by Vince Milam
“Didn’t in New Guinea.”
“Because of the odds. This is different. One guy. Somewhere on the great blue sea.”
“Okay.”
“So in lieu of flogging you like a rented mule over your Lone Ranger tendencies, I’ll tack on a personal request. A personal expectation.”
“You’re pretty feisty for this early in the a.m. And for someone wading through an existential crisis.”
“A simple request. So it fits in your mental wheelhouse,” he said with a half-decent smile. “Take me. When clarity washes the mission clean, call me. I’ll answer.”
“You always do.”
“But only if you communicate.”
“Then watch for those cosmic messages you’re so fond of.”
He ignored my comment, and his face acquired a look each of my Delta brothers recognized. Bo, our spearhead. First in. Willing, able, fearless. It was fine and good to see. Fire, life, readiness. A slice of personal comeback as we addressed familiar turf.
“Call me. I mean it.” Delivered with the utmost sincerity and more than a little attitude.
A two-way unblinking stare.
“We’ll see.”
A genuine smile and light chuckle. “Do I have to kick your butt before breakfast?” he asked.
“Speaking of which, let’s order something. Then I’m outta here. I take it you’re staying put?”
He sat back, gave his teacup a slow spin, and stared at the tabletop. “I don’t have an option. Something happened here. It was the correct path arriving here. But something broke.”
“Broke?”
“The question is whether it requires repair or discarding. A decision somewhere between monumental and trite. I’m wrestling with that.”
“What about JJ?” I asked. I’d reveal our earlier conversation.
“Part of the larger swirl. With, perhaps, a perception issue.”
“Okay.”
“This formerly magnificent creature before you might be perceived by others as defective. On what scale and to what depth is an unknown. Which brings us to the mysterious case of JJ.”
“Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world.”
“That’s love lost, Clouseau. We’re talking love found. Or love passed. Ships in the night.”
“She’s interested in you. Told me.”
“Interest as in the albino monkey at the zoo or as Bo Dickerson, suave man of mystique?”
“She asked about your relationships. I lied. Neglected to reveal the lost years when you traveled with the circus. And their troop of gypsy acrobats.”
“Better that than the reality.”
“Speaking of which, our reality stands on thin ice, my brother. She’s a badge. A Federal badge.”
“Only forward. My path ahead. The one behind will reveal no trail. You have my word, goober.”
“Thanks. And I want you happy. If she’s part of the happy meal, good on you. Hundred percent behind it.”
“The question is whether the universe is behind it. Time. Time and acceptance and healing will tell the tale.”
“And love. Whatever happens, Bo, you’ve always got that. Coming from multiple sources.”
He glanced around the room and stretched his neck. I could discern a vertebrae pop. We held a dead-serious eye-lock.
“That’s my keystone, brother. Without that, the arch tumbles.”
The airport taxi drive brought an expected response. The Clubhouse was open for business early, the message from Jules anticipatory.
Expecting you.
I bet. The terrorist attack was public and her network would now hum like overhead power lines. She would already have established ties, connections. And plotted revenge. Because Stinnett hadn’t just gone after me. He’d violated Clubhouse sanctity. And that wouldn’t do at all.
Chapter 27
The stairs squeaked at every step. I’d laid my rucksack and duffel filled with special tools on the dry cleaner counter. Both disappeared, the Filipino behind the counter expressionless. Two knocks, the metallic clank, and dual shotgun barrels greeted me. I performed the empty pockets 360 display and shut the door.
“You sojourn alone. We shall arrive at your compatriot’s whereabouts shortly. But first, how is he?” She used the weapon as a pointer and indicated a chair.
“Mulling life. Rudder repair.”
“A man of resiliency, no doubt. Our little tête-à-tête was most enjoyable.”
A quick pass through other Clubhouse business. Recruitment endeavors.
“Now,” she continued. “Brass tacks. We have serious business to attend, Mr. Lee. With little room for the usual pleasantries.”
