The Power of Three

by J C Ryan

  Its time to go.

  “What do you say, Digger? Do you think we old war dogs can lead a civilian life without becoming bored and keep ourselves out of situations of terror?”

  Digger lifted his ears when he heard his name, but he must not have had an opinion, or was not interested in the topic, as he just closed his eyes and either tried or pretended to sleep.

  As the hours wore on, Rex grew bored with the denuded vistas and sparse vegetation on both sides of the road. But he knew he had to remain vigilant. The few times he was able to pick up a radio signal as he passed through a town, he searched the dial for a station reporting a manhunt. It seemed impossible he’d gotten away clean from the carnage at Usama’s compound, but perhaps it was only of local interest. Here in the middle of Pakistan, no one was looking for him, and that suited him just fine.

  It was almost instantaneous when the desert gave way to verdant fields stretching further and further away from the road. He knew from previous experience the poppy fields of Pakistan were as lucrative for this country as those in Afghanistan were for that.

  “Not my problem,” he reminded himself. Digger looked at him and smiled as if to say, “Now that's the way to think about it.”

  29

  Washington, DC, 9:37 p.m., June 24

  BRANDT CALLED HIS pilot and gave him a change of plan. He wouldn’t be flying back to Arizona tonight after all.

  John Brandt had been a CIA field operative in the Cold War years. He’d come through the ranks, eventually retiring and starting CRC at the behest of like-minded spooks in the Company, as they liked to refer to the CIA. He was too old for fieldwork now, technically what they would call a desk-jockey, but his roots were firmly planted in good, old-fashioned spycraft.

  Back then, there’d been little electronic surveillance, and that much less sophisticated than today’s operations. No CCTV and the late entry of what later became the internet meant there was little SIGINT, comparatively. Banking was less integrated. Follow the money meant locating duplicate accounting books and studying them individually. FININT on a global scale wasn’t even conceived of.

  In Brandt’s day, HUMINT was king, and operatives were trained in the nuances of body language, facial tics, and what the eyes revealed. The science may have been fuzzy, but taken together, the readings an experienced agent could get from it all was as good as a lie detector.

  Brandt would have called Carson on his obvious lies, but he didn’t want Carson to know he’d read them. He needed more evidence, much more, before he could move against the most powerful bureaucrat in the CIA. And to get more evidence would be a delicate and tricky operation.

  The DCIA would be extremely well protected from electronic surveillance. Even if he didn’t understand how it worked, he’d be one of the best-protected targets, second only to the President of the United States and possibly the Director of National Intelligence, to whom Carson reported. Even Brandt’s resources wouldn’t be able to crack that.

  What he needed was something Carson would never see coming. That good, old-fashioned spycraft at which Brandt and certain old friends and colleagues were masters. Before he returned to his headquarters in Arizona, Brandt intended to activate an old network.

  Among his many friends and contacts, ranging from poor busboys he’d met and cultivated as informants in his days in Russia and France, to highly-placed power-brokers, public and private, Brandt had kept up with four colleagues from his CIA days. They were among the group who’d conceived of CRC, angered by what the Company had become and, like Brandt, fiercely patriotic. They were also among the most talented field agents Brandt had ever had the pleasure of working with.

  They now had the advantage also of being among the invisible ranks of the late middle-aged to elderly. No one paid attention to an old woman knitting a sweater on a park bench. Or a pair of old men engaged in a chess match at a picnic table. Or a single old man feeding the pigeons. An elderly woman waiting for a bus or staring mindlessly at the passing crowds wouldn’t excite a moment’s curiosity. It was a devastating indictment of the callousness of modern society, but it played nicely into Brandt’s plans.

  What made his friends even more exceptionally suited for the task he had in mind were that they were lifelong students, now masters, of the science of human behavior. Any one of them, had they been so inclined, could have written and defended a PhD dissertation on the subject worthy of a Nobel prize. As it was, they preferred to keep their secrets. Their particular talent was that they could follow a target for ten to twenty minutes and then predict the target’s next or even final destination and be there in advance.

  Following a subject who had a highly-trained security detail was dicey. It was so amusing to know that the target was taking extreme precautions, long and circuitous routes, and other countermeasures to avoid being followed, only to arrive where they were expected and their ‘tails’ waiting there for them. These wily old spies could do it without the target’s knowledge and get it right ninety percent of the time.

  Brandt and his cronies called themselves the Old Timers. He, in his sixties, and his friends, ranging from his age into their mid-seventies, had a date that night. Far from the common understanding that they’d be in bed by 9:00 p.m., they’d be waiting for him in the hotel lounge at that very moment. Once he had given his pilot his new travel plans, he’d meet them there and they’d reminisce about old times.

  Maybe the youngsters who’d be dancing would give them an indulgent glance and whisper about how cute it was that the old people were out for a night on the town. Little would they know that these old people were among the deadliest they’d have ever encountered.

