The Toymaker

by Chuck Barrett

  Their waiter interrupted them. He brought two menus, two glasses and a pitcher of water. While he poured water in the glasses he asked if they wanted cocktails. They both declined.

  Out the window Jake saw an old covered chuck wagon with a steer skull attached to the front of the canopy. A peacock perched on the hitching rail. In the distance an old barn surrounded by cactus served as a reminder of the ranch’s history as a stopping point for the old Pony Express.

  “When do I meet this man?” Jake asked.

  “He’ll let us know when he’s ready for us. In the meantime, enjoy a good meal.”

  “What do you mean, ‘when he’s ready for us?’ Is he here?”

  “He owns the place, Wrangler’s Steakhouse. He’s been watching us since we got off the jet.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Sana’a, Yemen

  KAPLAN, AND THE young man known only as Chase, pulled up in front of the safe house in the Company’s Toyota Land Cruiser. The ride from Aden to Sana’a was long and lack of food and sleep were taking its toll. Kaplan hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours or eaten in over nine. The back of the U. S. Army C-130 that flew him from Washington to Yemen was loud and uncomfortable. First order of business was to eat and sleep. Daylight was only nine hours away and he wanted to be on the move by sun up.

  Chase was younger than Kaplan expected, mid-twenties, and shorter too. Maybe five nine. He looked strong, and cut. He had a close-cropped beard—a chin curtain with no mustache. With his jeans, t-shirt, tennis shoes, and backpack, Chase looked like a college student.

  From the information Kaplan gleaned during his pre-mission brief, Chase was part of a Delta Force Squadron temporarily based in Oman, now on special assignment in Yemen. As the United States’ primary counter-terrorism unit, Delta was a versatile group of soldiers capable of assuming many covert missions, hostage rescue among them. Since Delta was a highly secretive unit, they were granted autonomy and tremendous latitude. They were allowed relaxed grooming and clothing standards and told to blend in and not be recognizable as military personnel.

  Kaplan had studied the maps along the way with a Maglite held between his teeth. There were so many small villages in the outlying areas surrounding Sana’a that Isabella Hunt could be anywhere. The mountainous area was steep, rugged terrain, so a rescue attempt would be challenging. On the other hand, if they had taken her into a valley or the flat desert, infiltration and exfiltration would be simpler.

  “Mr. Kaplan, are your familiar with Delta and its mission?” Chase asked.

  Kaplan laughed.

  “What’s so funny? That wasn’t a joke.”

  Kaplan reached down, rolled up his sleeve, and let his Maglite flash across his upper arm. “What do you think?”

  On Kaplan’s arm was a tattoo—Airborne—the insignia of the Delta Force. An arrowhead shield with a superimposed sword. “Good.”

  Kaplan went back to studying the map.

  “Rank?” Chase asked.

  “Sergeant Major.” Kaplan turned off the Maglite. “You?”

  “Captain.”

  “Captain?” Kaplan folded his map. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “Great.” They promote them younger and younger these days.

  According to Chase, one of the local sources had seen Hunt but was afraid to talk. Someone was needed to lean on the source and leaning was one of Kaplan’s areas of specialty. If the source knew anything, as Chase had indicated, Kaplan would squeeze the information out of him.

  Chase turned off the ignition to the Land Cruiser. “Before we go in, let me brief you on our brick.” Kaplan remembered the term ‘brick’ referred to the small Delta team.

  “Counting me, there are five of us, four men and one woman—“

  “A woman? In Delta?” Kaplan was astonished. “I thought women were forbidden in Delta.”

  “Most of the time that’s true but we’re called a funny platoon. Have you ever heard of that?”

  Kaplan shook his head.

  “A funny platoon is an intelligence gathering outfit, that’s our sole purpose.” Chase explained. “Almost always under cover. Here, we are college students under a foreign flag, Canada, studying architecture of the region. We’re all on a first name basis and never refer to each other by rank…ever.”

  “Understood.” Kaplan said.

  “We’ve only been here a day. We received the mission brief yesterday morning and we were on the go within three hours. We flew out of Oman and traveled to Aden and have been awaiting the arrival of our college professor—namely you.”

