by Rob Buckman
In a quiet corner of the tenth floor, another machine began beeping, drawing the attention of the night supervisor. Seeing the 'Eye only' tag she nodding to herself and called the deputy director of section ten, Richard Faraday. Then, according to instructions on file, the chain was complete, and she could clear it from her board. She breathed a sigh of relief knowing a hot one when she saw it, having been around the agency long enough. There were some files you could take a look at and get away with. Other you might be curious about, but people who got curious about section ten files has a nasty habit of suddenly disappearing. Clearing the board, she erased the hard disk recording of the call, shrugging her shoulders. Hers not to reason why, and all that. Just do as you're told and follow orders. That way you got to retire on a full pension. There was nothing impressive about Section Ten if you happened to walk in. Tucked away in a quiet corner as it was, few people knew it was there. From the outside there was little to see, no signs on the door, no 'Keep out', or 'Authorized Personnel Only', just the ubiquitous combination locks on the doors. Inside were a few secretaries at desks, and some maps on the wall, all very normal for Langley. The filing cabinet had combination locks the same as any other offices in the building. The most predominate sound in the room was the clack of computer keys as the staff entered data. Richard Faraday yawned, punching up the file on his board. It had been a late night, what with the dinner and dance. Then getting called back to work, he still felt the effects of one too many glasses of wine. It took him a moment before the code registered, blinking himself awake to check it again. After that, he called his boss.
"I'm sorry to disturb you this late, sir, but an alarm has been triggered on a Michael Grainger." In passing, he noted that the activity date was a little before his time. The line sounded dead for a moment, until he heard the sigh.
"I thought we'd put that to bed years ago." MacFarland, the Section chief muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Please bring the following file to my office in an hour. I should be there by then." He ran off a string of numbers and a location code and hung up.
"Now what's that all about?" The Deputy Chief said to no one in particular, completely baffled. He tried punching up the file on the computer, but to his surprise found that it didn't exist.
"That's crazy. Everything's in the computer." Something unusual was going on, something he'd never run into before. An hour later, he knocked on the Section Chief's door, hearing the call to come in. Entering, he closed it behind him and sat down, placing a thick file on his lap.
Unlike most offices at Langley, this one was wood paneled in dark oak. It said in no uncertain terms this man had been here a long time. Some said that MacFarland had been here since Jesus Christ was a carpenter, or so the joke went. The office did speak of his power. Unlike most offices here, it was furnished with comfortable leather chairs and sofa, unlike the high tech modern furniture other department heads preferred. Having had to sleep on the sofa on more than one occasion MacFarland could attest to how comfortable it was. At the moment, the office was in semi darkness. Illuminated by a reading lamp over his chair and the light on MacFarland’s desk. The file in his lap puzzled him. Before he could even get it, he had to wake up and call in two people to open the safe. That was another surprise, as he didn't know it even existed. It took three different combinations to open, plus three different keys to open the inner door. By this time, his imagination was running wild, trying to fathom the reason for the unusual precautions. What was in this file that would place it outside normal Langley channels or procedures?
"Did you read it?" His boss said from the darkness on the other side of the desk.
"No, sir, it’s 'EYES ONLY', and 'NEED TO KNOW'. I was waiting for your clearance before doing so." That was one rule he didn't dare break, no matter how ambitious he was.
"Smart man. This is one you don't really want to know about. But I'm sorry to say you'll have to." MacFarland moved his chair forward, into the light. He took out a pouch, starting the long laborious process of preparing his pipe. "First fill me in on what's happening with Mike Grainger."
"We're not sure Sir; it's out of our jurisdiction, act of congress and all that bullshit. No operations inside the United States, so what we do have is taken from the FBI's files." It was engrossing to watch MacFarland preparing his pipe before smoking it.
"I know all that. You don't have to give me a bloody history lesson. Get on with it." The old man smiled to take the bite out of his words, but it was still a sore point even now. No one likes to get ‘caught in the act’ as the CIA acronym implied.
"Yes, sir." His deputy said, returning the smile. "The report indicates that Mr. Grainger has run afoul of the local law. The Sheriff asked the FBI for a report on him. Which they sent. The second request came from the FBI office in Denver, asking for the same file."
"Is there any connection between these two requests?" MacFarland asked, sounding puzzled.
"No, sir. None that we are aware of at this time."
"Odd! What would the FBI want with Mike's file?" He mused, as he carefully shaped the heel at the bottom of the pipe bowl.
"We are checking on that as we speak Sir."
"I should bloody well hope so." The old man snorted. "Anything else to indicate what the hell is going on?" Opening his tobacco pouch, he began carefully filling the pipe, packing the savory mixture into the bowl.
"Not right now, but we are still investigating."
"Good. Maybe I can sleep tonight after all." A minute went by as he completed the process of filled his pipe. "I have to report this. Which means I will be back in an hour." He said, standing up. "That should give you enough time to read the file." Picking up his pipe, cleaning tool, and tobacco pouch, he placed them in his pocket, knowing his nightly pipe would have to wait. "We'll talk about it when I return, if you’re still here." He added cryptically.
