Clean Cut Kid (A Logan Connor Thriller Book 1)

by Micheal Maxwell

  “Today we are giving scores for the first and most basic part of your training with us. Neutralizing Engagement and Physical Training are determining factors in who will continue on the field agent side of the house, and who, because of their other skill sets, will remain in the intelligence gathering, evaluation, and analysis areas.

  “This process in no way reflects on the worth, character, or opportunities that lie ahead for those who don’t make the cut here.”

  “You’ll have plenty of time to wash out over there as well,” Beta, the larger of the two men quipped. His comment broke the tension and was met with nervous laughter from the group.

  Alpha, the senior partner, shook his head and continued. “When I call your name please come forward. We will have a few comments on your scores and will give you the name of your Pod Leader for the next phase of your training. Any questions?”

  The six men and two women along the wall shared sideward glances. No one responded.

  “Good. McBride.”

  A young man with a shaved head stood and made his way to the center of the room. As he stood the rest of the group joined him.

  McBride took a seat and there were muffled words exchanged. “I understand” was all Logan could hear. McBride was going to Intelligence.

  Along with McBride; Juarez, Shettleford one of the women, Mace, Nguyen, and Leif were washed out. Putting a nice spin on their worth and skillsets did nothing to soften the level of disappointment on their collective faces.

  “Connor.”

  Logan walked forward from his spot behind Alpha and Beta. Ashley Cummings, the remaining woman, and Tyrone Wiley an athletic black man and Logan’s closest rival stared at him from their spot on the wall. He took a seat. He noticed immediately his folder was red, the only red one he saw. Of the two remaining, one was blue, the other green. He wondered for a moment what, if anything, the colors meant.

  “Mr. Connor,” Alpha began. “You’ve been standing behind us. Why is that?”

  “To keep an eye on things I suppose,” Logan said looking them both in the eye.

  “And what did you see where you were?” Beta asked.

  “You washed out six. You have two more candidates behind me staring daggers into my back. They will go through too.”

  “And you?” Alpha asked.

  “My folder is the only red one. That sets me apart. Probably not a good thing.”

  “Probably not a good thing,” Alpha repeated. “Here is the thing. Your scores are near perfect.” Alpha stared at Logan for a long moment. “You have taken every instruction we have given and internalized it and used it on your classmates with unbridled ferocity. Why is that, Mr. Logan?”

  “To show my worth, sir.”

  “By crippling your fellow recruits?”

  Logan pulled up his t-shirt.” His ribs and stomach were a mix of hues from deep purple to army green. “I took my share. Cheap shots mostly.”

  “My god, Logan have you seen the medic?” Beta’s tone gave away his shock.

  “Time will take care of this. Not a doctor.”

  “To be frank, Mr. Connor, we don’t know quite what to make of you. One-on-one you’re a nice guy. We have observed you in the mess hall. You are kind and polite to the wait staff and kitchen personnel alike. To the others they are invisible. You bus your own dishes, the others, except for a couple, leave them. You show us respect and pay attention to every detail and replicate it.”

  “You’ve lost me, sir. Is there a problem?” Logan was truly confused by the direction of the conversation.

  “Problem isn’t the right word. Outwardly, you are a clean-cut, all-American kid. Inwardly, you show a killer’s instinct for survival and self-preservation. Don’t you realize the people in this room all want to be on the same team?”

  “I do. My life may depend on it.”

  “Therefore?”

  “Therefore, sir, they need to meet the same standard I set for myself.”

  “I see.” Alpha turned to Beta with a look that said, your turn.

  “Here’s the thing, son. You are too good to not be an agent. But, and it is a big one, you are, how can I put it, you’re fearless. That is the problem.”

  “I don’t get it. I’m not afraid and that’s a problem? Am I supposed to be afraid? You washed out some of the wrong people then. They smelled of fear.”

  “Being afraid is not a problem. Knowing when to be afraid is,” Beta said.

  Logan stood. “I want to thank you for this opportunity.”

  “Where the hell are you going?” Alpha demanded.

  “I didn’t make it, right?” Logan said completely lost in the explanations he was being given.

  “Sit down. You’re not washed out, or anything else. What we are trying to tell you is that you are going on to a different level of training. This isn’t our call; it is Commander Crow’s. We present our scores and analysis. They make the decisions upstairs. He’s on assignment, so we are left with the task of explaining all this to you. The others are standard recruits. You, Logan, are tagged for other things. Congratulations. Now get out of here.” Alpha stood, removed an envelope from the red folder, and extended it to Logan. They shook hands. Logan stood and shook hands with Beta. He returned to his barracks with an envelope marked J. Connor, Level Red.

  * * *

  One year, six months, and three days later Logan’s formal training ended. He received good marks in all his reviews. He excelled in weapons and hand to hand combat. His instructors were less than enthusiastic at times with his street brawler instincts but they couldn’t argue the results. Logan once again took on all comers and dispatched them without second thoughts about their chosen career, safety, or status.

