Disavowed

by C. G. Cooper

  “He went out.”

  “Call him back. We’re pushing up the timeline.”

  “But what about…”

  Cal leveled Jonas with a look that cut off the question. It almost made the billionaire take a step back.

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s see how everyone’s doing. Daniel, figure out who can go and who needs to stay. I don’t want anyone being a hero. Only those that can keep up.”

  Daniel nodded and walked into the house. Sometimes Jonas wished he had a friendship like the one Cal and Daniel had, or Cal and Trent, or Cal and…well, Cal and all his men. He’d agreed to help start The Jefferson Group because he’d been bored at the time, curious about what the president had in mind. As the months flew by, he’d listened and learned.

  While he’d amassed an enormous fortune by the time he’d turned thirty, something had always been missing. There were plenty of so-called friends, some fair weather and some on the periphery of being close. He’d thought his lack of intimate friendships was just a symptom of his career choice, long hours and little time to be social. Sometimes he wondered if his wiring was just off and that he was destined to be one of those really rich guys who kept to themselves.

  His time with Cal and his team had changed everything. Not only was Jonas doing something that was new and exciting, he was also part of a team that actually cared. In the tech and business world, plenty of people said they cared. Mostly they cared about money and the next raise.

  These guys cared about their country, were willing to die for it even though they’d left their uniforms behind. They cared about the mission, proud of their hard work but never boastful. And most importantly, they cared about the men standing next to them. Race didn’t matter. Background didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was the team.

  Jonas wanted to be one of them. He knew being a gunslinger wasn’t a prerequisite. Neil and Dr. Higgins were just as much a part of the team as the others, highly valued members with completely different skill sets.

  As he watched Cal clear his weapon, methodically going through his post-battle routine, Jonas made a silent promise to himself, to whomever was listening. He would do anything in his power to use his knowledge and wealth to help these men, these warriors, these humble patriots.

  Chapter 27

  Washington, D.C.

  5:20am, August 25th

  The text at 4:30am was brief: Washington Monument 0530. Travis needed some exercise anyway. A perfect time for a jog through D.C.

  There were the marathoners, fast walkers, and the interval runners. The SEAL catalogued them all as he ran, maintaining an easy sub 7-minute pace. He did three loops around the Washington Monument, even stopping to do some pushups twice, keeping his eye out for Roger Horn.

  Another turn past the National World War II Memorial, workers skimming the top of the Reflecting Pool on the memorial’s west side. Gray-haired veterans wearing ribbon-laden blue ball caps shuffled by despite the early hour. Travis wondered how many of the Greatest Generation came to visit on a daily basis, not a day missed. There had to be someone who kept that tally. A last vigil, praying for friends lost during and after the Second World War.

  As he rounded the south end of the memorial, the Washington Monument directly ahead, something stung him on the right leg. When his hand wandered around his torso to grab the pistol tucked in the holster on his back waistband, someone whistled. Travis’s head snapped that way. Sitting on a short bench was Roger Horn holding a handful of pebbles.

  Travis shook his head and ran that way.

  “You didn’t think I was going to run after you,” said Roger in greeting.

  “I almost shot your dumb ass.”

  Roger grinned. “Yeah right.”

  Travis sat down next to his friend.

  “Tell me you found something.” Travis had been surprised by the text. He thought it would’ve taken days, if not weeks, for Roger to find out something about Farrago.

  A nod from the former SEAL. “I don’t have anything solid, like in writing, but I figured you wouldn’t care. You ready for today’s history lesson?”

  Travis nodded. It was alway something with the Horn. He and Cal would’ve gotten along well.

  “Okay, it’s not a secret that the American government helps select the next ruler of a lot of countries. That’s especially true when our troops are involved and when our interests are at stake. Hell, we did it with Saddam and look where that got us.

