The Langley Profile

by Jack Bowie

  Two cars had passed slowly but neither had been interested in picking up a lone traveler who looked like a disheveled farmhand.

  Finally, an old pickup truck had stopped. The driver—a farmer named Francois—was taking a load of dairy products to market in Geneva. He knew enough English to understand Braxton’s quickly-concocted explanation of a rental car crash and plea to get to his Geneva hotel. Braxton had climbed inside.

  Braxton had learned that he was northwest of Geneva, nearly to the French border. Francois had been very talkative, happy to have someone other than himself to talk to. He had explained the history of his region to the quiet American and had gone into excruciating detail on the techniques that made his cheeses the very best in Switzerland. Braxton had done his best to stay awake throughout the travelogue.

  The driver’s destination was the Halle de Rive on Boulevard Helvétique, a popular indoor market on the south side of Geneva. After they had crossed the Pont du Mont-Blanc over the Rhone, Braxton pointed to the Hotel Métropole and asked Francois if he could drop him there. The farmer complied, stopping right in front of the hotel.

  Braxton had thanked him profusely, even offering to pay for the ride, but the man had refused, instead wishing his passenger well in his negotiations with the rental car company. Braxton had felt sure his offer would have been met differently in D.C.

  Tracing his earlier steps from the hotel, he had walked west into the old city. He had kept to the shadows knowing his rugged appearance would draw more attention than he wanted. The pain from Samson’s last kick had been causing him to limp which made his appearance even more suspect.

  He had dreaded any type of encounter. A confrontation with the Geneva police and his freedom would be over. Samson’s identity papers wouldn’t stand up to even the lightest scrutiny.

  Rue du Purgatoire was dark, but there was a faint glow from one of the shops. Was it Antiquites Scientifiques? Once again, Braxton had no idea whether the store would be open. But he had to get to safety. A place to rest and plan his next steps. Maddock would know what to do.

  Shuffling down the street—the pain in his hip was becoming unbearable—he saw that the light was coming from Antiquites Scientifiques. Grabbing his side to lessen the agony, he limped up the stairs and opened the door. The door chime rattled his nerves so badly he nearly collapsed. He grabbed onto the side of the nearest glass case to steady himself.

  “Bonsoir,” came a voice from the rear of the store. “I was just about to close up. How can we help you this evening?”

  Maddock appeared in the aisle and his cheery countenance dissolved into horror when he saw the identity of his customer.

  “Braxton. What the hell are you doing here? I heard you were dead!”

  “So nice to see you as well, Saint Anthony. Do you think you could help me to a chair?”

  Maddock rushed over to Braxton and led him back to the office, sitting him down on the small stool. Maddock sat next to him in his desk chair.

  “My God! I never expected to see you again.”

  “I do feel pretty lucky. I was captured by the group that is responsible for the assassinations. Can you contact Slattery and tell him I’m okay?”

  “Of course. Of course.” Maddock turned back to his desk and reached for his computer. “It really is a bloody miracle, you know. No one ever escapes from Nod.”

  “Thanks. We have to let him know what’s happening.”

  Braxton would never know what put him on alert. It could have been the way Maddock huddled over his computer or the hesitancy of his typing. Whatever the reason, Braxton felt the punch of adrenaline as his mind replayed Maddock’s words.

  How did he know the farm was called Nod? Braxton certainly hadn’t told him. Slattery could have, but that would be out of character. That left only one explanation.

  Maddock finished his typing and slowly pulled open a drawer with his right hand. Then he rose from his chair, reached into the now open drawer and spun to his left, the hand holding a large automatic pistol.

  Braxton jumped to his feet, ignoring the screams of pain coming from his thigh, preparing for some kind of attack. Forgetting about the Glock in his waistband, he reacted instinctively, long-forgotten Army training suddenly kicking in. His left hand flashed out, striking Maddock’s right wrist to deflect the weapon, while his right hand grabbed the first object it could find, the bust of Isaac Newton. He smashed the bust into Maddock’s nose, shattering the soft bone, and driving the razor-like fragments into the agent’s brain. Saint Anthony fell back on the desk, then slowly slid to the floor motionless.