  More importantly, however, Logan was a skilled analyst. He seemed born to solve the puzzles of the cat and mouse game that was the Agency. Data from the field passed over his desk, his ability to see “the bigger picture” was noticed by his superiors. He played with information like a chess game. The pawns were easily identified, as were the knights. The real secret to his success was visualizing, each player, each piece on the board, their location, and what their pattern of moves showed in the analysis for their next move. The rooks and bishops of the game moved with definiteness of purpose, their movements were infrequent and set the momentum of actions, operations, and assassinations to come. Logan’s detached observances provided insights that other analysts in his department missed, or worse, simply didn’t see.

  He read and spoke both passable Arabic and French with little or no accent. Arabic was something of a mystery to him, and he struggled to process his thoughts quickly enough to suit his instructor. She was the only one to give him a “needs improvement” on his review. Her take on his shortcomings was his fear of being in a situation where his linguistic ability could mean the difference between surviving or being killed, worse yet tortured.

  Part of Logan’s psych profile revealed an aversion to pain; not as much as his fear of death, or bad enough to wash him out, but enough to make his instructors aware of it. His weapons and martial arts instructors saw it as an inner desire to kill rather than be killed. Disable, destroy, impair, or maim an opponent first, rather than have them inflict any form of punishment. In those instances, it served him well. On occasion though, when matched with a superior opponent, he found his fight or flight response drove him to attack without restraint, twice injuring his opponent. At these times the icy coldness of his focus concerned his instructors. Nothing was said or reported because down deep they wished every recruit showed the same total lack of emotional attachment.

  He saw Titus Crow less and less frequently. He would drop by with the excuse he was on assignment. Logan depended on his mentor less and less over time. Today, there was a strained aloofness to the surprise visit. Their casual manner and good-natured banter were uneasy and the protocol of rank seemed to have all but erased the familiarity of their relationship.

  “So how goes the training?” Titus began.

/>   “Good. Being able to use the classroom stuff in actual evaluation of field reports give it urgency, importance, you might even say it gives meaning to it all.”

  “The head of your Pod gives you high marks. That’s good.”

  “I enjoy the challenge.” Logan knew there was something unpleasant coming.

  “So, what’s up with the Arabic?”

  There it was. Logan knew, “it’s not my thing” would never fly. This was serious. Titus was getting further and further out of the frame. His words, his recommendation, or not, could put a torch to the last two years. No questions, no appeal, no argument. What was he to say about his difficulty with a foreign tongue?

  “I struggle with it.”

  “Why?” Titus’ tone was as cold and steely as a knife blade.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do. Answer.”

  “Fear,” Logan said looking away for the briefest of moments.

  “That wasn’t so hard was it?” Titus gave Logan a faint smile. “What are you afraid of?

  “Failing.”

  “Liar,” Titus snapped.

  “What is it you want?” Logan fired back.

  “The truth. What are you afraid of?”

  “Getting killed,” Logan said fiercely. “If I can’t learn it, it could kill me.”

  “There. You see, you’re not a coward.” Titus leaned back and looked at his protégé. He reached in his breast pocket and took out a sheet of paper. “If you’re afraid of water, we throw you in the ocean. Afraid of heights, you’re taken to the top of a mountain and it is up to you to get down. Going down is worse than going up. Did you know that?”

  “So, what are you going to do, put me in a coma?” Logan saw the relaxed wit of his old friend again.

  “Close.” Titus pushed the paper across the table.

  “What’s this?”

  “Your first assignment.”

  “Are you serious? In the field?” Logan couldn’t hide his excitement.

  “For someone afraid of getting killed you certainly show it in a strange way.”

  “Am I ready? I mean, I think I am, but do I qualify?” Logan regained his slightly desperate tone.

  “You won’t be alone. You will travel in a group. You will observe, make mental notes, analyze meetings, people, and their body language. Just like you do now, the difference being you will work from reality instead of a report. Will that be a problem?”

  “No, absolutely not. That is my thing, my niche, my gift to put it in your terms.”

  “You always have a way of throwing anything I say back at me sooner or later.” Titus wasn’t sure if Logan was mocking him or not.

  “I didn’t mean any disrespect. You have told me a hundred times some of what we do is our nature, our gift. Mine is reading people.”

  “I’ll be damned, you have been paying attention,” Titus said somewhat relieved.

  “More than you’ll ever realize, I think.” For the first time, Logan noticed the graying of Titus’ temples. Logan put his hand on the paper and paused as if waiting for permission. He glanced at Titus. He gave Logan a nod of his head, encouraging him to continue.

  “North Korea?” Logan said in disbelief. “I don’t understand.”

  “You will accompany a French delegation. If you want to throw another Crowism at me, ‘Always play to your strengths and the enemy’s weakness’. Asians struggled with western linguistic sounds. French being what it is, is a difficult language for them. Koreans rather than lose face, refuse to speak another language. The French being who they are, refuse to use someone else’s interpreter.”

  “You have the makings of a top-flight analyst.” Titus smiled with self-congratulations. “Your documents, travel plans, introductions, and a formal letter of thanks for the French government will be provided in the next couple of days.” Titus took a deep breath. “There is one person on the team who will know who you are. I don’t have to tell you what will happen should you be found out. As you have been told from the beginning, we don’t know you, never heard of you, and totally disavow any knowledge of America’s involvement in joint operations with a foreign government. That is if they can find us.” Titus smiled.