  “Anyway, specific examples aside, we, meaning the U.S. government, put a lot of effort into helping our hand-picked foreign leaders. We provide security, military training, weapons and money. Lots and lots of money. The thought goes like this: why not invest a couple billion when it’ll shore up a trillion dollar industry, like oil. It’s a small price to pay. Now, these appointed leaders aren’t going to do it for free, like for the love of country. What most people don’t know is that we take care of them. Trips, homes or straight up cash money.

  “There are lots of ways to do it, sometimes we get burned and sometimes the guy does alright. We’re not the only ones who do it. It’s been going on for hundreds of years. Russia’s doing it right now with Ukraine. That’s a huge mess, by the way. But that’s beside the point.

  “Afghanistan was our first salvo in the War on Terror. Our troops flew in, kicked some ass, and then we set out to help the Afghan government get on their feet. You’ve been there, you know how many factions we’ve had to deal with. But through it all we needed someone we could trust, or at least a steady figure that we could count on.

  “That’s where agencies like mine come in. We’re tasked with everything from security to administrative support. We do a lot of handholding in the beginning, then it turns into a babysitting gig, and the hope is that some day we can back away completely. Well, not completely, but you get the point. As you can imagine, it takes a lot of time and a lot of people.

  “That’s where guys like Farrago come in. Farrago started out with little tasks. Shuttling a diplomat in to Kabul or just delivering a handwritten note to some politician. Like I said, I can’t prove this, but my buddy thinks Farrago’s the main bagman now. He deals with their president directly, including coordinating funding.”

  “He’s a courier?” asked Travis.

  “No. That’s part of what he does, but basically he’s the one who Kingsley Coles appointed to be the guy in the background, whispering in the ear of the President of Afghanistan.”

  So Farrago had direct access to the current leader of Afghanistan. That still didn’t explain what he wanted with Andy and Rich Isnard. Maybe Cal could figure it out.

  “What do you think he’s doing now?” asked Travis, stretching his arms over his head.

  Roger shrugged, staring at a pair of long-legged blondes jogging by. “With his meal ticket leaving after the election? Probably looking for a new job.”

  Chapter 28

  Kandahar, Afghanistan

  3:22pm AFT, August 25th

  “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Trav.”

  Cal set the phone down. No one said a word as he grabbed a glass of water and gulped down what was left. His energy was fading, body and mind parched. They hadn’t stopped since landing. Now the update from Travis. No time to take a breather.

  “What did he say?” MSgt Trent asked. Kreyling and his men had left. It was only The Jefferson Group, Rich Isnard and Kadar Saladin.

  Cal told them the same story Travis had gotten from Roger Horn. The Anthony Farrago problem just wouldn’t go away.

  “Isnard, is there anything you can tell us about this guy?”

  Rich Isnard shook his head. “The guy’s old school. Cagey. Never met anyone who likes him or really knows him.”

  “What about his role in Afghanistan? Is that for real?”

  “We pay a lot of people. Back in Baghdad I had a nice budget for informants and guys we were trying to turn. Sometimes the mighty dollar does more than a gun barrel stuck to a thug’s head.”

 
Cal refilled his glass from the gallon water bottle sitting on the coffee table.

  “Andy, anything else we should know about your operation?”

  Andy had already described his mission in country, how money went missing from aid organizations and cargo mysteriously disappeared. Citizens coerced and threatened. No one had the guts to change the system. It was easier for everyday Afghans to live with it and stay out of the way.

  Andy’s color was back, which was good. He cleared his throat before replying in his still-hoarse voice. “Like I said, it was more of a hunch. There were rumors of backdoor deals and under-the-table cash, but I was just getting started. I don’t even know Farrago, and nothing I found could even remotely link what I was looking for to the Afghan president.”

  “So why make the effort to keep you alive? Are you sure the guys that nabbed you didn’t say anything about their plans?”

  Andy exhaled. “No. They were pretty tight-lipped. No whispers. No bragging. They stuck to their routine and that was it.”

  “It just doesn’t make sense. Why take the chance if all he wanted to do was leave the country with the money?”

  A double tap honk sounded outside. Cal looked at Kadar.

