Noble Intent

by William Miller

  He shifted the hotrod into gear and swung out of the spot, headed west, following the signs for the Howard Franklin. The temperature this far south rarely dips below fifty degrees, even in February. Noble cranked the window down and enjoyed the feeling of the wind in his hair. The fresh scent of saltwater from the Bay filled his lungs. Fifty-two paychecks a year, he thought with a smile.

  Things were finally looking up. He put on some gas and made it across the bridge in record time, slowing down only when he got to Fourth Street and had to fight his way through Saint Pete traffic. He found a spot across from the assisted living facility, shifted into park and killed the engine.

  The double doors of the Wyndham Arms whooshed open with a gentle push of warm air. A solidly built woman behind a desk reminded Noble that lights out was in thirty minutes. He jotted his name in the registry and found Mary Elise Noble in the second-floor rec area. A group was gathered around a television watching the evening news at volumes that shook plaster from the ceiling. Noble wove his way through a roadblock of walkers and made the mistake of calling out, “Mom!”

  All of the ladies turned their heads. A few of them narrowed their eyes, trying to decide if he was that long-lost son finally come to visit. Only one of the women lit up with recognition. His mother smiled and levered herself off the sofa with some difficulty. She had thinning white hair and parchment skin, but her eyes had a spark that not even cancer could extinguish.

  Noble stepped carefully over the end of a cane and put one strong arm around her. She patted his back. A few wiry chin hairs scratched his neck.

  “How you feeling today, Ma?”

  “Every day with the Lord is a blessing,” she assured him.

  Noble was in such a good mood he let that one slide. He and mom had differing opinions on the nature of God. Mary Elise Noble was a firm believer, but Jake had seen too many good people killed and evil people walking free to subscribe to the notion of an all-loving creator. If God existed at all, Noble had a bone to pick. He said, “Let’s get away from the TV.”

  “I’ve been learning Karate,” his mother told him as he led her across the room. He was trying to get far enough from the television to actually hear.

  He raised his voice. “You’re taking karate lessons?”

  “Well, chair karate, actually. After that business at the bank, I thought I should learn to protect myself,” she said. “You can’t be too sure nowadays.”

  “I pity anyone who tries to take your poker money,” Noble said.

  She rewarded him an elbow to the ribs and asked, “What’s your good news?”

  “How do you know it’s good news?”

  They sat down at an empty table. Noble kept one hand on her elbow while she lowered herself into the seat.

  “I’m your mother,” she told him. “I always know.”

  He tried and failed to hide a grin. It broke through and turned into a full-on smile.

  “Must be very good,” she said. “I haven’t seen you smile like that in years.”

  “I got a job,” Noble told her.

  “Oh, Jake, that’s wonderful. See? God is good.”

  Instead of God had nothing to do with it, Jake said, “I’m going to be working for the Attorney General’s office. Fifty-two paychecks a year, plus benefits.”

  She reached over and patted his hand with fingers that felt like brittle paper. “I’ve been praying God would open a door for you.”

  To humor her, he said, “Well, He did.”

  Her intentions were good even if her method had all the finesse of a baseball bat to the side of the head. It had always been that way. Faith seemed to permeate every part of her life. Bible verses sprang from her lips like wildflowers along a highway. Noble had known guys in the service who could quote that dusty tome every bit as well as his mother. They had read it every day and carried it with them into battle. Noble could never get past all the thee’s and thou’s. His idea of good reading was a Mike Hammer novel. He took mom’s hand and gave it a squeeze, told her about the deputy District Attorney and the kind of work he would be doing. “Safe stuff,” Noble assured her. “No need to worry. And the best part is, I won’t need to travel so often.”

  A staff nurse came through, reminding residents that it was time for bed. She was tall with short cropped hair. A full sleeve tattoo peeked out from seafoam-green scrubs. She stopped by their table and put an arm around Mary Elise’s shoulders. “Hey there, Mary. Who’s your friend?”

