Jake chuckled. “Not now. Go back to sleep.”
“I’m wide awake now.”
“Then—”
“I’m already ahead of you.”
The phone went dead in his ear. Shaking his head, he pocketed his phone then logged onto the other computers.
When he saw all the applications and files, he thought that maybe he should have had Ruby stay on the line or come for a quick visit. Well, there was only one thing for him to do. Click around.
After checking out the programs, it appeared to him Charley had typical applications like a word processor and spreadsheet application, along with an internet browser, etcetera. He opened Windows Explorer and stared, dumbfounded at the amount of directories and files. Scratching his head, he wondered how she kept track of them all. More than that, Jake wondered what they all were.
In one directory, he found a bunch of files that all began with the three letters, ISN followed by a set of numbers. He clicked on the first one labeled ISN934.
“Damn!” Another password box. With a shrug, he took a chance and typed in the administrator password.
“Shit!” Okay, do not get frustrated. No one wants to remember that many secret codes. Keeping that in mind, he typed in the key used on the cipher.
“Ha!” He pounded a fist on the table in success.
His eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open as he stared in shock at an interrogation log on Ghani Abdul, Internee Security Number 934. A detainee at Guantanamo Bay, GITMO, Ghani was accused of being an enemy combatant to the United States.
Jake leaned back in the leather chair and blew out a long breath, his heart pounded inside his chest. Charley met and debriefed a supposed member of the Taliban associated with al Qaida. He could not believe his eyes, but they did not lie. His breath caught, he leaned forward and clicked a link inside the interrogation file. That opened up another document with all kinds of circles with names, dates, and lines drawn between the circles.
Without thinking, he fingered the toy that sat on Charley’s desk, slipping the black and red dots up and down as he stared at the screen. When he looked at the game, he gaped. It was a yellow plastic game with black and red dots, called Connect the Dots.
THIRTY-ONE
Before she left for home, Charley had one more session with Ocalan Abdullah, which confirmed what she learned from him in the first two debriefings, but did not provide any further information. She tried to get an answer to his question as to which prison he was being detained, but she did not know herself. She approached several guards and everyone refused to answer her direct question. Refused.
“The only thing I can tell you Ocalan is Yerevan, Armenia.”
“Black site.” He said it so quietly only she could hear but the words rang loud, echoing in her ears as she stepped onto the elegant plane.
Kyle’s email. She had forgotten about it. Between the move and the trips abroad for work, she had forgotten about the email.
“Black site? What is a black site?”
The pilot shook his head and took his leave. Apparently, that was the wrong question to ask. Unfortunately, that was the only question that kept running through her mind as she sat in the extravagant plane on her way home. What was a black site? She had heard the term used before but never in any context. The email Kyle sent had no explanation just the two words. Well, she had to find out.
What was with the sleek, sexy plane? The only planes she had ever flown in were military planes. No bells or whistles, just seats without any comfort. Were the showy planes only used for black sites? Why? Is that why she had never ridden in one before now?
Pinching the bridge of her nose, Charley willed the headache that began with all her questions away, and searched her bag for some aspirin. Having located some ibuprofen instead, she glanced down the aisle of the plane and spotted a mini-fridge. After unclasping her seatbelt, she walked to the fridge and found it stocked with sodas and water. She snatched a bottle of water, removed the cap, and popped the pills in her mouth. With a swig, she swallowed the three tablets, and already she felt better.
As she stood there, taking in her surroundings, Charley eyed a network jack on the wall between four seats that surrounded a small table. Jackpot! She could do her research before she got home. She could actually finish her reports but that seemed so boring compared to finding out all she could about black sites and where she had just been.
Opening the small fridge, she opted for something with caffeine, and popped the top on a can of Mountain Dew. She set it at what she thought was supposed to be a small conference table then went to retrieve her belongings. Taking a seat that faced the pilot’s cabin, Charley extracted her laptop from its brown leather case embroidered with the letters CTD. Most people assumed the letters were her initials, which they were, but they actually stood for Connect the Dots.
She set the computer on the table, located her internet network cable, and connected it between her laptop and the wall. As the notebook booted up, she stretched her neck and shoulders, prepping herself for backdoor searches and internet surfing. After logging on, the first thing Charley did was mask her IP address. Maybe it wasn’t necessary, but she would rather be safe than sorry. You never knew when big brother was watching or listening. The thought had her remembering Kyle’s picture and the bugs. She swallowed and gave a small shake of her head. Being on one of big brother’s planes, Charley did not doubt for a second that he would track network activity. Sneaky bastard.
Since the site she just left was military run, she started with the Defense Intelligence website www.dia.mil. From there, she used her security clearance credentials and accessed their internal sites. It surprised her that she found nothing. Next, she tried www.cia.gov. Going through the same steps, it yielded the same zero results. Unperturbed, Charley typed in the URL for the army and attempted the same search.
“What was going on?” She mumbled with her head in her hands. Maybe she did not have the correct clearance. Although she found that difficult to believe, she did not give up. Instead, she got another can of soda, and decided to try her hand at open source intelligence work by searching the World Wide Web.
