“It’s great seeing you again,” says Director of Operations Nathan Leyman, a fragile-looking man dressed in a suit that looks a couple of sizes too big for him.
I’m sitting alone on a bunk bed in the aft cabin of the yacht, where the ash-blond cat and another one of Rachel’s soldiers ushered me the moment we got on board, before even offering me a drink or even a damned towel.
I’m not really sure how Leyman can say that it’s good seeing me again when I have not only a different face—and a new name to go along with it—but I also have this shaggy beard and the attitude from hell.
Deciding to play it cool for the time being, I ignore the comment while staring back at the rectangular screen that had dropped from the ceiling. It displayed one end of a conference table. I recognize the room, having spent many hours in video-conferences during my years at the Agency. They’re on the fourth floor of the new CIA building in Langley.
Leyman and another well-dressed spook regard me with interest. The DO’s companion is in his early forties, with a full head of blond hair, a hooked nose, and slits for eyes: Ken Morotski, my old compadre from the Farm and also from Madras. Morotski was the guy Leyman appointed to head Counterterrorism after Troy bailed. Morotski and I had our differences back during our training at the Farm, mostly due to basic operating philosophies. I was essentially a cop who joined the Agency to fight terrorism with the same passion with which I used to nail crooks while in the NYPD. I wanted to be in the field and had no desire to turn into a suit. Kenny, on the other hand, had a bachelor’s in criminology and a master’s in business administration from Harvard and was more interested in becoming a CIA chief someday, and the best way to do it was by getting some field experience under his belt. So you can understand why he seldom talked to me again after I reported his double agent snafu—an incident that earned him the nickname Moronski. The cat was obviously pissed at me for staining his pristine career—though in the end he got Daddy to fix it all up for him.
Morotski exchanges a glance with Leyman and says, “We really regret having to do this, Mr. Malone, but I’m afraid the situation is now a—”
“Yeah, Kenny. I bet you really hate doing this,” I interrupt, unable to hide my sudden contempt for this blond asshole, who is trying to look like the bigwig he is not by addressing me not only by my fake name but by the last name of my fake name.
Just as he is about to say something, I decide to interrupt again and say, “And by the way, Rachel has already filled me in on this being . . . what did she call it? Oh, yeah, a matter of national security, and that we’re all out of time. But she wouldn’t elaborate beyond that.”
“That’s correct,” Morotski says, trying to remain professional, though to my satisfaction he does look a bit annoyed at my interruptions. “Your support is very critical to—”
“It’s indeed amazing,” I say, unable to hide my feelings, utterly failing at Spook 101, which I’m wondering if I’m subconsciously doing so these morons will leave me alone. “Why am I suddenly needed to save the world when, according to Langley’s opinion, I apparently didn’t know my head from my ass a year ago in Singapore?”
Exasperated, Morotski looks at Leyman, who waves a bony hand, encouraging his subordinate to go on.
Morotski stares back at the camera. “I believe Officer Muratani briefed you on the situation?”
“I was told I was mentored by a traitor, but she didn’t explain the reason for you barging back into my life.”
“That’s because she wasn’t authorized to do so, Mr. Malone,” says Morotski.
“Why are you asking me that anyway?” I say, tired of this game, tired of not being called by my real name, tired of these assholes’ running my life. “Didn’t you hear the conversation on the beach live?”
Neither of the Langley cats replies. A good spy never acknowledges an eavesdropping job to an outsider, especially when the one asking the question was the surveillance target—and even when I know better and they know I know better. We’re a pretty weird breed, huh? But that’s how the game is played, even if I no longer like to play it.
“Fine. Forget it,” I finally say. “Just tell me why all of a sudden you’re coming back asking for my help when a year ago you wouldn’t have pissed on me if I had been on fire?”
Mr. Moron leans back, his eyes mere slits of glinting contempt, so perfectly captured on the high-resolution screen. The guy is obviously angry, at least based on the way his nostrils are flaring in that oversized and hooked snuffer of his. My mother—rest in peace—always told me I tend to bring out the worst in people. To which I replied that the worst people tended to bring out the best in me. And that was about the time I would get smacked across the face and sent to my room.
“The Tom Grant I remember always had a knack for cutting through the bullshit,” says Leyman, violating his own rules. Grant is dead. Period. Moron Boy shoots him a sideways look of obvious surprise.
