look in Jonas’s eyes as she told him her new assignment. She tried to put it into words that would be more palatable. Something that he could assimilate without coming to a conclusion of what her mission was. A conclusion she’d already reached.
“You’re going to sleep with a man who’s after American oil Sarah?” Jonas asked. His voice came out a whisper. But it was a loud whisper.
Sarah grabbed Jonas’ large hands in hers, “Look, the FBI thinks he’s a threat, and—“
“Sarah, the FBI thinks I’m a threat. America thinks everyone who is against oil is a threat. Have I not told you the waste that oil has brought to my people? Nigerians live in poverty, while the oil is burned every day in the cars of America. Big oil prospers, while Nigerians go hungry—and every day the oil is sucked from beneath their feet.
“Jonas, I know it seems wrong, but it’s what my agency, my government wants.”
Jonas stood up. He was tall, athletic. He loomed above Sarah. “Sarah, I do not condone this. American oil companies can protect themselves. They have the money. They do not need you—my lovely Sarah— to prostitute herself for more riches . . .” He stopped, then, bit his lip. Tears formed in his eyes, and he walked out of the restaurant. Sarah watched Jonas walk down the street. She wanted to chase after him, and tell him the real reason she accepted the assignment. It meant him staying in America; it meant her keeping her job in the FBI, and her promise to her father. There was no grey area, Jonas walked out into the black night and Sarah could see her path in bright lights before her. Sleeping with the enemy.
Now, seven months later, Sarah Collins, skilled in martial arts, awards in marksmanship, criminal profiling and forensic computer science, was eating barbeque in a café in off the Interstate in Montana. She’d met up with Talbert just after he was released from jail for his part in the Wall Street Occupation demonstrations in San Francisco.
The FBI orchestrated a “bump,” for Sarah to meet Talbert. The bump was an accidental meeting. Her cover was a recently divorced woman with a hatred for corporate America, but a big enough alimony check to keep any man happy. It was all Talbert could ask for.
Talbert was all of 22, unkempt hair with a wispy beard and washed-out blue eyes. He was medium height and lean in a wiry way that belied a strength and nervous energy. His participation in the Wall Street Occupation demonstrations was somewhat sketchy at best.
Sarah observed him hang out with the demonstrators during the day, then slink off at night to sleep in a cheap motel nearby. The cold pavement and a sleeping bag were not his style. The FBI knew that Talbert had become involved with the Ghost Shirt Society through an old friend. They knew who that friend was, but not whom he reported to.
The FBI wanted Sarah Collins to become Rebecca Jones, befriend Talbert Hensley, and have him lead her and the entire FBI strike team to the heart of the Ghost Shirt Society Eco Warriors. That had all sounded so simple many months ago.
The months had rolled by; Talbert had fallen for the good-looking Rebecca Jones, a brunette with liquid brown eyes, easy smile and lovely figure. He wanted to sleep with her the first night . . . she put him off. After several more attempts, and when his interest was almost waning, Sarah gave in to the wiry and energetic Talbert.
Sarah needed to become Rebecca Jones that night with Talbert. Her cover was a committed activist to the Eco Warrior movement and groupie who followed the likes of Talbert Hensley around from one activist demonstration to another.
The first night she had sex with Talbert Hensley, she almost threw up. Talbert was horrible in bed. He had no idea how to please a woman, and all Sarah could think of while he moved on top of her was of Jonas back in Baltimore.
Sarah made a decision after the first night. If she was to succeed in this mission, she needed to bury Sarah Collins and become her cover of Rebecca Jones. She was told to do that by the undercover coach from the FBI, and she had to put it into practice. Her mental health was at stake. Talbert Hensley’s life was at stake. If she stayed Sarah Collins, she’d kill the little jerk.
Now, all these months later, Sarah and Talbert Hensley had made their way from San Francisco, from one activist rally to another. A team of FBI agents was always close by, ready to pounce. But Talbert would only move from one city to another, getting his directions by word of mouth from other activists.
Talbert never used a cell phone, wouldn’t go on the Internet, and went to thrift shops to exchange his clothes. He told Sarah he was afraid of having traces or GPS signals placed in his clothing if he wore them too long.
Sarah realized why the FBI needed someone to get close to Talbert; he could move like a shadow. One day they would be in a motel just outside of Portland for the night, and just around midnight, he would tell her they had to leave. They would head out the back door, and a car would be there to pick them up. It made the FBI team shadowing them crazy.
