The Caribbean Job

by Vince Milam

  “How so?”

  “Because, dear boy, our Mr. Stinnett has an informational pipe into China’s clandestine world. The MSS. He feeds them.”

  “So?”

  “So their first move will be turning him. A double agent. Acknowledge his behavior, confront him, and offer an alternative to instant termination.”

  “For him to feed MSS misinformation?”

  “Of course. A tactic stretching back a thousand years. And still around, I should add, because of its efficacy. With the added bonus he might extract valued information from them.”

  She smiled, puffed the cigar, and added, “Unless the Chinese learn of his new role. In which case they may feed the Company false information as well. Think of the intrigue!” She cackled longer than necessary.

  Yeah, funny. Although her picture of constant permutations and shifting sands buttressed the argument for a short and final solution.

  Jules returned to tribal chieftain mode. “And consider this. She is not inhuman. While you two may have a working relationship, she will resent the bearer of bad news.”

  Marilyn Townsend. Director of the CIA’s operational clandestine services. Someone known to a small handful of people on this earth. The world’s head spook. And, yeah, she might resent my message. I respected her, but our relationship—since the New Guinea job—bordered on adversarial. At least from my perspective. Townsend lived so encased, so mission-focused, she likely considered me a tool. One used when opportunity presented. As for her personal feelings toward me, I’d never know.

  I sighed. “You may be right.”

  “I am right, dear.” Convinced she’d buried any alternatives to personal retribution and the mission forward established, Jules fired up the informational plucking machine. This was, after all, the Clubhouse. “Now, tell me of this FBI agent on St. Thomas. The committed Julie Johnson.”

  I added little to my earlier descriptive. And reflected I may have already said too much.

  “And back to your compatriot. The delightful Mr. Dickerson. Where might he be at the moment?”

  “Still on St. Thomas.”

  “I see.”

  I couldn’t contain a grin. “You are a true and genuine piece of work, Jules.”

  “I am a simple and honest broker of information. A mere speck among games writ large. And you, Don Quixote, must avoid jousting with windmills. Focus. The time is at hand. I shall provide you a location anon.”

  The mechanical clack as the door unlocked signaled the meeting over. I would wait for her spider web’s tingle. A location for Roger Stinnett. Then I would kill him. Before exiting I turned and sought something. Solace, perhaps.

  “It started as a simple job. Low key.”

  “I know.” She adopted the tone and appearance of true empathy. A connection. Real or not, I appreciated it. “As is so often the case among our tribe. Chin up. You rank as among the most solid of characters, Case Lee. Hold the course. And take succor knowing there is no alternative.”

  Chapter 28

  A mile from the Clubhouse, a quiet coffee house. I gathered thoughts and considered next moves. Fought a hollowness, a general attitudinal malaise. I didn’t appreciate the emotional state one little bit. Could have prompted myself to man up. Life could be a lot worse. But I couldn’t shake the weighted role of Case Lee, hitter.

  Revenge made for a lousy motivator. Yeah, the guy tried killing me. Multiple times. Which placed him among a crowded field. Would he continue the endeavor? The sixty-four-dollar question. If so, then strike first. But his continued pursuit wasn’t a given. Unless the idiot Pettis resurrected the Costa Rica deal. Which he might. An ugly thought came, passed—I could have manipulated the Pettis and Tig vignette, the poison injected before I squeezed the trigger. Prompted with the right words during the cell phone conversation as Tig listened.

  And Stinnett belonged to the Company. Talk about a can of worms opened wide. Alerting Marilyn Townsend of a traitor in her midst would initiate a laser-focus on both Stinnett and yours truly. Thoughts of the Company trailing me with unknown intent sat heavy. Oh man.

  We all require sounding boards, I supposed. I was blessed with several. Mom remained a prime candidate for personal issues. But this fell far outside her realm. Which left Bo, Catch, and Marcus. Bo would ruminate and offer off-trail possibilities. This situation wouldn’t accept metaphysical considerations. Catch would deliver his usual succinct statement. Give me the guy’s location, what he looks like, and go sit on the Ace of Spades. Problem solved. But this was my business, not his.