  Shaking from the encounter, there was no time to rest or check Maddock’s condition. A glance at the laptop showed he had been right about the recipient of the message.

  Colonel,

  Your lost order has been located. Come to the office to pick it up.

  Nigel

  Apparently, Rockwell paid better than the CIA.

  Braxton quickly rifled through Maddock’s pockets, grabbing his wallet and a set of keys. Limping back to the front door, he spun the greeting sign to Fermé/Closed and locked the door behind him, hoping the action would delay Rockwell’s men if only for a few minutes.

  There was only one place left where he might be safe. He hoped he could make it.

  * * *

  The map of Geneva still clear in his mind, Braxton limped back to Rue de la Madeleine then farther west to Rue de la Confédération finally taking a right onto Rue de la Cité. Ahead was the Bel-Air tram stop.

  He had to only wait in the crowd for ten minutes before boarding tram number 15 for the ride to the Palais de Nations. He must have looked like a disabled veteran because, upon entering the tram, a well-dressed young woman rose from her seat and offered it to the unfortunate gentleman. If he hadn’t been so tired, he would have protested.

  Upon arriving at the Palais, he began the long walk up Route de Pregny to the US Mission. After nearly a mile he saw the spotlights lighting the building in an eerie blue glow. A perfectly round full moon rose over the hill silhouetting the Mission and giving the whole scene a strangely ominous character.

  A winding concrete driveway snaked down from the main building to the street level. Halfway up the drive was a pair of heavy steel gates. Two uniformed guards paced behind the barrier.

  Braxton had been keeping hidden from the road as much as possible, traveling behind foliage and in the shadows of the streetlights. He stuck his neck out from the bushes surrounding the Mission grounds, then seeing no one on the street walked up the drive and approached the gates. One guard, Braxton recognized the Marine uniform, stopped as he saw the visitor.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the huge black man said sincerely. “You’ll have to come back in the morning. The Mission is closed.” The Marine was built like a professional wrestler. His bull neck strained against the tight collar of the uniform.

  “I understand, Sergeant. But I’m an American citizen asking for asylum in—”

  “Do you have any identification, sir?”

  Damn. “Ah, no. I was abducted. But—”

  “Daddy, daddy, come home!”

  The all-too-familiar voice came from his left. He turned and saw a group of six of the child-assassins racing toward him. In the lead was the curly-haired girl from Cambridge. They were dressed roughly, not in rags, but definitely working class. Braxton had to admire the Colonel’s thoroughness.

  Behind them, in the shadows, he glimpsed one of Rockwell’s white vans. Was it only two days ago that he had been abducted? It seemed like years.

  “Daddy, we miss you. Please come home!” The children ran forward with arms outstretched, screaming as one. They had nearly reached the gate when Braxton realized their plan. Their sincerity and urgency were all too believable. Once they had their hands on him, they would drown out his protests and drag him away from the gate. What Marine would leave his post to save a runaway father? One with no identification. And once he was in the van he would not be seen again.
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  Braxton stuck has arms through the bars of the gate and clasped his hands on the other side just as the assassins hit.

  “Sergeant, please,” he pleaded. “You have to believe me.”

  The Marine took a step back and watched silently as the children swarmed around Braxton and began tugging at his clothes.

  “Daddy, daddy,” they yelled in unison. “Please. We love you.”

  The second Marine joined his partner and they exchanged a few words. Then he reached for a mic at his shoulder.

  “They’re going to kill me,” Braxton yelled. “You’ve got to help me.”

  The screams of the children increased. They pulled harder and harder.

  His left hand slipped from the bars.