Talbert wouldn’t use a cell phone or let Sarah use one. A GPS signal was in a microchip under her skin. She did not know what Talbert would do if he ever found out she was an agent. She could defend herself easily against him, but what about at night, while she slept beside him?
Watching him chew his food, winching with pain, actually gave Sarah pleasure. She often had visions of him choking to death on the big pieces of meat he chewed down, even right now, she wondered if she would perform the Heimlich maneuver on him, if it happened, or just watch to see if someone else knew it.
Talbert took the large knife with the serrated edge, and sawed off another piece of meat, getting it ready to stuff into his full mouth. Sarah eyed the knife. She saw a vision of herself grabbing it and slicing it quickly across his jugular vein . . . he would bleed out in seconds.
The waitress came by; she’d been at their table numerous times to fuss over Talbert. Rebecca was getting tired of the attention. “Did the poor boy need more water, another soft bun, and maybe some tapioca pudding for desert?”
Sarah smiled at the waitress, “You know, I think he’ll be just fine. He’s a tough guy, aren’t you honey?” She tapped the table in his direction. Both his hands were busy sawing the steak and getting more ridiculous-size pieces into his mouth.
Talbert made a wide grin, pieces of steak showing out of this mouth as he chewed. Sarah had already decided they would be in separate beds tonight. She would place a few crushed up sleeping pills into his warm milk that she gave him with his painkillers.
11
Anton dropped Bernadette off at the Marriot Hotel in Victoria’s inner harbor. He’d somehow managed to get them rooms at the height of the August tourist season in Victoria, with tour buses expelling passengers into the already packed lobby.
He even had her upgraded to the concierge level, with a quick check-in through the Gold Elite check-in desk. Bernadette’s affiliations with hotel chains were usually limited to the Best Western and Motel 6, and she wasn’t very high up in status with either of them.
Bernadette entered her well-appointed room with luxurious furnishings and views of the harbor, and did what she always did in times of frustration—got changed for a workout in the gym.
Her small 20-inch carry-on bag always included three sets of workout outfits with a pair of runners, as well as her extra clothes. In the face of frustration with no sex and no chocolate, a girl could always hit the gym, and that is what she did.
The hotel gym was empty when she arrived at six o’clock. Hotel
gyms were never well used, and it was fact Bernadette enjoyed. She hit the treadmill hard with intervals of power walking, jogging, and then wind sprints. A series of weights followed, and she hit biceps, triceps, and then legs with sessions back on the treadmill doing sprints to keep her heart rate up.
By seven-thirty, she was mildly exhausted and happy. Her frustration with being taken off a major case had ebbed, and the mess of her love life was only a distant nagging thought. She showered and changed into her standard going out for dinner clothes, a black pair of wool blend dress pants, a red blouse (that didn’t show stains) and a black pashmina shawl that a girlfriend in Edmonton convinced her she had to have. She still wasn’t sure about the shawl.
She added a pair of silver Navajo earrings and simple jade pendant with silver chain. She was just admiring herself in the mirror when Anton called from downstairs at eight-fifteen for dinner. “Yes,” she thought to herself, “looking damn good . . . and going out with a work colleague.”
As they walked to the restaurant from the hotel, a gentle breeze blew in from the harbor, cool and tinged with salt. Anton informed her that Samantha and Assad would not be joining them. Assad still had too much follow-up to be done on the interview of the suspects, and Samantha was deep into the computer files of the laptops that they had seized.
They walked along the Victoria Harbor, and then took a right along Wharf Street. Throngs of tourist in clusters—some in families and some in tour groups—crowded the streets. A crowd approached. Bernadette and Anton had to squeeze against the buildings as they passed. They were a tour group from one of the cruise ships, small stickers with the name of their ship plastered on their lapels. A smiling tour guide uttered an endless stream of useful facts about Victoria to those interested enough in the group to listen.
Bernadette always imagined herself going on a cruise ship sometime. She liked the idea of watching these people amble by, lost in their reverie of yet another port they would visit for only a brief few hours, and then leaving. It seemed like a tasting tour of civilization.
Pipeline Killers: Bernadette Callahan. A female detective mystery with international suspense. (Book 2) Page 7
