Counterfeit Lies

by Oliver North

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  As three o’clock neared, the two Korean operatives staked out the pier seeking to locate the attorney and the cowboy. The warm June sunshine made for a pleasant assignment. With school out, parents and their children and teenagers on bikes, Rollerblades, and skateboards dominated the crowd.

  The homeless man trudged up and down the pier, occasionally begging for change, just to appear authentic. The other man, garbed in casual attire, covered all the attractions: the carousel and old-fashioned soda fountain, the arcade and food court, even the Heal the Bay aquarium and science center. Both predators struck out in finding their prey.

  Park had given the order and wanted the lawyer disposed of but wanted nothing coming back to him or his daughter. The men seeking Reid were professional killers and valuable members of Park’s entourage. They could easily strike at any time, duplicating a Hollywood-like Mafia contract killing with a suppressed, subsonic .22 round to the head, a mysterious residential explosion and fire, or even the communists’ preferred assassination technique: a sudden stop after a long fall from a great height.

  The assassins could have waited outside Reid’s office and attacked him as he walked to his car in the parking garage, but that manner of death might be too easily caught on a surveillance camera. Park wanted to make sure the killing didn’t come back to him or his organization. The men were hoping to find Reid at the pier and follow him to where they could make the homicide appear to be a common street crime or perhaps a carjacking, not the work of a disgruntled client.

  H. Daniel Reid didn’t know it, but he was a dead man walking. The two men dispatched to eliminate him were unaware of all the particulars, but they didn’t need to know. Mr. Park had simply ordered the lawyer killed. If someone else got in the way—like the guy in the cowboy boots, with whom Reid met the day before—so be it.

  The homeless man and his companion had no idea who the guy with the ostrich boots really was. They didn’t know his strengths or his record. And they didn’t care. They would take out the cowboy, too, if he got in the way. Mr. Park’s mission in the United States was far too important to allow interference from these bourgeois interlopers.

  After searching the pier for nearly an hour, the two returned to a concrete table near the beachfront coffee stand.

  Speaking in Korean, the homeless man said, “I don’t think we missed them.”

  “We didn’t. I don’t think they came.”

  “But why? Do you think we were detected yesterday?” asked the homeless man.

  “I don’t see how.”

  The homeless man reached into the pocket of his ragged, urine-stained trousers, pulled out an iPhone 5, and said, “I will call his office.”

  In seconds the smartphone found the number and dialed the law offices of H. Daniel Reid. After speaking with the receptionist in perfect English, he ended the call and said to his colleague in Korean, “Reid is in court all afternoon.”

  The older man smiled. The deed would be completed another day.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Jake was driving in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the 101 Freeway when his cell phone rang. He spied the caller ID and turned down the volume on Charlie Daniels blasting from the speakers.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “You were right,” said Trey Bennett.

  “About what?”

  “The front office hit the roof when they learned the killing was to take place in Vegas. They accused you of setting up the entire episode for a weeklong boondoggle in Sin City. I was ordered to produce copies of the recordings to verify you did this on purpose. OPR even came up in the conversation. I’m not sure your marriage to management is going to last.”

  “We’re like fire and kerosene.”

  A sense of perverse pride washed across Jake’s face; he knew he was viewed as a bureaucratic liability by those cloistered in the corner offices of the federal building; so quick to exploit his successes but so unwilling to chance failure. Any good undercover agent ruffled a few feathers in the front office, and Jake more often than not upset the entire henhouse. He loved these little episodes because they guaranteed he would never be assigned to a management position in the FBI. He also knew the recordings would exonerate him of any wrongdoing.

  “Tell the turd sniffers at OPR if I wanted a boondoggle, I would have set it up in Maui.”

  Trey laughed. “That’s what I told them . . . and then I spoke with Adriana Corbet at the U.S. Attorney’s Office. She says we have both jurisdiction and venue. She doesn’t see a problem and said she and her husband would gladly accompany us on the trip to Vegas to make sure all the legal issues are resolved.”