“Ah.” She sat back with a smug grin on her face and took a sip of her Mountain Dew. It always amazed her how much was readily available on the internet for everyone to read, whether someone wanted it there or not. The difficult part was culling the information then discerning if it what was printed was factual or fabrication.
In this case, the first hit she got when she searched for ‘black site’ took her to Wikipedia and a definition. According to Wikipedia, an online public wiki that anyone could add information to, a black site was a military term that referred to a location where a black project was conducted.
“Ha! That was helpful. Not.”
She sat up and put her face close to the screen. That was where she’d heard the term before.
In 2006, the President of the United States acknowledged the existence of secret prisons run by the CIA to imprison terrorists. Charley sat back, closed her eyes, and recalled the televised speech. Apparently, someone on purpose leaked to the media the fact that the CIA held detainees at undisclosed prisons, and in an attempt to save face, the President announced that the secret detention centers existed to hold only the worst-of-the-worst unlawful enemy combatants, high-value detainees.
“They were supposed to be shut down.”
Another website stated that at the black sites the Vice President allowed the CIA to use enhanced interrogation techniques. “Even at non-black sites that occurred,” she said aloud, remembering Dick Grande and his waterboarding of Vladimir Gerritt. Her heart tripped in her chest.
“Was that a black site and she didn’t know it?” She slapped a hand across her mouth. Could it have been? Scrubbing her hands over her tired face, she wondered how many black sites she had visited. How could she have not known?
Her headache worsened. She rubbed at her temples, but pushed herself to read even more. Another website quest
ioned if the black site detention centers were actually disbanded and if so, where did the prisoners go? No one seemed to have the answer. To her disbelief, another site claimed that the CIA captured, detained, and tortured a man by the name of Khalil El-Masri, a German citizen in a secret prison. The CIA later released Khalil with no charges filed against him because the CIA and its contractors grabbed the wrong man. The man they wanted was named Khalil al-Masri. Farther down the page, she read that the German man was later committed to a psychiatric institution because of his treatment.
“My gosh.” The difference in that one letter in their names caused a man his sanity.
Stretching her spine, Charley decided to dig in.
The pilot announced over the speaker that he was starting their descent. Quickly, Charley shut down her laptop and shoved all her belongings back in her bags, knowing that her quest was not yet finished. Then she sat back and contemplated whom she worked for and what she did for a living. If what she read was all-true, then she worked for monsters sanctioned by the President, and funded by non-governmental organizations. A tear slid down her cheek as she questioned her own culpability.
THIRTY-TWO
Two days and three nights after she left him standing alone in his own living room, Jake watched Charley step out of a black car at the end of her drive with a laptop bag and an overnight carry-on slung over each shoulder. Since her departure, he had done nothing but concentrate on Charley.
After his discovery in the barn, he locked back up and checked out her house, cautious of the bedroom as the flash that sent the B and E men running appeared to have come from there. He did not notice anything out of place or disturbed. If not for his own eyes, he would have sworn no one had been inside her house. He wondered if she knew how to leave things around for the telltale sign of someone doing a little breaking and entering. Jake smiled to himself. An obvious bodyguard trick, he would have to ask her about that. Besides, he planned to get an invitation into Charley’s bedroom so he could search even more thoroughly.
Since the other sneak-a-peek boys fled, Jake took it upon himself to keep an eye on her place. He even went as far as stockpiling her firewood with wood he chopped. Of course, somehow, a small listening device ended up tucked in the pile, as it was located next to the barn. That way if the idiots came around again even without the flashlights he would receive notice.
Now, however, he focused on the way Charley slugged up the driveway to her house, her feet slow, and her shoulders slumped. He wondered if her trip had been successful and where she had gone. Scraping fingers through his hair, he stood and stepped closer to the window, leaned a shoulder against the pane. Had she missed him? Had she even thought of him? With a shake of his head, Jake cleared his throat and his thoughts, and turned his mind back to his next step.
Which was? How did he play it from here? Did he march over there and tell Charley Tango Duston he knew who she was and what she did for a living? Did he wait it out for her to tell him voluntarily? Jake scoffed. “Like that would happen.” Or, did he play it his boss’s way?
Mickey’s way consisted of Jake acting as bodyguard. As much as he liked that idea, he also hated it. He hadn’t wanted to get involved with Charley and look how that worked out. As he walked out his kitchen door heading to her place, he flip-flopped back and forth between his options. At her door, he paused. The only lights on were upstairs. Maybe he shouldn’t disturb her and let her get some sleep.
In the next instant, Jake’s decision was made for him. Charley’s scream followed by a loud thud had him moving. Without hesitation, he let himself in the old-fashioned way. He busted the door open with his shoulder and brute force, shearing the frame as he crossed the threshold. With a practiced motion, Jake released and controlled his weapon as he moved toward the stairs, aiming out and ahead of him.
There was no way anyone had gotten into Charley’s place without his knowledge. No way, he thought and ground his teeth. He had kept surveillance on her place for the past two days. The only person who had been around was him.
Weapon gripped between both hands, Jake held himself against the wall, silent and listened. Not hearing anything, he pushed off and turned.
