by Kenneth Eade
Disappear. Not only good – necessary.
***
The staff at the NCTC were running around the high-tech center like molecules bouncing into one another, compiling data, making reports. Nathan Anderson’s office was abuzz with activity, the boss scanning reports of alleged terrorists and barking out orders. With information came power, and his agency had compiled the largest database of potential terrorists in the world. Since he was the head of the agency, he felt that power, but also its responsibility. His pet project, the Paladine Program, was supposed to be the agency’s poster boy. How to eliminate terrorism by striking out at the most notorious terrorists in the world. But he had become skeptical lately, wary of Ted Barnard at the CIA. He hadn’t heard a word from Ted in days. And he hadn’t heard much about PAL since his recovery after the Galeries Lafayette attacks. Out of frustration, he dialed Ted’s number.
“Ted, Nathan Anderson.”
“Oh, hello Nathan, how are you?”
“Everything’s good, Ted, but I have to say I’m a little perturbed at not hearing from you.”
“About what?”
“I expected to receive a report on PAL by now. Have you given him a new assignment?”
There was a pause on the phone. Barnard cleared his throat. “The PAL program has been suspended, Nathan.”
“What? Why was it suspended? On whose authority?”
“It came from high up. All the way up.”
“Why did nobody inform me?”
“Actually, you were my next phone call. You saved me the trouble.”
Anderson’s knuckles whitened as he clutched the phone, clenching his teeth. All the work, all the politicking, and now – nothing.
“Well, I think we should have a meeting about this to discuss it.”
“Sorry, Nathan, but it’s already done. The president likes his drone program. PAL is ancient history. The way of the past.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The old man handed Robert a brown envelope. “Here are your documents, malaka. Everything official.”
Robert took the envelope from Dimitri with his left hand and shook with his right. “Thank you, Dimitri.”
“No need to thank me. This is what friends are for.”
Robert bit his cheek. He was convinced he could never have a friend. He was not a good man. He knew he was one of the bad guys. Guys like Robert didn’t have friends. All he had was the code. The code was king. His life meant nothing without it. But he appreciated the old man’s help.
“I’ve got just one more favor to ask, but it may be kind of difficult.”
“Ask, malaka. If it’s too difficult, I will just refuse. My life is very simple, you know.”
“I know.”
***
Lyosha woke up in a dirty, dingy Syrian hospital. His head was pounding and the TV was blaring out some local program overhead. He called for help and a middle-aged Arab nurse walked in.
“Yes, sir?”
“I need to get out of here. Where are my clothes?”
She picked up his chart at the end of the bed and looked at it. “I’ll have to call your doctor, sir.”
“Forget about that. Just give me my clothes.” He winced from the pain in his jaw when he spoke.
“You’ll have to discuss it with your doctor.”
“Could you at least turn off TV?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And get me something for this headache.”
“With a head trauma, it’s important to evaluate your pain, sir. It helps us know what’s going on.”
Lyosha clenched his left fist and put it against his head. “What’s going on is I have a fucking headache, now please get me those pills.”
“Yes, sir.”
She abruptly left and came back shortly after with some pills for Lyosha’s headache. She put them on his tray with a glass of water and slid the tray closer to him.
“Your doctor is coming now, sir.”
Lyosha took the pills and swallowed them. He gulped down the water like it was a shot of vodka. The glass felt funny in his lips, like after a trip to the dentist’s office. A tall, lanky doctor with short-cropped hair, dressed in a white robe, entered the room.
“Hello, sir, I am Doctor Aboud. How can I help you?”
“Like I told nurse, I don’t need help. I just want my clothes.”
The doctor picked up the chart and flipped through it.
“You’ve been through a serious head trauma, sir. I’m afraid we have to ask you to stay with us a few more days for observation.” He held a mirror to his face. “See?”
Lyosha looked in the mirror. His face had been battered, like a heavyweight boxer in a championship fight. It was bruised and bloody and there were bandages across the bridge of his nose. His lips were swollen, puffy and cracked. He swept away the mirror and gave the doctor a murderous glare. “I leave now. Get me my clothes, please.”
The doctor gulped. “I’ll tell the nurse to get your clothes for you right away, sir. But…”
“But what?”
“You’ll have to sign a paper that you’re leaving against my advice.”
“Give me paper, I sign.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Svetlana Ivanova’s doorbell rang and she ran to open it. When she did, all she could see was white chrysanthemums and red roses – dozens and dozens of them. They seemed to fill the entire doorway. She heard a young man’s voice behind them.
“Svetlana Ivanova?”
“Yes.”
“Delivery for you.”
“I see, please just give them to me.”
The man handed her the huge bouquet.
“Thank you.”
“There is more.”
“What?”
He handed her a clipboard with a pen attached to it. “Please sign here.”
She signed, he thanked her, and left. She closed the door, smiled and lifted the flowers to her face, breathing in their scent. She went to the kitchen to fix them and set them down on the counter. She opened the cabinet and pulled out the largest vase she could find, and opened the drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors. She looked through every stem, wondering if there was a card or something that would tell her who they were from. Lifting up the flowers, she saw a tiny card drop out onto the counter. She opened it. In Russian, was written: “Thinking of you, Bob.”