“The Tom Grant you remember no longer exists,” I say, pointing at my face. “The surgeons took care of erasing him forever. I’m Cam Malone, remember?”
The Director of Operations adjusts the knot of his tie and clears his throat.
I actually liked Nathan Leyman ten years ago, when he was Deputy Director of Operations, which encompassed Counterterrorism. Troy used to answer to Leyman, who in turn reported in to Dobson, the Director of Operations. Unlike Morotski, who couldn’t cut it in the field, Leyman comes from my tribe, Operations—even if he had to spend time in Intelligence some time back as part of his grooming to one day run the Agency. Once a field man always a field man. Leyman thinks like I do. But I remind myself that neither Leyman nor Morotski made himself available as Dobson not only raked me over the coals but then let the FBI come in for the kill after Troy Savage was supposedly kidnapped, leaving me holding his bag of shit.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” I say before either of them has a chance to reply, the rocking and bouncing of the boat as it speeds at full throttle toward an unknown destination making me a little nauseated. “Why me?”
“We’re still fighting the same old battle since the fall of the Soviet Union,” adds the aging DO.
“The proliferation of weapons of mass destruction,” says Morotski. “First we worried about chemical, biological, and nuclear weapons falling into the hands of terrorists.”
“Then came September 11th,” says Leyman, “when we received our wake-up call about terrorists attacking us in ways we never thought possible.”
“Then came the age of cyberterrorism,” says Morotski in tag-team fashion, almost as if they had rehearsed this. “Hackers turned criminal, spreading havoc across our information highways. But we eventually figured a way to nail them through the explosion in artificial intelligence engines, which were empowered by a new generation of memory systems: nanomemories.”
They pause for a moment to let me process the information, even though I know it all too well. Then Leyman says, “The nanotronic brain became the very heart of artificial intelligence systems, allowing us to accelerate the development of nanotechnology at an exponential rate in the past decade.”
“Gents,” I say, raising open palms at them. “I appreciate the history lesson, but I’m not sure what’s that got to do with—”
“It’s all about nanotech, Cameron,” says Leyman. “Those countries who control it will rule the future. Those who do not will either cease to exist or be assimilated by the more advanced societies.”
“Nanoweapons have been instrumental in our fight against international terrorism,” adds Morotski.
I lean back on the chair, resigned to the fact that those two cats will tell me what this is all about when they’re nice and ready. And besides, I don’t feel like joining in on the discussion, especially when I disagree so passionately about the way Uncle Sam is fighting terrorism—or perhaps I should say the way Uncle Sam isn’t fighting terrorism. After quite a few decades and tons and tons of dough, we have barely put a dent in the total number of terrorists and their sponsors. Why, you ask? Because Washington bureaucrats are pussies, that’s why. They lack the cojones to do what is right.
“I’m afraid there was a security breach at USN two days ago, Mr. Malone. Details of how it was accomplished and what was actually stolen are still a bit sketchy.”
“A breach at USN?” I say, amazed that anyone could have done that. The place is a fortress.
“I’m afraid so,” said Leyman.
“How did they get past the fancy fences and the Orbs?” I ask, well aware of the deadliness of those floating security forces plus the smart fences, strong enough to stop a tank and equipped with advanced sensors.
Leyman replies, “Good question, and the answer is we’re not sure. One report speculated on the use of EMP guns, but we’re not certain. We have a team up in Texas combing through the scene of the crime, hoping to gather enough intel on how it was all done to go after the perpetrators. Needless to say, the White House is all over this one, riding our butts to make sure we do this by the numbers.”
“One thing we fear,” says Morotski, “is that Savage may have been behind it at some level.”
“How do you know that?”
“We don’t. It’s all circumstantial at the moment,” offers Leyman.
“Humor me,” I say, leaning back while crossing my arms. “What circumstantial evidence?”
“We got word that a bank transaction took place in the Cayman Islands three months ago and have reason to believe that the man at the receiving end fit the description of Savage. Our suspect was overheard at a bar in Paris saying to a colleague that happened to fit the description of Rem Vlachko that this was the down payment for the upcoming job in Texas. Then USN gets hit.”
“And that’s where you come in,” says Morotski. “We want you to head over to USN, work with the investigative team up there, and find who is really behind this. If it indeed turns out to be Savage, then we need you to go after him and help Muratani’s team recover the stolen technology.”