  “I bet she did.” You could hear the smile in Jake’s voice. “A couple of years ago she worked a human trafficking case for us involving L.A., Vegas, and San Francisco. On the trips to Vegas we had to pry her away from the tables with a crowbar. What was even more amazing, she won big every night.”

  “As she pointed out, we’ll arrest Reid when he’s in L.A., not Vegas, so it won’t even become an issue.”

  “I love it when the feather merchants get their collective panties in a bunch. I’m so glad to stir the pot.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Jake squeezed the Range Rover into a parking spot on Ventura Boulevard and spied Brian Carter waiting in front of Three Amigos, Jake’s favorite Mexican fast-food spot in the Valley.

  “Nice ride,” said Brian. “I meant to ask when we met yesterday. Is that your personal car?”

  “Hardly. You probably thought everyone in the FBI drove a Malibu or Ford Fusion.”

  Brian nodded.

  Jake smiled. “This is why you get into the undercover program, the few, the proud, the ugly: better cars, no ties, and an adrenaline rush hard to beat. We’re blessed on the West Coast with some truly stupid criminals with exotic tastes. When they take a fall we build up our war chests. While you were still at Quantico, this Rover belonged to a Mexican meth dealer with strong cartel ties who’s now doing twenty at the supermax in Florence, Colorado.”

  The two agents entered the tiny restaurant and Jake grabbed a table in the back before ordering his standard fare, the Steak Burrito Supreme. Carter followed the experienced agent’s recommendation and soon both were chowing down.

  Brian spent the next few minutes discussing his eight years on active duty, including three deployments to Afghanistan, where amenities such as running water and electricity were luxuries. IEDs and gunfights were the norm. In his last tour he was part of a village stabilization project assisting the ALP, the Afghan Local Police. That too consisted of almost daily patrols preparing the Afghan people to stand on their own as the United States transitioned to a support role. Though he was doing what he trained to do, he soon realized the toll his frequent deployments were taking on his new wife.

  “Unless you’ve been through it, no one understands the impact a combat deployment has on a marriage,” said Brian. “We were lucky. We didn’t have children. I don’t know how those moms did it, repeatedly playing the single-parent role for months, sometimes up to a year or more at a time.”

  Before taking another bite, Jake said, “You’re right. I think it’s much harder on the family. We’re out runnin’ and gunnin’ doing what we signed up to do while those who love us wait at home, fearful every time the phone rings, praying a Marine in ‘Dress Blues’ and a chaplain never ring the doorbell.”

  “Yeah, but is it any better when you’re undercover?”

  “Undercover work can be extremely dangerous. When you’re downrange in a war zone you expect contact, maybe every day. Undercover work is much more subtle. You’re among them without becoming one of them. I’ve certainly experienced those pucker-factor moments undercover, but not every day like on a combat tour.

  “In UC work you don’t worry about getting hit when you’re on patrol or having your troops killed as much as you worry about being discovered. It’s a different kind of concern. It’s not sidestepp
ing IEDs. Typically you’re on your own, no backup in sight and no friendlies in harm’s way. It’s better to be quick with the tongue than the trigger, though every once in a while, accurate shooting is a big plus.”

  Jake smiled, then quieted as a customer passed their table, headed to the restroom in the back.

  Between bites, Jake asked, “Did most of the guys you served with get out?”

  “Maybe a third of the company-grade officers stayed in. With three and sometimes four deployments it was tough on the families. I loved the Corps and would have stayed had I been single.”

  “If the Marines had wanted you to have a wife they would have issued you one,” cracked Jake, repeating the legendary “Old Corps” maxim.

  “I hear that.”

  “Those who got out, where’d they go?”

  “Mainly the private sector,” said Brian.

  “You mean security work?”