  Which left Marcus Johnson, former Delta Force team lead. Always rational, sound, and sage. A wise man. I accepted a coffee refill and ensured the quiet corner I occupied remained so. Then placed a call to the rancher near Fishtail, Montana. It was summertime, and he’d be in full cowboy and cattle mode.

  “To set the stage,” he started. “I’m working on the tractor. The Beartooths and Absarokas stand clear and cathedral-like in the distance. And it’s warm. Warm enough for your Pollyanna can’t-stand-the-cold self. So when are you arriving?”

  Man it felt good hearing his voice. And an easy image for the mind’s eye. Tall, lanky, shades of gray showing under the worn Stetson. Working on ranch equipment, hay season in full swing. The Beartooth and Absaroka mountain ranges were far distant. Glorious peaks well above tree line. And miles and miles of nobody.

  “Soon. But this is a consultative call.”

  I’d visit him three or four times a year. But not during winter. Hence the Pollyanna statement.

  “I’m pricey. And this tractor needs new parts. So the wailing couch awaits.”

  “And I’d take it, except you’d prop those snowshoe-sized feet near my head. Liable to pass out from the smell.”

  “The aroma of hard work. Something you would crinkle your nose at.”

  We both laughed. The sound of a wrench dropped into a tool bucket said I had his full attention. I told the tale. Alone in the isolated corner of a coffee house and using a 256 bit encryption phone, I still couched the affair with the ugly burrs ground off.

  “Is this a poor time for the talk?” he asked after absorbing my activities.

  The talk consisted of me settling down in Montana and starting a new, sedate life. I’d pointed out, more than a few times, the bounty on our heads held little truck with geography. Marcus waved away any such considerations. Bounty hunters could come. His wide-open space offered a degree of warning. At which point he’d handle business. I wasn’t as sanguine about remoteness as a warning system.

  “Is it ever a good time?”

  “Right about now would seem appropriate.”

  “Later, Yoda. Bigger fish to fry at the moment.”

  “Then let’s drill to the basics. The treasonous aspect is sufficient for a bullet to the head.”

  “A fine motivator, granted. Plus the attempts on me.”

  “Nothing new there,” he said.

  “A comment used much too often. And high odds he knows of the bounty.”

  “An unknown. Let’s keep the bounty out of the immediate picture.” His Zippo lighter clacked open as he lit a cigar.

  “Two big sticking points,” I said. “He’s CIA. And as of the last twenty-four hours, a hero inside the Company.”

  “And the other issue?”

  “Feels like a hit job. Reeks of wet work.”

  “Well,” he said with a fresh-cigar-in-mouth inflection. “If it gnaws at you that leaves one choice.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Son, you don’t even know where this guy lives. You said he was over Caribbean operations. Lots of islands, lots of blue water.”

  “I’ll know soon enough,” I said, aware where the statement would lead.

  “The witch?”

  “Her name is Jules, and she’s provided ample help in the past. As you well know.”

  “She’s a damn witch who drags you through illegal and prickly turf. And you wonder why you don’t find less dangerous work? What the hell
do you think she deals in? Popcorn sales?”

  Marcus held grudging respect for the CIA, and a great respect toward Marilyn Townsend. He long ago internalized the need for the Company, and for a strong leader among them. The Clubhouse failed any and all such benchmarks in his book. The Clubhouse was a commercial endeavor which played games and moved chess pieces without the hint of a nobler perspective. I skirted his commentary.

  “So I’ll have a location. Then what? That’s what we’re discussing.”

  “Still just one option. You owe her the information. Her shop. And she’ll clean it.”

  He was right. As always. Jules wooed me with tribal affiliations and potential downsides. But Marcus nailed the heart of the matter—it was the right thing to do. A sip of coffee delayed the admission. “Yeah. She’d handle it. But she might try and turn him. Insight as per Jules.”

  A light poke, and I waited for the sigh, the pause. It arrived, along with a hack and spit.