"Yes, sir" Richard responded, puzzled by the remark. It was somewhat unusual, but it also indicated a measure of trust.
"Have fun," he said, walking past on his way to the door, "which I doubt you will." With that enigmatic remark he left.
The Deputy Chief lit a cigarette and settled back, contemplating the folder before him, wondering if it might contain secrets that would help him in his rise to the top. He had taken this post as a means to an end, seeing it as a quick way up the ladder. At the time, he had had little or no knowledge of what this department did. Knowledgeable people told him that Section Ten was a short cut to the top, if he survived that is. Richard Faraday was ambitious, imagining himself head of the CIA in a few years. This poky little section nothing more than a stepping stone on his way up. At face value, it did internal accounting, and evaluation of terrorist connections around the world, tracked money and arms from country to country, continent to continent and wherever possible making them disappear, or having the transport meet with an unfortunate accident. Navigational computers and satellites can be fickle at times. Dirty money in bank accounts would vanish as if it had never existed, or could turn up in odd places, like the International Red Cross, or foreign treasury accounts. Few if any inside or outside the intelligence field knew of the existence, or purpose of 'Section Ten'. That was just the way the director MacFarland, liked it. As one of the most secret divisions within the CIA, he didn't want people poking their noses into his business. The activities of this section were outside the jurisdiction of the CIA director. Answerable to one person, the President of the United States. Many years before it had been conceived as a counter force against international terrorism. Its mandate from the President was to destroy and disrupt terrorist operations anywhere in the World. Its primary goal was to find and eliminate terrorists by any method possible, no matter where they were found, or who they may be funded by. This was to be done without consideration of any international law, boundaries, or the rules of war. Its second objective was to find those who aided terrorist groups, either directly or indirectly and put them out of business. However, times and Presiden
ts changed, and with it 'Section Ten'.
At last, he started to read the file on Michael Grainger, a feeling of anticipation making him tingle. First came the usual dull, routine information—personal profile, employment record, awards, medical, pay—but the further he read the more agitated he became. A quiet "Good God" Issued from his lips from time to time and his hands began to shake. By the time the Director returned there was a visible sheen of sweat on his forehead. There had been no trust involved in the Chief letting him read it. Having done so he had signed his own death warrant if he should ever mention it outside the Section. His hands still shook slightly as he handed the file to the Director, which didn't go un-noticed.
"I see you enjoyed reading it as much as I did creating it." His laugh held little humor. The file was a bombshell just waiting to go off. In his hands, he held a file containing politically sanctioned murders spanning the globe.
Businessmen, world leader, religious fanatics, drug kingpins, and mafia bosses could all be found in the file. That the assassinations had all been done by one man, working mostly on his own only made it more astonishing. That man was named 'Sunray Five', Michael Grainger, better known by the code name of 'Comanchero'. In an unbroken string, he had killed his way around the world, never missing. It was enough to blow the lid off three Presidential administrations, and ruin the political career of a dozen men should it ever see the light of day.
"Well. What do you think?" The old man asked, settling down and pulling out his pipe again.
"Good God, if this file ever got out, heads would be rolling all over Washington."
"You've got that right. I just hope no one down there is silly enough to piss him off." The deputy Director shook his head.
"I don't understand?"
The Director looked at the young man, taking time to light his pipe, eyeing him through the cloud of blue smoke. "The final entry in the file has the note, 'Voluntary discharge'. Do you know what the means?" He asked. The flame from the match burning downwards as he sucked the fragrant smoke into his lungs.
"Yes, sir, I do." The young man answered.
"No you don't. It's a polite way of saying he told us to go pound sand in our singular, and collective asses." The old man chuckled.
"That's not unusual." The deputy director said with a frown.
"True. We have had a few people quit in the past, but few if any had the information this man has. Nor the possible impact should he ever feel we were out to get him."
"We have had that happen and the agency found ways to ensure the situation was neutralized. Have we not?"
"That's true, very true. But if we tried, and failed?" He let the question hang in the air.
"I'm not sure I get your drift sir." The deputy’s forehead knitted in a frown of puzzlement.
The old man gave him a bleak smile. "Then you should. Because if our man missed ..."
"What do you mean ...?" Still not understanding the drift of the old man's remark.
"Just this," he said, a note of exasperation in his voice, "if I sanctioned a hit, and it failed. We'd have to put a twenty-four hour guard on every top official in the company."
"Good God!" Then he understood, or thought he did.
"Now you're getting the point, and it wouldn't be enough. He'd find a way to get all of us, and make a clean sweep of it."
"That's crazy! No man is that good."
"Tell that to General Dong Hu. He thought himself safe in Hanoi, surrounded by two hundred crack troops, ten feet underground in a concrete bunker. He had an electronic security screen that a fly couldn't get through." He almost snarled as he added. "That system could pick up a flee fart at a hundred yards. I know. We built the damned thing. Nevertheless, he still got him! Don't ask." he said holding his hand up. "He never told us." Relighting his pipe, he settled back before continuing.