She smiled and held the flowers to her breast and she thought of Bob, wondered where he was and what he was doing, and that she would probably never see him again.
CHAPTER FIFTY
The little boats bobbed up and down, like apples in a carnival game, dancing together and rocking as the waves lapped the small harbor of the tiny Greek Island of Spetsas. Robert fired up the engine of the Lana, a small 10-meter boat, secured the cabin door and checked the rig lines, pulling them out of their cleats and off the winches. He casted off the moor lines and eased the Lana out of its space.
He cruised out past the harbor speed limit and into the open sea, pointed the boat in the direction of the wind, killed the motor and hoisted the mainsail. As it flapped in the wind, he raised the jib, which filled with air. The wind caught both sails and sent the boat flying across the water, leaning with speed. He held his hand on the wheel as he looked out to sea. It was a sunny day, but cold, and the misty sea breeze stung against his face as he wrapped his jacket closed. He could taste the salt in the breeze and licked his lips.
Destination? Anywhere.
Robert sailed. He sailed and sailed until he felt like he was one with the wind, completely free. When the wind finally died, he looked over the side into the crystal clear water. The sun illuminated the first few meters and then it turned a deep blue. He opened his tackle box, and sat down in his deck chair, fixing the line and baiting his hook. He cast his line out and leaned back in the chair. Time had ceased to exist. When the wind finally picked back up, Robert awoke from a “fishing snooze” and looked down at his bucket. It was full of fish. He was finally h
ome.
EPILOGUE
The old man slouched on the bench, dreaming peaceful dreams, mostly of beautiful girls. As he was kissing one, something cold, wet and slimy brushed against his chin, then he opened his eyes to a blinding light as the hat fell to the pier. A huge pink tongue was licking his face.
“What do you want, you ugly old dog?”
The dog sat down and hung his head, looking guilty.
“Are you hungry?”
He wagged his tail. The old man pulled a filet of angler fish from his icebox and threw in the air, and the dog caught it immediately and gulped it down like a seal.
“Bob was right about you. You’re a real pain in the ass.”
The dog just wagged its tail and panted, its long tongue dripping.
AFTERWORD
I began writing this novel during the most bizarre election campaign in history between two of the most unpopular candidates ever to win the nomination of a major political party in the United States. At first, I thought I could make a choice between the two; select the lesser of the two evils; but then the propaganda wheels for the military industrial complex started spinning stories about Russia preparing for nuclear war. It soon became clear to me that “We came, we saw, he died.”[1] Hilary Clinton’s Russia bashing was a prelude to the workup of a new cold war to justify billions in government contracts for arming Europe and possibly the Ukraine. This essay is not to be interpreted as slanted “liberal” or “conservative.” I am just noting what I observed.
After World War II, the United States economy had to shift from a wartime to peacetime economy. However, that left the defense industry, which had been the driving force behind the wartime economy, out to dry. They needed an enemy. Thus, the “cold war” was begun with the Communists as the enemy. Fast forward to the 21st Century. No more Soviet Union, no more Communist threat. Vacillating Donald Trump at first declared NATO obsolete, but then tried to tweet himself out of it.[2]
But Trump was not the first one to declare NATO obsolete. Putin himself declared in 2014 that NATO was part of the old “bloc” system and had outlived itself.[3] The real-life setting of this novel in civil war-torn Syria is a perfect example of how “Spy vs. Spy” can be a very dangerous game.
In 2016, the United States Treasury opened a terrorism finance inquiry into a large number of brand new Toyota trucks being used by ISIS. The U.S. State Department and the British government had both provided the “Free Syrian Army,” a loose group of rebels who had expressed a desire to topple the al-Assad government, with the trucks, which were now being used by Islamic terrorists.[4]
In 2016, in the northern province of Aleppo, different groups fighting the Syrian civil war are vying for the same territory, among them the Free Syrian Army, the U.S.-armed Kurdish YPG, and ISIS. Free Syrian Army officials have cited a “deepening divide” between themselves and the Kurds, with the Kurds stating they could probably eliminate the FSA in a war. Many other groups fighting in the area include the Martyrs of Syria Brigade, the Northern Storm Brigade, an Islamist FSA unit, the Islamic Front, which welcomes jihadist fighters, and the Syrian Islamic Liberation Front.[5]
U.S. Special Forces Officer Jack Murphy reported in September 2016 that the U.S. policy of aiding Syrian rebels had the Special Forces training and arming Syrian anti-ISIS forces, while the CIA was maintaining a parallel program to arm anti-Assad insurgents. Murphy reported that distinguishing between former al-Qaeda affiliate al-Nusra and the Free Syrian Army (supported by the CIA) was impossible, and that, as early as 2013, FSA commanders were defecting to al-Nusra, while still retaining the FSA moniker to maintain access to CIA-provided weaponry. He also reported among the rebels that U.S. Special Forces and Turkish Special Forces were training, at least 95% of them were either working in terrorist organizations or supporting them. This would lead credence to Russia’s contentions that the Syrian rebels are no more than terrorists themselves.[6]
Witnesses describe Syrian rebels in Aleppo, including the FSA, al-Nusra, Ahrar al-Sham and Nour el din Zinki, as terrorists themselves.[7] In July 2015, Syrian rebels blew up the western gate of the UNESCO protected heritage site, the Citadel of Aleppo with underground explosives.[8] The U.S.-backed rebels, who are now fighting the Russians in Syria, have blown up the Carlton Hotel and the Palace of Justice in the same manner. Aleppo itself is almost completely destroyed.[9]
So, it seems not only is the choice of who to support a mess, as it usually has been with interventions in Afghanistan and Iraq, but the United States and Russia are fighting a proxy war against each other. There are so many factions fighting for their own individual objectives in the Syrian civil war it is difficult to sort them all out. What is sure, however, is that Russians were the only ones invited by the legitimate Syrian government.