She enhanced her statement with an uncomfortable display. The shotgun clattered on the desktop, an emphatic gesture. And one with both the loaded weapon’s barrels still pointed my way. A drawer opened, cigar produced, the upright KA-BAR knife utilized. A lit kitchen match and smoke blown toward the ceiling completed the ritual. I waited.
“As you know, this poor wretch before you has been violated.” She referenced the hitters who picked up our trail after leaving her establishment. Jules puffed the cigar. Her squinted eye glistened, face resolute, and she spoke with granite surety. “It will not stand.”
For the umpteenth time I jotted a mental note—stay on Jules’s good side.
“Yeah, well, there’s also the little matter of the same guy’s attempts at killing me. Four times.”
“Hence the importance of our alliance.”
She’d never used the term before. Alliance. A good thing in the short term. Over the long run, another question altogether. But the conversational tenor indicated one fact bright and clear. This wasn’t a transactional discussion. The gravity of the situation and subsequent plans were far beyond money. The abacus would remain still.
“Describe recent events for me,” she continued. “Begin, with great detail, your last exit from the Clubhouse. Leave nothing out.”
I opened the kimono wide. Included details of the four hitters Bo and I battled after leaving her place. The St. Thomas meeting with JJ and Pettis. The discovery of Delta operators. The terrorist attack, although I brushed over gory details and individual actions. The Tig and Pettis scene. The FBI and Homeland Security morning meeting at the hotel conference room. And Roger Stinnett, including his watery escape. The Bo and JJ relationship remained unspoken. Not Clubhouse business.
“No indication of nationality regarding the four assassins?”
“None. No ID, standard special ops weaponry. No hue or cry that would indicate their language.”
“Pity.”
“I suspect the bounty played a role.”
“No doubt. An added facet. But a mere sweetener,” she said and puffed the cigar.
“That yacht is a hell of a sweetener.”
An attempt at moving the conversation toward the end game—Stinnett. But the yacht reference presented a potential prickly patch. For all I knew, Jules fostered several happy campers around the world with boats or vacation cabins or mortgage-free houses. Campers under the employment of the CIA, MI6, Russian SVR, or name your own acronym. But Jules exhibited no reaction and stuck to the current mission.
“It would appear our subject du jour has fled the field of battle,” she said.
“Well, in retrospect it was a good thing the FBI stopped me at the pier. Handling Stinnett at that time would have put my butt in a sling.”
“An opportunity lost, nonetheless.”
“Sling. My butt.”
A soft cackle returned.
“So paint with numbers, Jules. I’d appreciate a little clarity so we can move forward.”
“Multiple birds, one stone.”
“Okay.”
“You, dear boy, proved a difficult removal. A remarkable trait, often exhibited and always admired.”
“A trait I’d like to foster.”
“You and Mr. Pettis represented final obstacles. Obstacles on a full stop of the overland
route through Costa Rica.”
“Yeah, got that.”
“So, under the cover of an unrelated terrorist attack, actions were taken.”
“Unrelated?”
“There is an intersection of motivations, admittedly. Which is different than related.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. With the operational cover of extreme bloodshed, both you and our venture capitalist could be removed.”
“Killed.”
She wafted a hand at the more blunt assessment. “And, I should add, the young Trinidadian who attempted a medical procedure on Mr. Pettis would have met the same fate. In short order.”
“Fair enough. Loose ends tied, the Costa Rica deal shut down.”
“Indeed. Mr. Stinnett’s sponsor satisfied. But there are other considerations.” She leaned back, smiled, and puffed the cigar—added theatrics for a Clubhouse presentation. “Are you familiar with the region’s geography, Marco Polo?” she asked.
“Yeah. I’m not an idiot, Jules.”
A faux-shocked expression. “Nor would I ever deign to imply such. But consider. The Caribbean Sea. Bound on the east with a string of islands. Including Trinidad at the southern point.”
“Okay.”