"The possibility I'm worried about is, that if he should think that we have anything to do with what is going on down there—I mean anything at all—we had all better start looking for a deep hole to hide in!"
"He couldn't get away with it!" For a moment, the deputy director looked around the office, reassuring himself where he was. Finally, his eyes came back to the director, seeing the bleak smile on his face. "We're the CIA for Christ sake!" A note of exasperation in his voice. "How long could he run around before we, the FBI, or the police nail him?" The director raised one eyebrow, a look of scorn passing across his craggy features.
"You think that will stop him?" He asked in a mild voice. "If so, you'd better read that file again." There was no mistaking the deadly note in his voice.
"File?" He asked, puzzled. What had he missed?
"I can see you skipped the interesting stuff."
"What would that be, sir?"
"Mike was born and raised in England, his mother was English, Lady something or other, his father full bloodied Chiricahua Apache. Both died in a car crash just before his fifteenth birthday. As a result, Mike went to live with his grandfather." MacFarland contemplated the bowl of his pipe for a moment gathering his thoughts.
"From what we could find out, none of his mother’s family wanted anything to do with him, having objected to the marriage in the first place. The solution was to pack him off to his grandfather at the San Carlos reservation, out of sight, out of mind so to speak."
"Poor kid."
"You can say that again." MacFarland puffed his pipe back into life. "You can imagine the reception he received, being a half breed."
"I can imagine." The Deputy Director shook his head. "Not something I'd like to go through."
"His grandfather was the secret to all this. He's a Medal of Honor winner, twice; once in WW.II, and again in Korea. That’s how he got Mike into West Point."
"So what did his grandfather do?"
"That we don't know. It’s impossible to get any information on him between the time he arrived at San Carlos, and the time he entered West Point."
"Did any one ask him?"
"Yes, on more than one occasion. All he would say is that he grew up, nothing more."
"Is there any way we can neutralize him?"
"On what grounds, I have no justification for 'neutralizing him' as you put it."
"Since when have we ever needed justification? Besides, it might be the simplest way to solve the problem."
"You mean kill him!" The Director said. He didn't like beating around the bush when it came to that word. He hated euphemisms when it came to the word kill.
"Err ... yes, sir." He said at last, uncomfortable with the Directors blunt way of putting it.
"That's a possibility, but it would be damn difficult. You've seen the man’s history. Who would you send!?"
"I have no idea at this point, but I'm sure we could find someone that's good."
"That good, is not good enough. I've checked the entire file for anyone who even comes close, including recruits. As yet, I've not seen anyone with similar qualifications. But that's not the point."
"Then what is, sir."
"The one question that was never in doubt was Mike's loyalty."
"You feel that's important, sir?"
"I do. No matter how he felt. Nor for that matter how we felt about him walking out. No one could point a finger and say the man was a security risk. The Director sighed. "I hope he doesn't get the idea that we're involved. I feel sorry for whoever is causing problems. If he's pushed. He'll push back, hard!"
"I see!" The Deputy muttered.
"You'd better. Mike Grainger doesn't think like you and me. If someone tries to kill him, he simply takes the only logical course of action. Kill them first and damn the consequences. We could have a full-scale war going and have to take body bags down there by the truckload.
"I am beginning to suspect that you admire the man." The Director laughed hearing that, this time with real humor in it.
"You've got that right, I do. He's the last of an original breed. His own man, wanting nothing, asking nothing from anyone. Except to
be left alone in peace. I respect that, and to tell you the truth, fear it."
"He's only mortal, sir."
"Is he? He doesn't give a damn about life, his included and it's not something I understand. I'd always thought that all men want to live. Even the worst killer on earth, but not this man."
"He have a death wish?"
"No, or so the trick cyclist tells me with all the psycho-babble psychiatrist like to mutter on about. It's something to do with his upbringing, the way he looks at life. He just doesn't care one way or the other, and that’s what makes him so damn good. He's death incarnate."
"Then I pity any poor son of a bitch that gets in his way." The deputy director said at length.
”You've got that right. Why do you think we've had hands off policy for so long? I could send a hundred men up there to get him, one of them would. But the price would be too high. If anybody goes up there and disturbs him, I can only say 'May the devil have mercy on their souls', because as sure as God made little green apples, Mike Grainger won't." MacFarland looked pensively into his pipe bowl as if trying to divine the future in the glowing embers. “Better get some people down there to observe and report back.”
“Right on it, sir.”
* * * * * *
Although late in the season for summer visitor, a large camper and a fifth-wheel pulled into Peregrine Creek from two different direction, each parking at a different camp ground, their arrive going un-noticed, and un-commented on amid the general traffic going in and out of the town. The Camper driven by an older couple who claimed to be up there bird watching, again nothing out of the ordinary. The Fifth-wheel was driven by a young couple who claimed to be here for the rock climbing and photography, and it wasn’t long before both couples blended in with the local scenery and were forgotten. An interested observer might have noticed in passing that neither couple engaged in the activities they claimed they were here for, but appeared more interested in the coming and goings of the people around town.