  “That must be my brother,” he said, getting up from his chair. They’d been expecting the youngest Saladin since noon. “I will be right back, gentlemen.”

  When he left the room, Gaucho asked, “Are you sure we can trust this guy?” He motioned to where Kadar had been sitting as he shifted on the couch, his bandaged right leg propped up to keep his twelve stitches from pulling. The shrapnel wound would keep him out of the coming action, something Gaucho didn’t want.

  Cal looked to Isnard, the Middle East expert. Isnard shrugged. “Sometimes you gotta go with your gut. I think Saladin could come in handy.”

  The sound of the front door opening and closing cut off the conversation. Kadar walked in a moment later, followed by a younger version of himself. His brother’s arm was in a sling.

  Isnard and Andy stood and walked to the younger Saladin. “It’s good to see you, Latif,” said Isnard.

  “And you as well,” Latif said with a smile.

  “What happened to your arm?” asked Andy.

  Latif tried to raise the sling but grimaced. “I fell running away from the attack helicopters. Bad luck.”

  Kadar introduced his brother to the rest of the room and they took their seats. The leads were slim. Their prospects uncertain. They had Andy and Isnard back, but there was still the matter of Farrago and the Afghan president. No one in the room wanted either man to walk away, possibly with billions in tow. They had to do something, but what?

  “Brother, I almost forgot to tell you. Our American friend will be arriving in…” Latif looked down at the gold watch on his wrist. “…five…”

  One of the guards barked something from the kitchen.

  “That must be him,” said Latif.

  This time Kadar stayed in his seat. The front door opened and closed for the third time in five minutes. The measured footsteps echoed as someone walked through the entryway, past the kitchen and into the living room.

  The man was dressed in pared-down tactical wear, desert colored boots, matching pants and an oversized khaki shirt, perfect for concealing firearms. Cal didn’t recognize the man, but Isnard did.

  “You son-of-a-bitch!” yelled Isnard, jumping out of his chair.

  With a grace that surprised Cal, Kadar Saladin slipped out of his seat and stepped in between the two men, a serene look on his face. Cal’s hand moved to his weapon.

  “It’s good to see you too, Mr. Isnard,” said the man in an even tone.

  Isnard had his pistol gripped, for now hanging at his side. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t…”

  “Who is this guy?” asked Cal, totally confused by the spook’s outburst. It was so out of character for the normally cool operator.

  The stranger didn’t look worried. In fact, he looked bored. He waited for Isnard to say something. Finally he did, finger straight and off the trigger, knuckles pale.

  Through gritted teeth Isnard said, “This is Deputy Director of the National Clandestine Service, Kingsley Coles.”

  Chapter 29

  Kandahar, Afghanistan

  3:31pm AFT, August 25th

  No one said a thing. The first sound was the creaking of Andy’s chair as he eased himself up. Jaw clenched. Eyes focused on one thing. Kingsley Coles.

  “My names is Andrews, Mr. Coles,” said Andy, his voice cutting through the silence.

  “I know who you are, Major,” said Coles. If he was uncomfortable he didn’t show it. His face bore the exact same semi-bored expression from a moment before.

  Andy focused on steadying his breathing, but his right hand shook as he stepped closer. Isnard stepped aside. Kadar stared at the Marine, taking him in, reading his cold gaze.

  “This man is my friend, my trusted friend,” said Kadar.

  Andy’s eyes moved from Coles to Kadar, and back again.

  “I’m not going to hurt your friend,” said Andy.

  Kadar looked to Coles who nodded. Their host stepped aside, still staying within arm’s reach.

  “Tell me why you’re here, Mr. Coles.”

  “For the same reason you are.”

  “Oh? Because I thought I was the one who got written off, not the other way around. My men died.” His hands trembled, vision blurry.

  “You knew the risks when you came to work for us.”

  “Risks?! Risks I can deal with. Having your chain of command believe some bullshit story about treason and turn their back on you…it’s something I’d expect from the Russians, not fellow Americans.”