“And bound on the west by Central America. Which includes Panama. Now, let us consider likely targets for a large band of island-based jihadists within the context of a larger picture.”
“St. Thomas, for one.”
“Yes. A political statement against a US territory from delusional zealots.”
“Those slaughtered locals and tourists were sure more than a political statement. Blood flowed in the streets.”
“I’m sure it did. Terrible, to be sure.” She presented an empathetic expression, practiced perhaps, and continued. “But for our purposes, let us back away from experiential carnage. And adopt the perspective of threat assessment.”
I stared back, unblinking. “Do these weeds we’re heading into hide Stinnett? Because that’s the lone threat on my dance card.”
“If only it were so, dear. Although I do admire, as always, your focus on the immediate.”
Head claxons rang. She intimated other and perhaps larger threats lurked on the horizon. Not what I wanted to hear.
“So what am I missing?”
“Amalgams, perhaps. And we shall return to my earlier assertion. One posited during Mr. Dickerson’s visit.”
“Okay.”
“You have focused, rightly so, on Mr. Stinnett. And to a degree, his sponsor.”
“Another commercial interest. Hell, for all I know, one of Pettis’s competitors on Sand Hill Road. A competitor who found a CIA operative willing to moonlight.”
“Indeed. Now as to both amalgams and threat assessments.”
I sighed. “Is there a CliffsNotes version of this you might want to share?”
She raised a single eyebrow. The one under the eyepatch. It presented a disconcerting affect, planned and practiced. She laid the cigar at the desk’s edge, placed both elbows on the well-worn surface, and scooted forward in her chair. Somewhere, an AC vent hummed.
“This is beyond serious, Mr. Lee. For our actions will engage multiple players. Large and dangerous players. Starting with the Chinese.”
Oh man. I’d fought it. Refused consideration. The Chinese. But this was Jules. She knew. She always knew. Acceptance washed, depression settled. I sighed, loudly. Oh man and oh well. Time to rip the bandage off with a single pull.
“Tell me.”
“First, amalgams. Do you not understand how our large Asian friend conducts business?”
“Yeah. Yeah I do.”
They took the long view. Their government’s goals were their commercial companies’ goals. A government and commercial amalgam. I was a moron. Shunted the obvious aside, convinced a commercial entity drove the Costa Rica conspiracy. Well, a commercial entity did drive. The Chinese government. And the MSS—the Chinese clandestine services—were an extension of state commercial interests. And the bridge to Stinnett.
“Stinnett works for the Chinese,” I said. Plopped on the table, waiting for disagreement. None came.
“You and I must walk a fine line, lad.”
Point taken. The MSS, similar to Russia’s SVR, were ruthless. If they got wind of the Clubhouse’s hand in Stinnett’s demise, Jules would deal with much more than a sanctuary violated. And the last thing I wanted was the MSS aware and in pursuit of Case Lee, Esq. The Russians already held that position, and I much preferred the field winnowed rather than added to.
“All right. Give me the threat assessment perspective, Jules. While I endeavor maintaining this façade of calm.”
She relit her cigar, the kitchen match emitting sulfurous fumes, and sat back. The situational elephant recognized and accepted, she held free reign for painting a bigger picture.
“Threats toward cash flow. Trillions of dollars’ worth of cash flow,” she said.
“The Panama Canal. Operated by the Chinese.”
“Yes. The perfect objective for terrorism if commercial disruption were the goal. Much to the relief of our Asian friend, the merry band of now-deceased jihadists chose a soft target for their endeavors. A tourist island.”
“Glad they’re relieved.”
“Think as they would, dear. Set personal emotions aside.”
That wasn’t going to happen. “So the Chinese sent their well-rewarded proxy to shut down the Costa Rica project.”
“Yes.”
“And encouraged him to eliminate a future terrorist threat to the Canal,” I said.
“No.”
“No?”