I don’t condone or support genocide or terrorism. However, I don’t think regime change is the proper paradigm to follow. Call Vladimir Putin a dictator if you may, but his idea of stabilizing the war and then calling for free, monitored elections seems saner to me than arming and training different factions of rebel groups and then having to fight the same groups you have armed with American lives.
One more thing…
I hope you have enjoyed this book and I am thankful you have spent the time to get to this point, which means you must have received something from reading it. I would be honored if you would post your thoughts, and also leave a review on Amazon. The easy way to do it is just flip through to the last page of this book on your Kindle and Amazon will give you an easy way to rate the book, give a review if you like, and share with your social networks. If that feature is not working on your device, just go to the landing page of the book and leave a review by clicking here. Please also feel free to share your thoughts about the book or any of my series by sending an email to: [email protected]. I love to hear from readers, whether it is bad or good.
Best regards,
Kenneth Eade
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OTHER BOOKS BY KENNETH EADE
Brent Marks Legal Thriller Series
A Patriot’s Act
Predatory Kill
HOA Wire
Unreasonable Force
Killer.com
Absolute Intolerance
The Spy Files
Decree of Finality
Beyond All Recognition
The Big Spill
And Justice?
Involuntary Spy Espionage Series
An Involuntary Spy
To Russia for Love
Stand Alone
Terror on Wall Street
Paladine Political Thriller Series
Paladine
Russian Holiday
Traffick Stop
AND THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES WITH BOOK 3
Sacrifice, charity, and concern for others has always been a characteristic of the human spirit. But there is that wild, hungry, thirsty, selfish creature that lurks deep within the libido of each of us. That id some of us ignore, others deny, and still others put a mask on it or lock it away so even they cannot release it. But when the balance is tipped to its side, it can break any bonds that have tied it down and escape and we are powerless to stop it. The result can be exhilarating, intoxicating, mind-blowing, or it can be deadly.
Robert Garcia had run away from himself, had tried to convince himself that his past was not a part of his present. “Normal” people work thirty years at a “regular job” and then they retire on a small pension and social security. Robert never had a job that could be called normal. Like his father, he had sought a career in the military and the pinnacle of his military career had been a position with the elite Special Forces of the Army – formerly known as the Green Berets. But it was covert operations where Robert’s intensive training and except
ional warfare skills were put to their highest and best use. Robert was a killer – a terminator, and his last assignment was one that had nearly marked the end of his life – a dangerous life to Robert and to anyone around him. But now, there was nobody around him. For Robert, that was the only way to survive.
He had finally found a way to retire from the life of an assassin in one of the oldest activities known to man – fishing. He’d saved up a nice chunk of money from lucrative assassination jobs and had bought himself a little sailboat. He had never been a philosopher, nor had he ever been a sportsman, but there was something about floating on a little boat in the middle of a nameless sea, casting out a line and kicking back that suspended all time and reality. This anonymous life he had chosen of living off the water, cruising the obscure Greek islands, and creating a home for himself as a hermit on the tiny island of Spetses took him away from a reality that would be far too horrid for any normal person to endure. The trouble with Robert was that this idyllic life of Homer was not his, and it didn’t take long for the beast that he had locked away to rattle his cage with frustration. It was tired of fishing and wanted to come out to play.
From his boat in the harbor he could see the horseshoe-shaped harbor of Porto Heli, a summer resort area packed with revelers and partiers, and more easily accessible to him than the party island of Mykonos. It was about a 30 minute cruise. His island was dark, quiet – like Robert was. The sidewalks rolled up at 10 p.m. Night life was practically non-existent. As he sat on the deck and looked out across the sea, he was drawn to the twinkling lights of Porto Heli like a fly to a porch light. The lapping of the water against the little boats as they bobbed up and down, that sound that used to soothe him to sleep so many nights in the cabin of the bow of his boat, the Lana, now grated on his nerves, like fingernails dragging against a chalkboard. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. He started the motor of the Lana, cast off the mooring lines, and, just like that fly, headed straight for the light.