  “College professor, eh.” Kaplan smiled.

  “I have to be honest, the brick’s been a little nervous about you. Rumors. We’ve had a couple of unpleasant experiences with Clandestine Services before.” Chase grinned. “You being Delta will help put their minds at ease. Let’s go.”

  Kaplan followed Chase into the safe house where three young men were playing cards while a short young woman stood watch. Barely five feet tall with dirty blonde hair, she wore sweat pants, flip-flops, and a t-shirt that read, I’m Not Short, I’m Fun Size—not what Kaplan was expecting. Certainly not fitting the mold Kaplan had envisioned of the Delta Force team.

  “Look who I found.” Chase said. “Professor Kaplan just informed me he’s a fellow alumni.”

  Kaplan pulled up his sleeve revealing his Delta tattoo.

  The four soldiers smiled.

  Chase introduced Kaplan to the members of the brick. He pointed to the woman. “She thinks she runs the place.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Mr. Kaplan—“

  “Gregg.” Kaplan corrected.

  “Professor.” The woman paused until Kaplan grasped the protocol. “I only try to keep the boys focused.”

  “Believe me, she’s got her work cut out for her.” Chase said. “Don’t let size fool you though—there’s a lot of fire in that small package.”

  Someone had prepared a meal and brewed a fresh pot of coffee. “Do you mind?” Kaplan inhaled his food, washing it down with three cups of coffee. When he finished eating he looked up and all eyes were focused on him. The short woman was smiling.

  Chase pointed to a door. “You'll bunk in there. The room’s empty so you won’t be disturbed when the team rotates watches. Take the one on the right.” He pointed to the woman. “She’ll grab the bunk on the left in a few hours. We lock up at ten and lights out at eleven. We’re just outside the al-Rawdah district—it’s dangerous for Americans here so we keep guard all night.”

  “But we’re Canadians.” Kaplan said in jest.

  “Doesn’t matter, all Westerners are the enemy here. And we’re always faced with some element of danger.”

  “Then, I’ll take a watch too.” Kaplan said.

  “Not tonight. You’ve been awake a long time. Get some sleep. You can pull a watch tomorrow night if you’d like.”

  Chase pointed to another door with a crescent moon sign hanging from the door. “The outhouse is over there.”

  “Outhouse?” Kaplan asked.

  “Okay, it’s not a real outhouse, but the facilities are somewhat…primitive. You know, third world country and all.”

  Kaplan laughed. “I’m sure it’ll be just fine.”

  “One more thing.” Chase patted his sidearm. “Keep your weapon within arm’s reach at all times. If someone yells, get ready for action.”

  CHAPTER 10

  JAKE SWALLOWED THE last bite of his t-bone steak, folded his napkin, and tucked it under the edge of his plate. He leaned back in his chair. “Now that was a good steak.”

  “I didn’t think you’d be disappointed.” Bentley smiled.

  “So what’s next? How long do we wait?”

  “Relax, Jake. It won’t be much longer.” Bentley said. He pushed his plate to the side and drank the last of his iced tea.

  “Sir? Why all the secrecy and cryptic answers? Who is this guy?”

  “Jake, let me ask you something. How many su
rveillance cameras have you noticed?”

  Jake studied the room. Glancing at the rough-hewn beams, the antler lights hanging from the ceilings, the pictures and paintings mounted on the walls. After a few seconds he said, “I don’t see any.”

  “This compound has over five-hundred cameras mounted throughout. He has twenty monitors tucked away in a secure location. His computer analyzes every guest’s motions and body language—he programmed it himself—and alerts security of any behavior not fitting his parameters. A security guard, disguised as a chef, will then approach the table and ask a few questions, you know things like, ‘How is your dinner?’ ‘Is everything satisfactory?’ ‘May I get anything else for you?’ The kind of stuff you’d expect but in such a manner and in such an order as to invoke certain subconscious psychological responses. Then his computer, based on its interpretation of the responses and body language will issue a threat assessment. Further action, or inaction, is based on the computer’s assessment.”

  “You’re yanking my chain.” Jake said in disbelief.