  “Cathy, this is my son, Jake.”

  Cathy offered a hand and Noble shook it. She had a good strong grip. Lifting old people in and out of tubs all day long must build hand strength. Noble gave her a tight smile.

  “Mary is one of our favorite residents,” Cathy told him. “She’s a real spitfire.”

  “Try growing up with her,” Noble said.

  Mary Elise reached across and gave his cheek a playful pinch. Noble took it with a smile and winked.

  Cathy laughed. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  His mother said, “Jake just came by to tell me about his new job. Go on, Jake. Tell her.”

  Noble waved it away. “She’s not interested, Ma.”

  “Jake just got a job working for the District Attorney’s office.”

  So much for non-disclosure agreements.

  Cathy managed to look impressed. “Are you a lawyer?”

  “No,” he said. “A janitor.”

  Mary Elise flapped a hand at him. “Jake’s an investigator.”

  “Wow.” Cathy’s interest went from polite to intrigued. “Like Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Only without the heroin addiction,” Noble told her.

  “Well, congratulations on your new job. I just came by to remind Mary bedtime is in ten minutes and visiting hours are officially over, but I’ll give you two a few extra minutes. Okay?”

  “I’d better shuffle off,” Mom said. “I don’t want the warden locking me in solitary.”

  Cathy laughed and went to roust the rest of the old timers, but the room had mostly cleared out by now. Only the genuine night owls were still up at eight. Most of the patients put themselves to bed shortly after supper at four-thirty.

  Mary Elise turned to Jake and said, “She’s single you know. Just broke up with her boyfriend.”

  Noble groaned. “Not this.”

  “You’ve got a good job now. You’re young.”

  “Youngish,” Noble corrected.

  “Any girl would be lucky to have you.”

  “I’m not looking for a relationship.”

  That wasn’t exactly true, but Noble let the statement stand.

  “I worry about you, Jake. Living out there on that boat all by yourself. It’s not healthy. You need someone in your life.”

  For Mary Elise Noble, getting Jake hitched was second only to saving his soul. She wanted grandkids before she died and Jake couldn’t blame her for that, but he wasn’t exactly marriage material. He stood up, kissed her on the forehead and said, “I’m not alone. I’ve got you.”

  Before she could argue, he said, “I’d better scoot before Cathy throws me out.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Noble stopped through Publix on Fourth Street for rice, black beans, eggs, and coffee before heading to the marina. Home was a forty-foot wooden schooner christened the Yeoman. Noble had inherited the ship after his father passed away. When his career with the CIA went belly-up, Noble lost his apartment and moved onto the boat. It was that or sell her, and Noble would never willingly let go of the Yeoman. Strings of lights decorated the trees of Straub Park in downtown Saint Pete. The Saturday night crowd was out and Ocean Boulevard was alive with the sound of music and laughter.

  Noble swung into the lot, shifted into park, gathered his groceries and spotted Duc Hwang with his back to a palm tree. Duc had been a cold weather SEAL, specializing in arctic warfare before making the leap to Special Operations Group. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the chill. He spent plenty of time
at the weight rack and it showed. Cannon ball shoulders threatened to split the seams on his polo shirt and a wiry black beard stuck out from his chin like a steel bristle brush.

  If Duc were here to kill him, Noble never would have seen it coming. The big Korean had chosen a spot right out in the open, where Noble couldn’t miss him. That was a good sign. On the other hand, Duc might be the distraction. Noble ignored a tickle of fear, got out of the car and nodded.

  Duc nodded back. “Just here to talk, brother. No one wants a fight.”

  “Okay,” Noble said. “Let’s talk.”

  Duc thrust his chin at the Yeoman. “Inside.”

  They walked down the jetty, side by side. Noble had to shift the grocery bag to make room for Duc’s bulk. He said, “How you like this heat?”

  Duc snorted. “Man, if I wanted this kind of weather, I’d have stayed in Busan.”

  “See any action lately?” Noble asked.