  John and his friends kept up the pretense of a night out among old friends until past eleven, and then one by one the four he’d brought together made their excuses and left the alcove where they’d sat pretending to drink more than they were drinking. They would each follow a pre-arranged set of moves and eventually, by 1:00 a.m., end up in Brandt’s second hotel suite for their real meeting. It was a dance they’d followed several times a year since CRC’s birth. Not every meeting had an undercover purpose. They were designed to be random and establish John’s social interactions for anyone that might be watching him.

  Back in the day, these five and the others who’d conceived of CRC had understood that they needed not only a paramilitary outfit that could act outside the boundaries that politics had placed on the CIA. It was clear they also needed a watchdog group on their former employer itself. There was a dozen or so of the old guard left now, and a couple of those were unable to carry out their duties. Soon it would be necessary to recruit replacements as the original members died off, but John didn’t need all of them.

  The meetings always started with a call from John to each invited individual. A prearranged code word summoned them to the hotel where the publicly visible ‘reunion’ took place, and then they each made their way to the location of the private meeting. That location changed each time, and they learned the address through the conversation that took place, one bit at a time, the street number and street inserted into specific sentences that John worked into the conversation. Unless one of them betrayed the others, no one observing or listening could have known the subtext of the party.

  In this way, John could be confident that even if the CIA had him followed, they couldn’t know that this gathering of old friends had any purpose other than staying in touch.

  Once the elaborate ruse had played out, and John was alone in a private suite with his four colleagues, he explained what had happened in the past few days along with his suspicions that Carson had been involved.

  “What can we do?” asked one of the women.

  “I need some leverage on him. I’d like you four to get it for me, the sooner the better. Find out his secrets, anything I can exploit to trap him. My objective is to understand what he did, and on whose orders, to get my man and his team killed. Once I have the intel, I’ll handle the next step on my own.�
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  He knew they’d get his drift. If he learned his suspicions were correct, Carson would live only long enough to finger whoever was pulling his strings. His old friends would know that, but he trusted them to turn their backs while he did what he had to do. If any of them had misgivings about the operation, they’d bow out now, but they wouldn’t interfere.

  After he’d explained his plan, one of the men asked why he wouldn’t use his CRC agents for the mission.

  “Simple,” Brandt said. “As good as they are, they weren’t trained the way you were. I tried to train them in the old ways at first. It just didn’t take. Kids these days rely too much on electronics. The one I lost the other day was the exception, he was as good as any of you. But I don’t have anyone else who can do the job like you’ll do it.”

  “I’m in,” said the first woman. She’d been half in love with Brandt for half of her life, and she’d do anything for him. They’d never had an affair. Both were married to their calling, and it wouldn’t have worked out. But the sixty-eight-year-old still kept a corner of her heart open for Brandt after all these years.

  One by one, the other three affirmed their cooperation. By 3:00 a.m., they each knew their role. They’d change their appearances to fool Carson’s security team. Sometimes they’d walk with the gait of the aged or arthritic, sometimes they’d stride along in apparent defiance of their age. The women would sport gray or blonde or purple hair in varying styles. All would use glasses or not, dress in different styles, and show up in different locations. They assured Brandt that they’d have a complete picture of Carson and any private vices he indulged in within the week, unless Carson put himself into solitary confinement.

  Brandt and his former colleagues knew that even men in the highest levels of power could not resist practicing their secret vices. Former President Bill Clinton had proved that in spectacular fashion in the late years of the previous century. The public might have wondered how anyone who was surrounded by security around the clock could have carried on a sordid affair under their noses. In fact, a previous Director of the CIA had been the latest to have his career cut short by scandal, and one of his protective detail had provided the answer.

  Once someone was vetted by the VIP’s staff, private time with that person was just that. The protective detail understood that some privacy was necessary in the course of their subject’s official duties. Furthermore, the security agents were capable of separating their personal beliefs from their own duties. Clinton’s Secret Service agents might have suspected that Ms. Lewinsky’s hours with her boss weren’t always in the pursuit of her duties as an intern, but it was none of their business. And like the line Las Vegas had made famous — what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas — what happens in private, stays private.

  Brandt suspected that some of Carson’s detail might have thought he was a weasel. Nevertheless, it would be far easier to find out through his Old Timers what vices Carson practiced than to recruit one of Carson’s detail to provide the dirt. He was certain there was dirt. He didn’t know what it was, but Carson’s demeanor wasn’t that of a saint. Brandt would know what it was soon enough, and then he’d launch a secret weapon against him.

  30

  Pakistan-India Border, 3:14 a.m., June 26

  ONE ADVANTAGE TO the longer route, Rex reflected, was that he’d arrived at the border in the darkest hours of the morning, rather than in the twilight hours he’d have been forced to wait through if he’d gone the southern route. The disadvantage was that he was forced to use his headlights to find a road off the main highway where he might sneak across. He’d had a few bad moments when he thought police or border guards might have been following him.

  Finally, though, he’d found what he was looking for. About twenty miles north of the outskirts of Lahore, he’d followed a meandering track that wasn’t fit for a passenger vehicle, and he was almost certain it would lead him into India.