  “No, Jake, I’m not. The man you’re about to meet is probably one of the smartest, if not the smartest person I know. He’s in his early seventies and has been in the intelligence business a very long time. He can’t afford to be careless or let his guard down.”

  “He’s a spy?” Jake asked.

  “No, he’s not a spook and he’s never been a spook. But the entire intelligence community, CIA, NSA, Special Forces—and not just our country but also several ally countries, have relied heavily on his technology for decades. He provides us with specialty items to help us accomplish our missions. He’s been doing it for over fifty years. Hell, I’ve known him for thirty. You know that copper tent and the TEMPEST setup you used in Australia?”

  Jake nodded.

  “You’re about to meet the man who invented the technology that made it possible. It is his design.”

  Cowboy interrupted them. “Director, Mr. Pendleton, this way please.”

  Jake gulped down the last of his sweet tea. He and Bentley followed Cowboy through a maze of rooms then down a long rustic hallway of knotted pine paneling littered with posters from movies, mostly Westerns, which were filmed on the property. Cowboy called it the Movie Showcase Wall. Wagon wheel lights hung from the fifteen-foot ceilings. They entered an unmarked room at the end of the hall.

  Cowboy opened the door allowing Jake and Bentley to enter first. “Please make yourself comfortable. It should only be a few more minutes.”

  Cowboy walked out and left them alone. Bentley sat down in one of the two over-stuffed leather chairs facing the oversized mahogany desk. A small gas fireplace on an interior wall was flanked by bookshelves crammed with an assortment of hard cover books.

  Jake studied the books. The books were all old and he didn’t recognize any of the titles. “The fireplace. It doesn’t belong with the rest of the room. I would have expected a wood-burning fireplace with a large mantel and brick hearth. Not a gas fireplace”

  “Very observant.” Bentley leaned forward, propped his elbows on his knees, and interlocked his fingers. “You’re right, though. It’s not a real fireplace. I mean, it is but it isn’t. By the way, if it’s any consolation, I didn’t know either.”

  Jake looked at Bentley. “You’re doing it again, talking cryptic. Didn’t know what?”

  “I didn’t know there was an operative planted in Yasir’s camp." Bentley said.

  Jake heard a thump behind the fireplace and stepped back. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bentley rise and start walking toward the fireplace. Just as he reached it, the fireplace shifted back several inches and slid to the side behind the bookshelf.

  Jake stared into an empty elevator. “That explains the fireplace. What the hell kind of place is this?”

  “Follow me and I’ll show you.” Bentley stepped inside. “Come on.”

  The elevator doors opened thirty seconds after they closed. Jake guessed they must be at least a hundred feet below the restaurant, but Bentley told him it was only fifty.

  Jake scanned the expanse in front of him. Two different worlds separated by fifty feet of rock and dirt. Above, the serene relaxed atmosphere of the restaurant with its vistas of the West Texas desert. Below, the hustle and bustle of a factory floor. A sterile factory floor. Workers wore blue aprons with matching caps and latex gloves. A light buzz of action could be heard as people scurried from station to station. On either side of the expanse were two rooms with exterior staircases leading to work areas atop the rooms.

  “As you could tell from the Steakhouse above and the workshop down here, he’s somewhat of an eccentric man. And he has a few quirks. But don’t we all?” Bentley pointed to the far corner. “Recognize that?”

  Jake noticed the mock-up of the TEMPEST tent. “I do.”

  “That’s his showcase area.” Bentley smiled.

  Jake started to move away from the elevator when Bentley grabbed his arm. “Not yet, Jake, stay here. If you wander off, we’ll have an upset host. Even I don’t have carte blanche to walk around freely. You’ll see what he wants you to see when he wants you to see it.”

  “Isn’t that a bit much?” Jake furrowed his brows. “I mean, we are on the same team.”

  “Sit tight, Jake. You’ll understand after you meet him. He’s a man of—“

  “Scott Bentley, you old pirate. How the hell are you?” The old man rounded the corner from behind the elevator, grabbed Bentley’s arm, and shook his hand so hard Bentley’s shoulder was bouncing up and down.