“I still don’t get it,” I reply. “Why choose me when you have far more capable officers already on your payroll? I’ve been out for a year, and to tell you the truth, I haven’t been keeping up on the physical side.” I pat the thin but very real layer of fat filming my old six-pack.
The well-dressed dynamic duo exchange a glance before Morotski says, “It was Muratani’s idea.”
“Huh?”
“Indeed,” adds Leyman. “At first we rejected her proposal to bring you back in, but we seriously considered it after she proved that Singapore wasn’t your fault.”
I keep my poker face on even though my mind is already spinning. My spook sense certainly didn’t expect that young Cute Legs would have run such an investigation.
“Rachel Muratani put forth a compelling argument about your relationship with Savage and how invaluable your insight would be to this case.”
“She mentioned that,” I say.
“She showed us why you are now in a very unique position to help us, Mr. Malone.”
“But . . . I wasn’t the only officer that worked with Troy. What about the others in Counterterrorism under his umbrella, like the Ruiz twins, or Les Karsten, or any of the others? They also knew the man, probably better than I did,” I say, mentioning a few of my old comrades-in-arms, all hand trained by the master himself.
Morotski and Leyman exchange another glance before the latter says, “They’re dead.”
My arms and my balls go numb. “Dead?”
“There were several officers who worked closely with Savage. You are the last one alive.”
I remember clearly how several of Troy’s agents—his informants in many countries—were killed following his disappearance, lending credibility to the story of him being kidnapped and tortured for information. But I remember no stories about Troy’s officers—our old team—being killed.
“How?” I ask.
“The real question is when, Mr. Malone,” says Morotski. “When were they killed?”
I regard the two figures on the screen with intrigue.
“Over the past ten months,” answers Leyman, “since Muratani’s investigation began to gather momentum, suggesting that Savage had not been kidnapped.”
I stare at the plasma screen, at their stolid faces, but in my mind I remember the old Troy crew.
Leyman continues. “Some deaths were staged as automobile or sports accidents, like the Ruiz twins you mentioned, the CIA officers from Peru supporting the Latin American division, or Mr. Les Karsten, who was last seen kayaking in Colorado three months ago, or the husband-wife team assigned to Egypt, murdered on their way home in Cairo last month. And they apparently figured out where we had hidden you, even with the extreme identity change.”
“You were supposed to have died yesterday, Mr. Malone,” says Mr. Moron. “From what we witnessed, the setup was a robbery by a couple of local thugs.”
I continue to peer at the screen, but my mind sees the faces of those who at some point had been like my family. We had trained together, had gone on assignment together, had risked our lives together—had even covered each other’s butts during jobs—even when questioned by our own agencies, which could never understand how our division operated.
“And Muratani figured it all out and urged us to locate you so we could pull you in before you too were terminated.”
“You’re telling me that Vlachko, now working with Troy, paid those two pinheads to clip me yesterday? And how did they find me? Is there a leak at Langley?”
“We don’t know yet, but that is a possibility,” says Morotski.
“Which,” adds Leyman, “is part of the reason we’re trying to keep this operation contained to a handful of hand-picked officers.”
“If Muratani is right, and we have plenty of evidence suggesting that she is, they tried to kill you to keep us from tracking down Savage, who we believe more than ever is the key to cracking Vlachko’s network, and the stolen nanoweapons.”
Morotski crosses his arms and adds, “The mere fact that Vlachko’s network is willing to risk trained terrorists to eliminate all possible avenues leading to Savage rather than just terminating him tells us your old boss is quite in bed with them.”
“So, Tom,” says Leyman, once more violating CIA protocol by using my real name. “Can we count on your help?”
I sigh, missing my old name, my old face, my old self. But the CIA didn’t stand by my side during the investigation that Washington unleashed on me through the FBI, unearthing a trail of paperwork that pretty much ended my espionage career. Langley was worried about Langley as I was getting drawn and quartered. And to add insult to injury, the CIA provided an attorney while I was being dragged over hot coals, but not to protect my interests. The legal cat was there to ride shotgun for the CIA. Since I couldn’t afford an attorney, I went through the Singapore inquisition solo and stood helpless as the media had a field day with my case, destroying my career, my name, and eventually the only real relationship I’ve had since Maddie—not to mention the drastic facial alteration that left me wondering just who in the hell I am. Now I can bet you my next pension check that not a word of my innocence will ever make it to the same media. That would be too embarrassing for Langley. My case had been buried and it would remain buried. Everything I am being offered here is under the table, and should something go wrong you can bet your ass that I would be left out to dry again while Langley snorts out denials like a wounded buffalo.