  Fortunately, the SUV was up to the punishment, though Rex wasn’t sure his bones were. He’d stopped, killed the headlights, and switched the engine off, and then sent Digger ahead to scout for any people, just like he’d done at the Afghan-Pakistan border.

  The first Rex knew of the trouble was when headlights, two pairs of them, appeared in his rear-view mirrors. They were coming up fast, and it soon became apparent that they were too close for him to drive away. Besides, Digger was still out on his reconnaissance trip. Even if he did try it, he couldn’t outrun them now, and he didn’t know the terrain. They did. He decided it was better to try to talk or bribe his way out of the situation than ending up dead or seriously injured at the bottom of a ravine.

  If there were only two of them, one in each vehicle, he could possibly take them. If more, he’d need Digger, or a lot of fortune. He just hoped his compatriot would sense his dilemma and return. He didn’t dare call him – it would give the people approaching him warning, and they might shoot Digger.

  I’ll just have to rely on my wits.

  He stepped out of the car, his hands on his head, before the unwelcome visitors came to a stop. One, an SUV like his, came to a halt within six inches of him, raising a cloud of dust that had him choking and wishing he could lower his hands. He didn’t dare. There was in all likelihood a gun trained on him already. Also, with the vehicle’s headlights on bright, the person in the car could see him better than he could see the driver or passenger, if any.

  The other vehicle, yet another SUV, swept around the other side of his and stopped at an angle that blocked his way. Rex began hoping that these people were drug traffickers rather than border guards and therefore, maybe, more inclined to bribery. He’d also have no hesitation to kill drug traffickers. But as they stepped out of their vehicles, those hopes were dashed. Each SUV carried two uniformed men. And as he’d assumed, all had their weapons pointed at him.

  What would work better, pretending to be a lost American, or a hefty bribe?

  How much would it take?

  He tried the cheap way first, babbling in English about losing his way. It was plain as the nose on his face they either didn’t understand him or weren’t buying his story. Then he remembered he didn’t look like an American at all, not just because of his tan skin and dark hair but mostly because of the loose-fitting Afghan clothes and full beard making him look as local as any of the locals. Definitely not American.

  He forced himself to relax and lowered his hands slightly.

  The border guards tensed.

  “We don’t believe you got lost,” one of them said. “If you were lost you would have stopped a long way back, there’s not even a road here.”

  The money option it is then.

  Rex grinned broadly and started speaking in Arabic. He didn’t know if it was the right dialect, but he suspected these guards would understand ‘money’ in any language.

  “Gentlemen, I have a proposal that might interest you. I have some money with me. You can have half of it. I only want to cross the border undisturbed. No harm is done.”

  “How much?” one of them asked.

  “Eight hundred US,” Rex said.

  Three of the guards lowered their weapons after a short conference among them. Rex couldn’t hear what the fourth was saying, but from the others’ nods, he recognized the one who still pointed his weapon was the leader. His impression was confirmed when the man spoke.

  “We think we will first search your vehicle. Then we will decide what we take in return for your request. If we’re happy with what we find, you will leave our country. Everybody will be happy, yes?”

  No. I won’t be happy. Rex thought. They’ll take everything, and they’ll probably still be unhappy, mainly because they won’t want me to remain alive after the princely sum of money and diamonds they’ll find. They’ll shoot me for that. Maybe they’ll shoot me even if they’re very happy.

  He seriously regretted not coming out of his vehicle with his and Trevor’s weapons both blazing.

  Digger was nowhere in sight, and
Rex was in big trouble.

  Just then, the moon peeked over the nearest hill and lit the trail behind the guards with a lone ray of relative brightness. One of the shadows on the trail was moving with deliberate stealth.

  Digger!

  If ever he had thought the dog had extrasensory perception or a keener understanding of language than he had any right to, Rex hoped it now. He couldn’t lower his hand to give the attack signal, and he couldn’t call out. Digger would have to figure this one out on his own.

  Hurry, boy!

  As if he read minds, Digger burst into full attack mode, growling like a demented bear.

  The guards whirled to meet the unknown threat, and Rex sprang into action moving like a tornado, causing mayhem and destruction as he moved.

  He tackled the one guard whose weapon was still a threat. Before the guard knew what hit him, Rex slammed his elbow with force into a rock making him lose the weapon. He heard the man scream from the pain of the impact while he was getting off him, moving swiftly to the next guard.

  Digger had one guard down on the ground. The man was engaged in a fight for his life, and the other two were dancing around them trying to find a gap to shoot the dog but were unable to do so because they’d hit their colleague.

  They paid Rex no attention. He rushed over and tapped one on the shoulder. The man turned, Rex felled him with one powerful roundhouse, breaking his nose, sending him staggering backward a few yards, where he tripped over a boulder and hit a big rock with the back of his head with a dull thud. He slowly sunk to the ground, unconscious.

  The man next to the one who got his nose broken heard the commotion and turned, just in time to receive a vicious head butt from Rex. The man’s heels and back of his head hit the ground simultaneously — lights out.