  Jake noticed immediately the man looked familiar, but he couldn’t place where he’d seen him.

  Bentley motioned toward Jake. “I’d like you to meet Jake Pendleton.” Bentley motioned back toward the old man. “Jake, this is Mr. Wiley.”

  Jake shook Wiley’s hand and noticed the old man didn’t greet him with the same enthusiasm he gave Bentley. “You look familiar, have we met?”

  Wiley glanced at Bentley. “No, I don’t believe so.”

  “I know I’ve seen you somewhere before.” Jake couldn’t shake the feeling of familiarity with the old man. Where had he seen the man before?

  “You two follow me.” Wiley turned and walked away.

  The old man stopped at the closest station, spoke in Spanish to a young woman who was hand-winding metal coils then motioned for them to follow again. Jake looked at the old man, early seventies, same height as Jake, 5’10”, and appeared to be in good physical shape as he darted from station to station while the three men made their way across the open floor.

  Jake noticed Wiley’s gray hair, parted slightly off center, showed visible signs of receding. After almost every movement, the old man pushed his metal-framed glasses up on his nose and swiped each hand through his hair, one slightly behind the other, as if combing his hair with his fingers without actually running his fingers through his hair, more like patting it down. Must be one of the quirks Bentley was referring to. Jake thought it made him more interesting. Left swipe, right swipe. Always in that order, right hand never more than two or three inches behind the left.

  The three men stopped in front of an office with an unmarked door and a plate glass window overlooking the factory floor. Bentley instructed Jake to wait outside while he and Wiley entered the office alone. Fifteen minutes passed, Jake wondered why he was being excluded and what the two men were discussing. He was getting anxious but he knew sooner or later he’d find out why he was here.

  Wiley’s showcase was next to his office. It reminded Jake of Radio Shack, only more impressive. He saw Wiley pick up the phone then hand it to Bentley, realizing for the first time it was a soundproof room. Jake never heard a phone ring or an intercom or even voices for that matter. Bentley put the phone down, glanced through the window at Jake then continued talking to Wiley. Jake’s puzzlement over why Bentley brought him here gave way to concern.

  After twenty-five minutes, the door to the office opened and Wiley walked out and moved across the complex flo
or.

  Bentley came to the door. “Jake come in here please.” He pointed to the plush leather chair. The same type as in the office upstairs. “Have a seat.” He closed the door.

  “What’s going on?” Jake asked.

  “There’s been a development with Isabella. I have to leave earlier than I’d anticipated. I’m leaving you here with Mr. Wiley.”

  “But sir, with all due respect.” Jake pleaded. “If there’s been a development with Isabella, I should join Kaplan and help him get her out.”

  “Jake, listen to me.” Bentley’s voice now stern. “Until I tell you otherwise, you take orders from Mr. Wiley. Get to know him. You’ll learn more from him than you ever could from me.”

  “But—“

  “No buts, Jake…that’s an order.”

  CHAPTER 11

  JAKE WATCHED BENTLEY’S jet slice into the West Texas sky without him. A feeling of emptiness came over him as the jet’s rumble vibrated through his body. He felt like a child abandoned on a stranger’s doorstep—in a way he was. The emptiness started when Beth died. And now, the black hole was growing inside him.

  Cowboy drove the golf cart toward Jake, stopping only inches from him. Jake noticed a bulge in his cheek from a wad of chewing tobacco.

  “Come on. Mr. Wiley is waiting. I believe he has a full afternoon in store for you.”

  Jake crawled in the front seat next to Cowboy. “Did he say what I’m supposed to do?”

  “Nah.” Cowboy spit on the tarmac. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He never gets too specific but if I know Mr. Wiley, he’s going to give you the grand tour himself. And that will take a while.”

  “Sounds just great.”

  “Try to keep an open mind.”

  “Easier said than done.” Jake said. “I just got dumped here by my boss and left with a man I do not know.”

  “It’ll be fine, wait and see.” Cowboy led Jake to the upstairs office, opened the elevator, and said, “Jake, press the ‘B’ and Mr. Wiley will meet you at the showcase.”