  “Sounds ominous.” Logan grinned self-consciously.

  “Whatever you bring back is secondary to how you perform. Consider this a final exam and dress rehearsal rolled up in one.”

  “I only need to know one thing,” Logan said softly.

  “What’s that?”

  “Do you think I’m ready? I mean really cut out for this job?”

  “If I didn’t, you would have disappeared a long time ago.”

  There was an ominous ring to the word disappear. The laissez-faire manner of Titus’ response sent a chill through Logan. It was an ever so subtle sign they were no longer friends.

  A leather messenger bag sat on Logan’s desk when he returned from lunch. He glanced around the room to see if anyone was waiting for a response to the satchel. No one looked up or paid him any mind.

  He opened the bag and inside was a plastic bag, a folder, three envelopes, and a short letter that in part read, “New quarters upon your return, keys enclosed… assignment and necessary papers envelope A, travel documents, and temporary identity, envelope B…. all papers to be destroyed before arrival in France.

  When he arrived from work five days later, there was a black travel bag on his bed. Next to it lay a matching garment bag. Inside were two suits, and an overcoat. Logan took out of one of the jackets and slipped it on. A perfect fit. He excitedly tried on the pants, they fit just a well. Inside the bag were a selection of dress shirts, three ties, underwear, socks, and a pullover sweater. A size twelve pair of black oxfords completed the wardrobe.

  A note attached to the garment bag said he should dress in jeans and the University of Winnipeg sweatshirt hanging in his closet, and his tennis shoes. He picked up the bag and under it was a manila envelope. Inside he found two thousand Euros, five hundred in hundreds, and twenty Euros in worn bills. In a rubber band were one thousand dollars, eight hundreds, and ten twenties.

  Using a set of false documents Logan would travel to France through Spain with a Canadian passport. He memorized every word on every sheet of paper. He continued to work at his assigned position. Per his instructions, he didn’t mention his upcoming assignment. The idea of travel was foreign to Logan. He only traveled abroad in his fantasy of backpacking through Europe. He only left his home state twice, once for college, and once to join the Agency.

  Logan found it difficult to sleep the night before his trip. He tossed and turned with airport flight signs churning in his head. He dreamed of going blank and forgetting how to speak French. He was about to put everything he learned in the last two years to work. He wished he studied harder. What did he know of France? How could he pass for French? At five o’clock he gave up on sleep and went to the commissary for coffee and an apple Danish.

  Out on the street for the first time since arriving, Logan flagged a taxi. He clumsily tried to help put his luggage in the trunk. The driver smiled and took them from him.

  “Airport, international departures.” Taxis were another new experience for Logan. He tried to sound like he had been taking them his whole life. All the same, he felt ill at ease.

  “Be there in a jiffy,” the dark-skinned bearded man said cheerfully.

  Logan held the bag on his lap and looked out the window. The streets and buildings were unfamiliar to him. He was confined to the compound outside the city for the first six months of his training. Since moving into the city, the headquarters building was home. His apartment was on the eighteenth floor and he worked on the sixth. Occasionally, he would go up to the roof to get some fresh air or take in the view of the city.

  His meals and personal needs were met by his account in the commissary and the retail exchange on the eighth floor. Meals were provided at no cost and his clothing, toiletries, even casual clothing like t-shirts, sweatshirts, and jeans were
available at no cost to Logan. The atmosphere where he worked had dress-down Friday seven days a week.

  The complex was like a small town in one building. No one ever mentioned subways, buses, or the daily commute. The impression of the organization was it was a world unto itself. Logan’s inquiries as to the number of people living in the building were met with blank stares and closed mouths. The same went for his questions about what was on the other floors. The old “if I told you I’d have to kill you” joke didn’t appear either funny or a joke. After the first few days, he made no more inquiries. He was generally discouraged from leaving the building. What was posed as a suggestion Logan interpreted as an order, and it suited him just fine.

  A jet passed overhead and the sight of dozens of parked aircraft gave Logan the realization he would soon be on his own. The taxi pulled up in front of the United Airlines boarding terminal.

  “Here we are Mr. Logan,” the driver said with a friendly smile.

  It took a moment for Logan to realize he didn’t give the driver his name. “What do I owe you?”

  “New to the Agency?” The driver chuckled. “I’m Mohammad. I’ll be your driver in the city. I will be here when you return.”

  Leather satchel tightly in hand, Logan stepped from the cab and onto the curb.

  Mohammad gave his two bags to the Skycap. “Flight 413 to Barcelona.” Turning to Logan he said, “Tickets please.”

  “Here you are.” Logan retrieved the tickets from his bag.

  Mohammad gave the Skycap some unheard instructions and turned back to Logan. “I hope you have a good trip. Don’t take any wooden nickels!” He laughed merrily, handed Logan his boarding pass, and got back in his cab.

  As he watched the cab pull away, he thought of the day he left for college and the way his parents stood at the end of the drive-way watching him go. Now he understood. Everything he knew was about to be left behind. He would go to a city on the other side of the world, speak a different language, and travel to observe another group of people he couldn’t understand.