What he saw next had his heart jumping out of his ribs not to mention his eyes bulging out of their sockets. Charley practically flew down the stairs then her feet fell out from underneath her and she went sailing, landing on her ass and sliding. He caught her when she landed on his chest, sent him to his back, with her legs on either side of his arms. When his eyesight cleared, he saw a Sig-Sauer P230 SL aimed at his nose. A short 9-millimeter, double-action trigger with a seven round magazine. Damn, the girl had good taste in weapons.
“Did you do this?” Charley demanded shoving a playing card in his face between his nose and the Sig.
He blinked. Huh? “A card?”
“Yes, the Queen of Spades.” She shoved it even closer to his face, if that was possible. “Did you put this in my bedroom?”
“Charley, Darlin’, please get that thing, correct that, both things out of my face.” He was starting to get a little annoyed with the gun aimed at his head.
She moved the card back, but kept the pistol in place. “Don’t play the innocent country bumpkin with me. You know damn well what the Queen of Spades is used for.”
“No, I’m afraid I do not. I’m asking you again—”
“You lie,” she wailed and leaned back gripping the Sig with both hands.
“Now you’re just pissing me off.”
“Shut up.”
“Fine. Have it your way.” In one swift movement, Jake flipped Charley to her back, pinned her to the floor with his middle, her legs wide as she cradled him, and disarmed her. Supporting the majority of his weight with his left arm near her head, he held his own clutch piece, a Smith and Wesson model 2213 pointed at Charley’s heart.
“What are you doing? Let me up.”
Jake grinned down at her. “Like you let me up or put your weapon away?”
“I…I…uh…”
“Stutter much?”
“No.” Charley’s blue eyes narrowed and Jake could have sworn he saw flames shoot from them, not to mention smoke from her ears. He would have chuckled if he hadn’t been afraid she would realize how turned on he was. Hey, he was a man.
“Exactly why would a Queen of Spades make you haul ass down the stairs in a…” He paused and perused her from head to toe. “In a blouse and stockings attached to a garter as if a pack of coon dogs were on your tail?” Shit! No wonder he was harder than steel.
Her eyes widened and Charley inhaled then exhaled audibly causing her hair to blow up out of her face. “You don’t know, do you?”
Jake shook his head. “Nope, that’s why I asked. Tell me.”
“It’s a calling card.”
One of his eyebrows arched. “What kind?”
He felt her stomach muscles tense beneath him, saw her jaw clench. “It’s a death threat.”
His brows drew together. “Death threat?”
“Could you please put the gun away?”
Jake looked down. Entranced by Charley and her story, he had forgotten the pistol was still in his hand and aimed at her heart. After tucking the weapon away, he turned his gaze and his attention back to the woman he held pinned under him.
“The threat?”
“In…uh…certain circles, the Queen of Spades is used as a tactic to express a death threat. That, a black rose, even email messages.”
“So, Charley Tango Duston, who in the CIA is sending you death threats?”
THIRTY-THREE
Charley gaped at him. He knew her middle name. Worse than that, Jake figured out she worked for the CIA. She laid her head back, squeezed her eyes shut. Maybe she could deny it. She opened her eyes and one glance at the set of his jaw told her the answer was no. Darn.
“Can we have this conversation someplace more comfortable?”
The cocky grin that slid across his face both annoyed and sent goose
bumps dancing along her skin everywhere he came into contact.
“Mmm. I’m as comfy as a cat,” he drawled. He purred. Jake actually purred. She could not help it, the chuckle just escaped.
“Jake,” she whined. “Please. And I’d like to put a few more clothes on.”
“Don’t get dressed on my account. I like you in the buff.”
Her eyes rolled heavenward. “Clothes. Coffee. Then we talk. In that order.”
Jake bobbed his head once and in one quick movement got to his feet, and yanked Charley to hers. “Thanks.”
He grinned and lowered his mouth to her ear. “Clothes. Coffee. Then Answers.” She shivered and walked up the stairs, Jake on her tail.
“I don’t need any help.”
“Maybe not, but you’re going to show me where you found the card you shoved in my face and accused me of leaving.”
Anger bubbled and simmered on the surface but Charley inhaled, exhaled, and turned it down. She reminded herself that Jake was only doing what came naturally to him. She cringed. Yes, she did kinda, sorta accuse him of doing it. Mumbling, she tossed her hands in the air as she hit the threshold to her bedroom. Of course, she accused him. It made sense that she did. He had been right there. Right after she found it. Very conveniently.
“Yeah,” she mumbled as she went to the closet. Slipping out of the stockings, she pulled out a pair of navy linen slacks, and tugged them up over her hips and zipped.
“Where was the card?”
Avoiding eye contact, she pointed at the night table on the side of the bed close to the closet. “Anything else?”
“Not that I noticed.”
“Tell me about the flash?”
Charley turned blue eyes on him and glared. How did Jake know about the flash if he had not been in her house leaving the Queen of Spades?
“What flash?”
In two strides, Jake was on her, toe-to-toe. “Answers,” he grumbled through gritted teeth.
Charley shoved at his chest but the man did not budge. Fine. She could give just as good as she got.
Connect the Dots Page 15