  “Even if she did flip him, part of their new and improved treasonous relationship could involve hands-off regarding you,” he said.

  “So I should ask for that? Oh and Marilyn, please ask the guy not to hurt me. Is this what happens when retired Delta operators reach a certain age? They begin swallowing wussification pills by the handful?”

  “Stop being your usual idiot self. Tell her what you know and tell her your concerns. Then back on your decrepit old tub and hit the Ditch. Or better yet, come to Montana. Where I will personally demonstrate my state of wussification.”

  “Not enough Epsom salts in Billings to facilitate your recuperation. And if I contact her and spill the beans, there’s still no guarantee the situation stands resolved.”

  “Since when has life tossed guarantees your way? Or mine? But bottom line, you know it’s the right move.”

  A slurp of coffee, a sigh. “Yeah. You’re right. I could say you’re always right, but it would detract from the reality of blind pig, acorn.”

  “Shut up, do it, and get your sorry ass to God’s country. I could use help with the hay.”

  We signed off, and I swirled coffee dregs. Unlike Jules, Marcus held no ulterior motives. So I dialed Townsend while my former team lead’s impetus still held its effect. We’d exchanged numbers in the recent past so she knew who called, but as always waited for me to speak first.

  “Director.”

  “Mr. Lee.”

  “You’ve got a rogue.”

  A long silence. She would consider continuation of the current conversation or if this required a face-to-face. She chose the latter.

  “Are you available?” Translation—was I near D.C.? Or more accurate, Langley. A four hour drive.

  “Yes.”

  “A restaurant?”

  “Nope.” A crowded venue made great cover, granted. It also allowed her people close proximity. Too close.

  Silence. A long one.

  “Ah, yes. I’d forgotten your predilection toward the outdoors.”

  “There’s a reason for that.”

  “Which we shall not waste time discussing. Clemyjontri Park. Tonight. Eight.”

  She ended the call without waiting for a response. I pulled the laptop and found the park. A mile from the CIA’s Langley headquarters. Great. Just freakin’ great. She’d have an army of spook underlings behind every rock and tree on the place. So be it.

  I maintained multiple Uber apps—each with a different identity and credit card. A rental car wouldn’t do, even using a false identity. Too many cameras, too much gathered information. A young man driving a late model Chevy leapt at the opportunity for a four hour paid trip. I gave a false D.C. destination and would have him drop me off a half-mile from the meeting spot. In a few hours, sunset. It marked twenty four hours since the Charlotte Amalie slaughter started.

  “Instead of dead-heading it back home, I could use a return ride,” I said from the front passenger seat. The rucksack occupied the back seat, duffel with the HK between my legs, the pistol in my waistband.

  “You bet. How long is the wait time?”

  “Not long. An hour.”

  “Happy to. Do you have some kind of business in the D.C. area?”

  “Yeah. Some kind of business.”

  “At night?”

  “The world doesn’t sleep.”

  “It must be interesting work.”

  “Yeah. Interesting. Keeps me on my toes.”

  I napped as we headed north, toward the belly of the beast.

  Chapter 29

  The park covered two acres, a kids’ elaborate playground the centerpiece. No civilians, but sufficient moonlight highlighted a dozen dark, solid figures around the slides and playhouses and jungle gyms. Each would have full automatic sub-machine guns hidden under their jackets. And each wired with an earpiece and microphone. My arrival across a groomed grass acre would be noticed. Big time. A good thing, as surprises were off the menu when it came to protecting the world’s head spook.

  She occupied a parents’ bench near the playground equipment. An upright figure, still, except for the occasional hand raise with a cup of hot liquid. The steam showed in the night. Two suits approached me at fifty yards. It was two minutes after eight.

  “Lee?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hear you don’t go for pat-downs.”

  “You heard right.” The Glock remained in my waistband.

  “I don’t like that.”

  “Should I play the world’s smallest violin?”

  He glanced at his partner, and back to me.

  “You’re a funny guy.”

  “You’re in my way.”