  “Did a sneak-and-peek into Venezuela a while back.”

  “Yeah?” Noble said. “What’s it like down there?”

  “Whole damn country is collapsing under socialism.” Duc shook his head. “They haven’t even got toilet paper, forget about food. Imagine that. A whole country without toilet paper.”

  Noble gave a low whistle.

  Duke stopped at the Yeoman, crossed his arms over his chest and turned his attention to the park.

  Noble took that as his queue to board. There was a light chop on the bay and a cool wind blowing in from the Gulf. The polished wood deck rolled on the waves. Noble mounted the gangplank and the sweet odor of cigar smoke hit him as he ducked inside the cabin.

  “Hello, Mr. Noble.”

  A blonde was seated at the galley table, wearing a pinstriped suit with a knee-length skirt and her hair in a plastic clip. The skirt rode up, showing off a pair of toned thighs. She was over forty, under fifty, and took good care of herself, but crow’s feet betrayed her age. Noble recognized her right away. Her name was Jaqueline Armstrong. The newly elected president had recently appointed her head of CIA, making her the first female director in the history of the Company. She gazed out the port windows toward the parking lot. She had the kind of throaty tenor that came from years of smoke and bourbon. She said, “It’s a beautiful car.”

  “Thanks.” Noble set his groceries on the counter. “I picked her up at an estate sale.”

  “I heard about that sale. I think half the intelligence community heard about it.” Her lips turned up in a half smile and she said, “Do you know who I am, Mr. Noble?”

  “I watch the news.”

  She re-crossed her legs and took a thin cigar from her coat pocket. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Actually, I do.”

  Armstrong flicked a butane lighter and puffed, quietly establishing her place. She was Director of the CIA. He was a burned spy. A lazy cloud of blue smoke formed in front of her face. She waved it away.

  Noble put his eggs in the fridge, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned his hips against the counter. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Armstrong?”

  “Miss,” she corrected him. “Are you still connected with anyone in the intelligence community, Mr. Noble?”

  He shook his head. “Not really.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “Not really.”

  She grinned around the cigar. “Burke told me you didn’t go in for idle chit-chat.”

  Noble let the statement speak for itself.

  “You know who I am,” said Armstrong, “so you probably have a good idea why the president appointed me.”

  Noble had done his homework on Armstrong. Call it professional curiosity. He wanted to know who was minding the store, and what he found impressed him. Armstrong had graduated Brown, risen to the rank of Major in the United States Air Force, and made a name for herself in the Defense Industry Research Department before taking the job with the Company.

  Noble said, “Diversity in the workplace?”

  Armstrong didn’t rise to the bait. “He hired me to clean up shop. Put the Company back on the straight and narrow. The president needs to know who he can trust and right now there are factions inside the CIA actively working against him. Burke says you’re a good soldier and I believe him.”

  Noble waited her out. She wasn’t here to size him up. Newly appointed CIA directors had better things to do than go around interviewing former spies.

  She puffed on the cigar. The glowing end flared and dimmed. She fixed him with a steady gaze. “I’ve got a problem, Noble. I’ve got a dead Chief of Station and a field officer on the run. I need to know how it happened and why.”

  “Not sure how I can help you with that.” He started putting the groceries into the cupboards.

  “A team at Langley is working to track down the rogue officer,” Armstrong told him. “But I need answers and I’m afraid the officer will end up dead before I can get them. Your former co-workers can be incredibly clannish. They get a little testy when a team member starts murdering their own.”

  Noble finished putting away the groceries, wadded the sack and stuffed it in a garbage can under the galley sink. “I’m not interested, but thanks for stopping by.”

  “I’m offering an olive branch, Noble. Track down my rogue officer and there might be more work for you in the future. Play your cards right,” she shrugged. “Who knows?”

  A bitter smile turned up one side of Noble’s face. “You have to be kidding me. First you burn me. Then you abandon my friend in Mexico and send Gregory Hunt to kill me. Now you’re asking me for favors?”