  * * *

  “Five-hundred eight-six.” Jacobs tossed a thick pile of printouts in front of Slattery. They were back in the attaché’s office. “We culled it as best we could, focusing on isolated locations large enough to support a small military operation. Nothing tied to a ‘Rockwell’ or ‘nod’.”

  Slattery scanned the pages with dismay. There was no way to identify Rockwell’s camp from this data. Certainly no red flag in the listings that would betray his location. If he even was in Switzerland. France was only a few minutes away.

  After his last meeting with Jacobs, Slattery had gone downstairs to the Mission cafeteria and gotten dinner. The steak and frites had actually been quite good. And the small bottle of Cabernet hadn’t hurt either. The Langley cafeteria could take some lessons.

  Jacobs had called around six-thirty and he had returned to the third-floor office.

  “Sorry, we couldn’t do better, Roger,” Jacobs continued. “You’re sure you don’t have anything else that would help?”

  “Not unless you’ve heard any reports of a gang of children terrorizing the countryside.”

  Slattery heard a knock on the door behind him and turned to see a young aide step into the office.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the young man said to Jacobs, obviously uncomfortable at intruding.

  “It’s all right, Michel. What is it?”

  “I thought you would want to know. There’s a disturbance outside. One of the guards called it in. There’s a man demanding to be let in.”

  Jacobs shook his head. “Just tell him to come back tomorrow. What do the guards say he wants?”

  “It’s quite odd, sir.” The aide starting leaning from side to side. “He doesn’t have any papers. And …”

  “Yes?” Jacobs demanded. “What else?”

  “Well, there are these children trying to drag him away from the gate.”

  Slattery’s head jerked at the announcement and he leaped from his chair. The aide barely managed to avoid being run over by the crazed visitor as he dashed through the door.

  * * *

  Braxton had already lost one of his arms to the children. He could no longer even see the Marines through the clouds over his eyes. The pain in his hip was excruciating, driven by the constant pounding from his well-briefed attackers.

  He felt the cold sweat of fear drenching his body.

  His right hand slowly slipped off the bar of the gate. Soon he would be dragged off and taken back to Nod. Was this really the end?

  He heard shouts. But they were different. Deeper. Then he felt a huge hand grab his arm like a vise.

  PART THREE

  Edinburgh

  Chapter 31

  Tehran Revolutionary Hospital, Tehran, Iran

  Wednesday, 7:30 a.m.

  Dr. Hassan El-Kamar made one final pass through the children’s ward of Tehran Revolutionary Hospital. He despised the need to primp his department just so the traitorous President could get his picture taken with sick children, but the orders had been sent and it was his duty to obey.

  All the staff’s uniforms were cleaned and pressed. The patients’ sheets were starched and carefully folded over the beds. The maintenance crews had been scrubbing the outside of the hospital since the announcement two weeks ago. Nothing had been left to chance.

  * * *

  Roshan Salmani, the President of Iran, and Nobel Prize designee, strode into the ward followed by his ever-present entourage of three bodyguards and a photographer. All four men were dressed in western-style blue suits and standard banded-collar white shirts.

  El-Kamar waited in the middle of the room for his guest to approach. As the President approached, El-Kamar bowed and gave the standard Muslim greeting. “As-Salaam-Alaikum.”

  “Wa-Alaikum-Salaam, doctor,” the President replied.

  “It is an honor to have you visit our facility, sir,” El-Kamar said. “This is a very special ward. We deal with the sickest and most injured children in Iran. Unfortunately, many of the injuries have been inflicted by our enemies.”

  “We are very pleased with the work you perform here, doctor. Your efforts are celebrated throughout our country. It is I who am honored to see your work.” Salmani returned the bow. “Now, what of these miracles can you show me?”

  El-Kamar led the President over to a bed where a light-skinned boy was shuffling a small deck of cards over a wooden lap desk.

  “This is Jahan, Mr. President,” whispered El-Kamar. “He was brought in a few days ago from a village in Khuzestan. The village was attacked by a gang of Wahhabis. The rest of his family was killed and his leg was badly broken. We’re doing what we can to make him comfortable. I’m sure he would appreciate your saying a few words of support.”