  Another glance toward his partner, then two side-steps back.

  “Still in my way.” I wouldn’t tolerate any physical attempts at corralling me. I could take them both, no worries, but it would set poor stage dressing for this little play.

  They each took another two steps back. As I moved forward the quiet one said, “Asshole,” just loud enough to hear. I tossed an extended middle finger over my shoulder and entered Spookville’s inner sanctum.

  “Mr. Lee. You will pardon me if I don’t rise.”

  Marilyn Townsend took a bullet to the hip during a field ops, years ago. That, and the rumor she was a stone-cold cribbage player, the sum total of my insider knowledge about her. Which was more than members of congress or anyone in the media. They didn’t even know her name.

  “Not a problem. Good to see you, Director.”

  “And you. Sit. Would you like coffee? It’s pre-sweetened and with a dollop of fresh cream.”

  Her cane rested within reach a bit farther along the bench. High odds it was weaponized with either a blade or a firing capability.

  “No thanks.” Rule one through nine. Never eat or drink around high ranking spooks. Too much opportunity for a dark cellar wake-up call.

  “Pity.” She sipped and waited, eyes hooded and head cocked. I sat five feet away.

  “Roger Stinnett has gone rogue. The Chinese.”

  Traffic a quarter mile away failed to overcome the summer insect symphony. The night air draped sticky, filled with the aroma of fresh-cut grass. Townsend sat still as if she hadn’t heard me. I waited.

  “A more serious allegation could not be levied,” she said, and fell silent again.

  Head games. She’d attempt positioning me as an unsure neophyte, filled with hunches and innuendo. Someone who jabbered and justified their allegation. I leaned back against the park bench, legs outstretched and crossed. Head back, staring at intermittent stars as summer night clouds passed. She took another sip of coffee.

  “Word has it from your active duty brethren you were engaged on St. Thomas. Along with our mutual friend, Mr. Dickerson.”

  A course change. Proof of the Company’s all-seeing eye. An intimidation tactic. She sipped again and set her paper cup on the bench.

  “You sure make friends easy, Director. But he’s out of bounds. This is you and me.”

  “I fail to understand your a
ttitude, Mr. Lee. It borders on the adversarial and is most unwarranted.”

  “Not adversarial. Arm’s length. New Guinea remains fresh on my mind. And body.”

  “Understood.” A framework established, no great animus, full professional. She continued. “Now, shall we begin with the facts as you perceive them?”

  I delivered short declarative sentences. Emphasized what I knew and what I didn’t. Included and acknowledged gray area perceptions. No nuance, no subtleties. Just the facts, ma’am. Although I painted the outcomes of the attempts on my life in dark smoke. Didn’t need her digging up those graves. She sat stone still, absorbing. The statements and questions came after I’d laid it out.

  “Case Officer Stinnett prevented a much greater tragedy. Solid clandestine work, the results of which are most evident.”

  “No argument here. He averted an even greater slaughter. Eliminated multiple jihadi terrorists in this part of the world. Which benefited us all. Including the Chinese and their canal. And, provided great cover if you can pull it off.”

  “It is hardly their canal.”

  “You and I both know they run the show. And have invested billions, to make trillions. And the Panama Canal remains a prime terrorist target. Stinnett has made the MSS very happy.”

  “How kind of you to lecture me on geopolitical happenings.”

  “It lines up, Director.”

  “You also base a portion of your assertion on a young foreign prostitute’s cinema descriptive.”

  “Your boy is a dead ringer for Mr. Cruise.”

  “And a common thread among several attempts on your life, and that of Mr. Pettis, is your Trinidadian. A Mr. Tig Roberts.”

  The skepticism was expected and warranted. I’d made the gravest accusation in the clandestine world.

  “Forget threads. Think land mass. Costa Rica.”

  “And how did you conclude the sponsor issue? China’s MSS?”

  Well, Marilyn, it was Jules. You know. Jules of the Clubhouse.

  “I connected dots. You don’t find it curious Stinnett pushed Pettis to have me in St. Thomas?”