  “I’m not here to dig up the past, Jake.” Armstrong puffed her cigar. “A CIA officer was shot dead on the streets of France and I want to know why. I need someone with the skills to operate under the radar. There’s no one in the Company I can trust, and Burke say you’re the best man for the job.”

  Noble crossed his arms over his chest. They had come to him for help, again, after hanging him out to dry. Two years ago, the CIA had come to him with their hand out and Noble took the job because mom had needed the money. That was then. He was done grasping at every dollar dangled in front of him like a dolphin jumping through hoops for fish. Forty-eight hours ago he probably would have said yes. Strike that, he definitely would have said yes. But starting Monday morning, he had a job and a steady pay check. A nice normal job. He’d put some money in savings, get an apartment. Who knows? Maybe he would surprise Mom and ask Cathy out on a date.

  He shook his head. “I’m finished working for the Company, Miss Armstrong. You burned me once and you’ll do it again next time you need a fall guy. I’ve got a job now. A real job. Steady paychecks. Health insurance. I’m sorry for your problems, but I have problems of my own.”

  Armstrong took a long drag, tipped her head back and shot smoke up to the ceiling where it gathered in a slowly eddying cloud. “Your mind’s made up?”

  Noble motioned to the galley door. “See yourself out.”

  Armstrong didn’t bother to get up. “What if I told you the rogue officer was Samantha Gunn?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  A cold weight dropped into his belly like a slab of ice calved by a glacier. Noble had recently lost a friend to Mexican drug dealers. He had killed the man responsible and left the cartel in tatters, but the wound was still raw. Torres had been sold out by a politician more interested in votes than national security and a careerist CIA officer riding her coattails. The thought of losing Sam made his chest tight.

  Armstrong said, “I understand you two have history.”

  Noble nodded slowly, went to the galley table and sat.

  “I only know what I read,” Armstrong was saying. “Seems she was instrumental in helping us expose that bit of business with Secretary Rhodes. Burke says she’s good people.”

  “The best,” Noble said. He felt disconnected from his body, as if this were happening to someone else and he was only a spectator. His brain raced to make since of what he was hearing.

&nb
sp; “Last night, she shot the Paris COS dead in the street and then disappeared.”

  The block of ice turned into a cold hand gripping Noble’s heart. He chewed the inside of his cheek and stared at coffee rings on the tabletop. He knew Sam and cold-blooded murder didn’t jibe. Hell, when he first met her, she had been running a shelter for abused women in the Philippines. She was a devout Christian who didn’t believe in sex before marriage. Murder? It didn’t make any sense.

  “How did that happen?” Noble asked.

  Armstrong leaned back. The leather creaked. She fixed him with a steely glance. “In or out, Noble?”

  When he didn’t answer, Armstrong said, “Jake, I’ve been on the job less than two months and I’ve already got a dead CIA officer. I want answers. The ground team is a trio of freelancers we use for illegal snatch-and-grabs, unwarranted wire taps, and a host of other activities Congress doesn’t need to know about. They’re guns for hire with itchy trigger fingers. Now, are you in or out?”

  If he walked through this door now, there was no going back. He would be giving up his new job with the DA’s office and the steady paychecks. The District Attorney represented security. More importantly it would keep him close to Mom and she needed him. Maybe he needed her. Walking away from that meant going back to the odd jobs and scraping to get by. It meant having to tell Mom goodbye every few weeks and climbing aboard a plane.

  But the thought of Sam on the run for murder made up his mind for him. He set his jaw and spoke through clenched teeth. “In.”

  Armstrong folded her arms across her breasts. The cigar pointed straight up, trailing smoke. Noble caught a subtle whiff of rose-scented perfume. “Down to business. Gunn transferred to Paris shortly after the dustup in Mexico. She had a black mark on her record, but Frank Bonner, the Station Chief running Paris Branch, said she was a good kid, doing good work. Everybody liked her.”