  The President came to the side of the bed and kissed the boy on his forehead. The child looked about twelve years old. “My son. You are very brave. May Allah look upon you and heal your wounds.”

  The boy looked up. “Oh, thank you, sir. Everyone here is very kind. But I miss my family so.”

  The President sat down on the side of the bed. “I understand, Jahan. It is very hard to be without your parents. But your country will take care of you.”

  “Why do others want to hurt us?” the child asked. “We were not doing bad things.”

  “I understand, Jahan. We have lost many of our citizens in attacks like this. But better times are coming. We all are working very hard to stop this violence so that we may live in peace.” Salmani placed his hand on the child’s head.

  “But I see you have some cards. Do you gamble with the other children?”

  Jahan shook his head back and forth. “Oh no, sir. I would never gamble. It is haram. My brother showed me this game. He said it would make me smarter. Let me show you!”

  The President watched as the boy laid the cards out face down in a five by five array. “I have to remember where the cards are,” he said. He picked up one card from the array, turned it over and appeared to study it. He put it back face down. He repeated these steps three times then, before putting the last card back, reached for another card and turned it over. “See,” he said proudly. “I remembered. They match.” He picked up the matching card, paired it with the other in his hand and set them on the desk.

  “Very good, Jahan. I see it is a memory game. It is important for a man to have a good memory. It helps him remember the Holy words.”

  The boy immediately took another card, and stared at it, finally squinting his eyes. He looked up at the President who gave him a small smile. The boy nodded and the President pointed to one of the cards remaining on the table. He grabbed the card. As he flipped it over, one of the edges sliced across the President’s outstretched finger.

  “Oh!” President Salmani cried.

  The security detail immediately stepped to surround their charge causing both El-Kamar and the President to snap away.

  “Oh, sir. I’m so sorry.” The child dropped his head and started to cry.

  “No, no. It’s nothing,” the President said, waving his detail away.

  Most of the security team stepped back, but one leaned into the President. “It is time to move on, sir.”

  Salmani stood up, then leaned down and again kissed the boy’s head. “It is all right,
my son. You are not to worry. Rest so that you may grow and do Allah’s work.”

  El-Kamar bowed and watched as the President went back down the aisle followed by his entourage. It was amusing to see the man sucking on his finger like a child.

  * * *

  Hassan heard shouts from the hallway just outside the ward door.

  “You!” he called to a volunteer standing by the window. She was a haggard old woman in a hijab holding an ancient-looking wheelchair. “Little Jahan needs to get down to Radiology. Take him now.”

  The woman slowly pulled the chair over to the child’s bed, helped him sit down, then carefully transferred his IV poles to the holders on the chair.

  Hassan nodded and bid the woman proceed with a flip of his hand.

  Then he looked back to the doorway where the commotion outside had increased in intensity. He smiled and turned back to his patients.

  Chapter 32

  U.S. Mission, Geneva, Switzerland

  Wednesday, 10:00 a.m.

  Braxton awoke with a start and sat straight up, flailing his arms in an effort to find his lost nail.

  Someone grabbed his wrists and held them still. “Easy, Adam. It’s okay. You’re in the infirmary at the Mission.”

  Turning his head, he saw Slattery standing beside him. He was not in his dirty cell, but lying on a soft white bed in what looked like a hospital room. He relaxed his arms and lay back down. A long plastic tube ran from one arm to a bag hanging above his shoulder.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Ten o’clock. In the morning. You slept pretty well.”

  “What’s this?” Braxton pointed to the IV.

  “The nurse hung a bag of D5W. You were dehydrated. She also wanted to get some nourishment in you. That’s the only thing the Mission had stocked.”

  “You’ve been here all night?” He couldn’t believe the spook would have stayed with him. Didn’t he send Braxton into this mess in the first place?