  “Then you are more naive than I thought.”

  The comment caused Isnard to rush forward and grab the taller Kingsley Coles by the front of the shirt.

  “You arrogant prick, he almost died out there!”

  Again Coles didn’t flinch, face still. His hand reached down and grabbed Isnard’s wrist.

  “I expected this from Andrews, but you?” said Coles, his look the placid calm of a disappointed administrator.

  The former Baghdad chief’s gripped tightened, pulling his boss’s face closer. “I suggest you start explaining yourself right now.” He let go of the man’s shirt and stepped back.

  Still no emotion from the man who ruled over the CIA’s clandestine operations. The complete lack of rebuttal threw Andy. He knew he should’ve been offended by the man’s comments, but for some reason it made him want to listen.

  “Back to my original question, Mr. Coles, why are you here?”

  Coles pulled the bottom of his untucked shirt, straightening out the wrinkles from the scuffle.

  “Let’s get one thing straight. What I do will never be any of your concern. You work for me and…

  “You mean I used to work for you,” snapped Andy.

  A curt nod from Coles. “Semantics. You Marines are so literal. First, your story needs mending. Not only was I responsible for having you disavowed, I was also responsible for having you kidnapped.”

  Andy inhaled sharply. His men. That innocent boy. Murdered because…because of what?! It was too much to digest, an unthinkable act that couldn’t take hold in his brain as even being in the realm of possibility. During his time in captivity the thought that the CIA was behind the attack hadn’t crossed his mind. Even when Cal told him that the Agency had disavowed him, his mind hadn’t taken the deeper step. He’d just assumed that it was an isolated incident perpetuated by Anthony Farrago.

  “You’re thinking about your translator, your security team,” said Coles. “Let me explain my rationale behind…”

  “Rationale? How could you possibly begin to tell me that what you did, who you had murdered, could possibly be a good thing?”

  Coles crossed his arms across his chest. “You’re a historian, Major. Have you ever read about Guadalcanal?”

  What the hell was this guy talking about?
r />   “Of course,” said Andy.

  “Marines left behind by the Navy. Little food. Limited ammunition and air support. Those Marines were faced with overwhelming numbers of fresh Japanese troops hellbent on one thing, to push them back into the sea or kill them in the process.”

  Andy shook his head. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Listening posts, Major.”

  “What?”

  “Listening posts. You have heard of listening post, haven’t you?”

  “Of course. Every Marine knows what a listening post is.”

  “So you know that more often than not, it’s the listening post that gets overrun first. They’re beyond friendly lines, sometimes with little more than a rifle and a wire phone line. Two or three men. Alone. Waiting for the enemy. How many listening posts do you think were lost on Bloody Ridge? How many listening posts do you think were swallowed whole, those Marines never to be seen again? A lot. But they alerted the Marine perimeter to the enemy’s disposition. The loss of a pair of Marines saved the lives of hundreds if not thousands of others. You were my listening post, Major Andrews. Just like those brave Marines huddling in some muddy hole, you had the chance to do much more good than you could ever know.”

  Every Marine officer, especially infantry officers, had read and reread about the bloody battles in the Pacific. Heroes like Sgt. John Basilone. Commanders like Col. Merritt Edson and Gen. Archer Vandegrift. They were Marine Corps lore, never to be forgotten. Along the way those same men made the tough calls that others couldn’t. Andy had done the same when it was his turn. He’d sent lance corporals and sergeants out on patrol. Some came back in body bags on the back of MRAPs and Humvees.

  While he didn’t like the explanation, Andy was beginning to understand the motive.

  “Were you going to leave me?” asked Andy.

  Coles appraised him for a moment, then nodded as if he’d just made the decision that the man standing in front of him just might pass muster, like a Marine drill instructor leaving you alone instead of screaming at you from dawn ’til dusk. Andy was beginning to see who Deputy Director Kingsley Coles really was. Dispassionate. Focused.