  “No, business, sales. A few went into law enforcement. I have one buddy who went into the DEA and another guy, my best friend in the Marines, he and I were at the Basic School together and as second lieutenants were part of a special operations group that did some work in South America. Gabe got out after three deployments in four years and joined the Agency. He was an intel officer and spoke Korean. Gabe Chong, so naturally everyone called him—”

  Jake interrupted, “Cheech.”

  “Yep. You know how the Marine Corps operates. Gabe is a Korean speaker, so they sent him to South America. At least the Agency is using his skill set. I saw him a month ago as he passed through L.A. heading for points west.”

  “The Marines are a lot like the Bu. Different bureaucrats, all singing from the same sheet music,” added Jake.

  “Well, Gabe will be a great spook. Sharp guy, went to Berkeley.”

  “A Marine at Berkeley? I bet he was popular on campus.”

  “And how about you? When did you serve?”

  “I went through the PLC program, two summers, then was commissioned when I graduated from college. Spent four years on active duty and got out in 2003. I was a rifle company commander with RCT-3 in the initial invasion of Iraq. A lot of my guys got hurt and killed on the way to Baghdad and later on in Anbar Province . . . too many. I was wounded in Fallujah by a suicidal bastard using an RPG as a sniper rifle.

  “While I was recovering in the hospital and writing too many letters home to the loved ones of the Marines I lost, I decided I couldn’t do that forever. Colonel Newman, our regimental CO, visited me in the hospital and tried to talk me into staying in the Corps. But I needed to move on and told him I wanted to join the FBI. He understood and encouraged me to keep at the rehab so I could pass the Bureau’s physical qualification test. He also wrote a gold-plated fitness report that went in with my application.”

  “You talking about Major General Peter Newman?”

  “Yeah, you know him?”

  “Gabe and I were with him in Venezuela as part of that special operations group I mentioned. The unit was formed under the Threat Mitigation Commission, which Congress later shut down. We spent the Marine Corps Birthday, 10 November 2007, at the Simón Bolívar International Airport. It hit the fan that night. We lost one of the finest Marines I ever knew . . . Sergeant Major Amos Skillings . . . He received a posthumous Medal of Honor. Afterward, it was General Newman who encouraged Gabe to apply to the Agency because of his Korean-language skills and spec-ops background. Peter Newman knew how to lead. Gabe and I would have followed that man barefoot into hell itself.”

  “I remember hearing some scuttlebutt about what happened in Venezuela—but not much. It was all very hush-hush, wasn’t it? Russian agents, Iranian nukes.”

  “Yeah,” replied Carter, looking clearly uncomfortable. “You have the general outline, Jake, but I really can’t say more—I want to be able to pass my next polygraph. You know what I mean?”

  Jake nodded and said, “Sure, but from what little I know about that unit and that operation, it really was hell.” Then quieter, he added, “I’m not sure Gabe is that much safer in his new job. I lost my best friend a few months ago on an OGA mission in Afghanistan. He was my best man when Katie and I got married. He’d found the girl of his dreams. They’d been married less than six months when he was killed. Joe was a MARSOC operator and loved the world of special ops. I’m not sure a day goes by I don’t think about him. When I got the word he’d been killed it was the second-toughest day of my life. Joe had something to come back to. I don’t, at least not anymore.”

  “Trey said you’ve had a tough year. I guess he was right,” replied Brian.

  Neither said anything for a long moment. Jake choked back his emotions as he changed the subject. “It’ll be a different kind of combat for you now. It’s more mental than physical. You might spend an entire career and never fire your weapon in the heat of battle, yet each day you will be challenged to outthink some of the most sophisticated criminals in our society. I love that type of warfare. And if you get into the undercover program, you will find an indescribable rush. Going face-to-face with somebody playing for the other side and never blinking, that’s what it’s all about. Unlike the Marine Corps, you won’t have fire teams, squads, or platoons to maneuver. It is usually just you, all alone. I can’t get enough.”