But what choice do I really have?
If what I was just told is true, then despite my new face, name, and lifestyle I am a marked man, and it will only be a matter of time before I join the rest of Troy Savage’s fan club.
Looking away, arms still crossed, I let out an audible sigh. Rachel was right. I did get lucky yesterday—lucky that Vlachko’s men underestimated me by hiring a couple of local cats to try to kill me while making it look like a robbery. But then again, the two manipulative bastards at the other end of the videoconference could have just fed me a line of pure bullshit to get me to do whatever it is they want me to do.
My operative mind, however, is already fully awakened and looking for more inconsistencies, trying to find a hole in their story.
“Comment?” I say.
“Of course,” replies Leyman.
“I find it interesting that I’m left alone for a year, until the CIA needs my services. Then my life is suddenly in danger, and the Salvadoran government decides to cancel my lease. How am I supposed to buy those coincidences?”
I get classic CIA silence from them for a few seconds, before they mute themselves and converse for about a minute.
When they get off mute, Morotski says, “Make no mistake about it, Mr. Malone. Your life is in grave danger. Next time they might send professionals.”
“And we are getting you your money back from the Salvadoran government,” adds Leyman.
So they have replied, but neither of them answered my question. I can’t believe I actually played this game for two decades. There’s no way for me to know at this moment the difference between meat and potatoes and baloney—the reason why I’m sitting in this cabin instead of in my hammock. Maybe Vlachko did hire the greasy dynamic duo to wax me yesterday to keep me from helping Langley, or maybe Langley hired them to convince me to cooperate with them on whatever it is they are really after. Maybe the Salvadoran government intended to honor my contract until it got pressure from some CIA type at the embassy in San Salvador, or maybe the Salvadorans never intended to honor it and the CIA did indeed come to my rescue.
So, what’s meat and potatoes and what’s baloney?
One thing is clear: I have fallen into the sights of the CIA once again, and my only choice is to play their game—for now, at least until I can figure out what in the world is really going on. I do have, however, one thing under my control: money—assuming I live long enough to spend it.
“I’ll help you,” I finally say, “but it’s going to cost you.”
“You’re hardly in a position to negotiate,” says my old moronic fellow officer. “People are trying to kill you. We are your only—”
“Fine,” I cut in. “Then drop me off at the beach. I’ll take my chances with the local government and any thugs that decide to disturb my beauty sleep.”
They go on mute again for another minute. It’s obvious they are arguing. Finally, Morotski crosses his arms while Leyman touches the mute button on their speakerphone.
“Name your price,” says the aging DO. “I’m certain we can accommodate you.”
I tell them an amount that would not only get me back on my feet again but even allow me a luxury or two wherever I land next. Langley has paid just as much—and more—to contractors in the past. The fact that both the Director of Operations and the head of the Counterterrorism Division were waiting for me at the other end of the video link when I climbed aboard tells me my presence is worth a king’s ransom, so I might as well milk it while the milking’s good. If there’s one thing Singapore taught me it’s that all good things do come to a sudden and painful end. And I can assure you that the moment my contribution is not viewed as valuable, those two characters will drop me like a broken piñata.
Leyman and Morotski go on mute once more while they discuss my terms. I use the time to inspect my cozy surroundings, realizing that the Plexiglas door to my left leads into a bathroom—or head, in yacht jargon. At the moment the prospects of a hot shower appeal to me more than parallel parking with the warm and tanned Rachel Muratani. I’m feeling so dirty and slimy that I’m at risk of someone asking me to run for office.
Static fills the room, followed by Leyman’s voice.
“You’ve got a deal, Cameron. Your role will be that of a consultant reporting in to Case Officer Rachel Muratani, who will continue to have full control of this operation.”
“Great,” I say, caring far less about reporting in to a woman than getting to the bottom of this mystery, which is my return ticket to a comfy retirement. Heck, with the dough Langley is getting back from the Salvadoran government, plus what they have just agreed to pay me, I might even afford the Caribbean island of my choice. “I’m all yours as soon as I can get to a phone and confirm that you got me a refund from the Salvadoran government and that those funds, plus half of my consulting fee, have made their way into an account under my name in St. Thomas,” mentioning my favorite place in the U.S. Virgin Islands, which was out of my budget a year ago.