“I doubt very much if Mr. Stinnett informed his sponsor of the impending attack. Let us not forget who signs his actual paycheck. He performed his day job, as it were. Corralled intelligence and arranged for your brethren’s placement to thwart the attack. Then leveraged the unfortunate event and constructed deep cover action regarding Pettis. And you. An admirable play.”
“Yeah. Admirable.”
“From a professional perspective.” A brief appreciative smile. “And taking credit places him in greater stead with both his employer and sponsor. It solidifies his position. All that said, it does not alter the fact he violated my sanctity.”
Stinnett as the layer of separation between the Chinese and stopping the Costa Rica project. Hired hitters as a layer of separation between Stinnett and multiple killings. Lots of clean hands. So what drove the guy? Beyond money? This was treason. Another reason to whack him.
“So he was bought. Money. Is it that simple? We’re talking treason, Jules. A death sentence.”
She stared at the Cirque du Soleil poster and ruminated. “A world of possibilities lay there. Money, sex, power. Perhaps there were past indiscretions used against him. Or perceived slights and bitterness toward his home country.”
She shook her head and sighed, silent for the moment. The single overhead light bulb’s pull chain performed a slow dance with the AC currents. I waited. She continued. “To claim I have seen it all is perhaps too broad a brushstroke. The rationale behind such actions often lay beyond normal thought processes. But our Mr. Stinnett has greater problems now.”
“Well, yeah. Me.”
“A formidable challenge for him, no doubt. A challenge made clear with the knowledge you remain alive. In the future, dear, please consider keeping such awareness away from the quarry. It does tend to make things easier.”
Point taken. There was little reason for exposing myself at the FBI’s morning meeting. The lift of a coffee cup as Stinnett recognized my face. On the other hand, I wanted the son of a bitch to see who was coming after him. A personal motive. Which didn’t lessen the truth of Jules’s statement.
“As for his greater problems,” Jules continued. “If our Asian friends receive wind of your continued existence, they may decide to take action.”
“The MSS after my ass. Just freakin’ great.”
“And after the posterior
of Mr. Stinnett as well. Even given his other successes, he failed to eliminate you. And Mr. Pettis. They do not look kindly upon such things.”
“So all the more reason for handling Stinnett now. Before he comes after me again. And before news I still walk among us breaks.”
“Indeed. A sense of urgency.” She cocked her head and puffed the cigar. “Let us shift the conversation toward next steps.”
“Okay.”
“We shall discuss retribution. An apt noun. For both of us.”
The heart of the matter. Retribution. Fine, we’d discuss it as planned. With acute awareness I represented a degree of separation for her and the Clubhouse. Important for Jules because the CIA was a valued client. They purchased Clubhouse information and paid good money. She stood in fine stead with the Company. So Clubhouse retribution required a hands-off buffer. Me.
It was dangerous turf, and Jules would remain clean. But her position wasn’t without risk. If word leaked she aided and abetted the removal of a Company operative the consequences were severe. Hence the alliance comment. Partners. Sink or swim together.
But Stinnett’s removal was her goal, and no doubt about it. The rogue agent broke Clubhouse rules. Neutral turf, and neutrality violated. The punishment absolute.
“First, a location. I shall assume this responsibility,” she said, her tone cold and final. “Our clandestine culprit has a home base.”
The statement implied I would handle the rest.
“Okay.”
“It may take a few days. May I assume you will initiate action once a location is ascertained?”
“You know, there’s an alternative.”
I wasn’t backing off the desire to act as cleaner. But a personal trigger pull wasn’t the sole option. The best option, perhaps, but the Norfolk flight afforded me more consideration of an alternative Bo and I discussed.
“She is not of our tribe, dear,” Jules said, with full understanding of the alternative. The Marilyn Townsend option. As always, she was a step or three ahead.
“A turncoat in their midst,” I said. “They might hand it over to their wet work group.”
Wet work. Assassins. Killers.
Jules shook her head and adopted a school teacher attitude. “As a last resort, perhaps. But it would not constitute their initial play.”