  Brian nodded without saying a word.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The front porch of the tiny cabin brought a measure of comfort but failed to erase the loneliness. An easy life is rarely meaningful and a meaningful life rarely easy. Jake’s life had been meaningful in ways he never anticipated. Slouching in his favorite chair, he drained the second beer with a final gulp, wishing he could reverse some of the “meaning” and find more of the “ease” . . . it had been a rough year.

  The smoke from his Macanudo Hyde Park lingered as he stared at the bright stars in the clear Topanga Canyon sky. Katie hated the cigars, failing to appreciate the mild almond and fresh herb scents. She described the cigar’s fine aroma as “burning horse dung.”

  A smile crossed his face as memories of his wife flooded his mind. She loved him through all his scars, visible and hidden. The heartache that seared his soul for so many months abated somewhat when he focused on the great times they shared.

  His cell phone rang, interrupting the moment. Noting the caller ID, he answered on the second ring.

  “This better be important.”

  “We need to meet first thing in the morning,” said Trey Bennett.

  “What’s up?”

  “Can’t talk about it over the phone.”

  Jake shook his head. “Don’t tell me you’re getting a case of the for-reals.”

  “Maybe I am but we need to meet first thing.”

  “Where?”

  “The JTTF.”

  “Who called the meeting?”

  “The front office.”

  “Is this because of Vegas?”

  “This has nothing to do with your wasteful trek to Glitter Gulch. The meeting’s in the SCIF at eight.”

  Jake screwed up his face trying to determine why the meeting had to be conducted in the top-secret portion of the building GSA leased for the Bureau and several other three-letter U.S. government agencies. “You want to give me a clue as to what this is all about?”

  “No can do, big guy, but I think for once the brass wants to see you and you aren’t in trouble.”

  “And some people don’t believe in miracles,” said Jake.

  It was difficult to imagine why a lawyer’s solicitation to commit murder necessitated a top-secret summit. Mandatory morning meetings with an administrator usually resulted in a restless night’s sleep. Jake joked he committed a felony a day but with sufficient warning he could provide an alibi and defense for even his most egregious conduct. So far he was golden on this assignment. Maybe he could sleep soundly tonight.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  DAY 5

  FRIDAY, MAY 2

  Jake got in a five-mile run before heading to the Joint Terro
rism Task Force “off-site” in the West San Fernando Valley. The traffic was bearable but any trip down the Ventura Freeway at this hour was cause for a sedative when the drive was complete.

  Thanks to the traffic, he arrived a few minutes late. The JTTF, a single-story nondescript building, was hidden in one of the many industrial parks in the Valley. He made his way to the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, or SCIF. It was a large, secure conference room, specially designated for the discussion of classified information. The doors and walls were built to prevent acoustical intrusion, and precautions were taken for the limited number of visitors allowed access. To prevent eavesdropping or tracking, all electronic devices were left outside the room. No cell phones, laptops, iPads, electronic notebooks.

  Meetings in the SCIF were usually limited to members of the FBI’s “secret squirrel division,” as the agents referred to those who worked counterintelligence matters. Most agents never darkened the door of the SCIF and Jake had no idea why a squad working cases involving Asian organized crime and now a lawyer who wanted to eliminate his pregnant girlfriend needed access to the secure facility.

  Trey Bennett was removing his cell phone and placing it in a gymnasium-style wall locker as Jake approached.

  “You sure know how to ruin a morning. What’s going on? Is our lawyer part of a terrorist sleeper cell?”

  “I pinky-finger swore not to tell,” said Trey with a weak, crooked grin. “We can talk about it when we get inside.”

  Jake gave him a look as if to say, “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Instead he whispered sotto voce, “So where is Tonto, your faithful Indian companion, this morning?”

  He gave Jake a hard look and replied, “Carter’s not cleared for this,” and knocked on the door.

  Jake, suffering somewhat from being over-caffeinated, refused to get serious. “Shouldn’t we knock three times, wait for a response, then recite the appropriate counter catchphrase?”