Rogue Operator (7 page)

Leroux
took a sip of Red Bull, his third that night, then eyed the can.

I
have to stop this shit.

He stood
and walked toward the small kitchen with purpose, can in hand, then leaned over
the sink. He tipped the can slightly, the precious, caffeine infused beverage,
ready to give him that energy he needed to keep him awake for whatever reason
he may have, whether it was analyzing police reports or jumping from the edge
of space, teetered on the edge of pouring out—but he couldn’t do it.

He took
a sip.

You’re
pathetic.

He
tipped the can and the brown brew glugged out of the can and into the sink. He
spit out the sip still in his mouth, then ran the tap to clean the sink, waving
his hand in front of the tap to do a proper job. Tossing the can in the
recycling bin, he grabbed a paper towel and patted his hands dry as he returned
to his desk.

He
looked at his watch and sighed.

01:04
am.

He made
a promise to himself to leave in half an hour, he just wanted to finish getting
through the Echelon intercepts that had finally arrived with the hits on the
phone numbers he had programmed, and any mention of the scientists names or
various other keywords he had had inserted into the
Dictionary
. Echelon’s
master database used the keywords in the Dictionary to scan every phone
conversation, email, telegram, fax—any type of communication that occurred with
at least one end of that conversation outside the US borders.

He
didn’t believe in coincidences. His short career had been quite successful, and
he quietly gave himself credit for figuring out the Brass Monkey incident last
year, which is why when he had that feeling in his stomach, he didn’t ignore
it.

It
rumbled.

Okay,
that’s hunger.

He
grabbed a handful of salted cashews and stuffed them in his mouth as he scanned
the next intercept. The scientists had died, and the same day, Dr. Carl Shephard’s
wife and teenage son went missing. They were officially missing persons, with
no witnesses to their departure or abduction. Unlike Maggie Peterson and her
two children, Ayla and Darius. There were plenty of witnesses to their
abduction, a dramatic mid-afternoon event.

It was
his theory that she had changed her plans, so the abductors had to adapt,
otherwise Dr. Peterson’s family would have simply vanished along with Dr. Shephard’s.
But even this wouldn’t raise flags at the CIA. This was a domestic event. The
FBI’s domain.

But for
the work these scientists did.

It was
their work that had raised red flags for him when he was reading the stack of
newspapers he analyzed daily. For that was his life. Day in and day out, to
read. Newspapers from around the world, Echelon intercepts for keyword
combinations he had created, blogs, websites—if it had words, he read it. Then
there were the videos, the audio recordings. It never ended.

It was
exhausting.

And he
wouldn’t change a thing.

A
girlfriend might be nice.

He
leaned back in his chair and peeked to see if Sherrie White was still at her
desk.

Nope!

She was
a hot little number he had had his eye on since she arrived a couple of months
ago. Eventually he’d wire up the courage to ask her out for coffee. Even down
to the cafeteria for a coffee and a muffin. He always saw her coming back with
other coworkers. Sometimes as a group, sometimes one on one. And every time it
was a guy, he found his chest tighten in jealousy.

She’s
waaay out of your league.

He
frowned and patted his stomach. It was flat. It wasn’t a six pack, but he kept
in shape. He had always dreamed of being a field agent, but unfortunately it
probably wasn’t in the cards. He was too valuable as an analyst, and he wasn’t
sure he had the balls for it.

He took
a whiff of his pits and winced.
No wonder you’re single.
He had to start
bringing a change of clothes to work and showering downstairs if he was going
to keep up these all-nighters. He looked at his watch, then opened up one last
Echelon intercept.

His
eyebrows shot up when he saw who the conversation was with, the caller
identified as “Jason”, most likely “Peterson, Jason”, but the receiver
positively identified as his mother, “Peterson, Kathleen”.

“Hi,
Mom, it’s me.”

He
scanned the rest of the message, printed it off, then raced to his boss’
office, praying he was still here. He rounded the corner and found the aide’s
desk abandoned for the day, but inside the closed office, a light still glowed
under the door.

He
knocked.

“Enter!”

Leroux
sighed in relief, then pushed open the door, poking his head inside.

“Sir,
got a minute?”

Leif
Morrison, National Clandestine Service Chief for the CIA, waved him in.

“What
are you still doing here?” the greying but fit man asked, leaning back in his
chair, steepling his fingers and resting his chin on his fingertips.

“You
know me, sir,” said Leroux, shrugging, “just going through some intercepts.”

“And I
assume since you’re gracing me with your presence, you found something?”

Leroux
nodded and handed over the Echelon intercept. Morrison scanned it then pushed
it back.

“What am
I looking at?”

“Remember
the three scientists who drowned fishing last week?”

Morrison
nodded.

“Well,
I’ve been trying to find out what really happened.”

“After I
specifically told you not to.”

Leroux
paused, trying to recall if the wording of the order might save him.

“Never
mind, go on,” said Morrison.

Leroux
resumed. “This”—he shook the paper—“is the first proof we have that one of them
is still alive.”

“Send it
to the FBI. Let them deal with it.”

“But,
sir, the source of the call is foreign.”

“Which
is why we have INTERPOL.”

Leroux
could feel the argument slipping away. “But, sir, I’m sure there’s more to
this. The wife—”

Morrison
made a motion with his hand, cutting off the conversation, and apparently
Leroux’s throat.

“FBI is
handling the case. Send it to them. If they need our help, they’ll ask for it.
I don’t want any jurisdictional bullshit on this, I’m sorry. Things are way too
delicate right now for rogue analysts to be spying on our own citizens as part
of some unauthorized op.” He leaned forward. “Are we clear?”

Leroux
nodded, his chest tight, his stomach in butterflies. He couldn’t recall ever
being chewed out by the boss—this one or any one—before. It sucked. He just
wanted to get out of there as quickly as he could and hide in some dark corner.

“Go
home, Chris. Get some sleep, take the morning off and come back in after lunch.
You’ll feel better, and I won’t be so cranky.” Morrison gave him a smile, which
had its intended effect, reassuring Leroux he was still in his boss’ good
books.

“Good
night, sir.”

“Good
night, Chris.”

Leroux
stepped out of the office and closed the door quietly. As he strode back to his
desk, his mind raced as to what to do. There were innocent lives involved here,
and he knew this was bigger than what the FBI thought. In fact, chatter had it the
case was officially on the back burner, the lead investigator assuming they had
faked their deaths and disappeared with their families for some unknown reason.

He
shoved his arms into his jacket and sighed.

What
am I going to do?

He
couldn’t keep up the rogue operation behind his boss’ back, that might get him
fired no matter how much goodwill he may have built up over the years.

Then he
smiled.

There
was
a solution to his problem.

Kane!

Impiana Private Villas Kata Noi, Phuket,Thailand

Dylan Kane woke with a start, and immediately regretted it. His head
pounded as if an ensemble of Japanese Taiko drummers were rehearsing in his
skull. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and every inch of his body
was exhausted and sore. Something had woken him. Early.

It
needed to be killed.

A
vibration to his right provided the answer. His phone. He’d roll over but that
would mean disturbing Chailai, who lay curled up under his arm, her head
resting on his shoulder, her arm draped across his chest.

It had
been a wild night. A night worthy of remembrance, but which was more of a blur
than anything else. Somebody stirred on his left. He looked over and saw the
top of a head he didn’t recognize, mirroring Chailai.

Very
worthy of remembrance.

A
Budweiser sat in a bucket of nearly melted ice, within sight, but not reach. He
wanted it. His thirst demanded to be quenched. He lay his throbbing head back
down, and closed his eyes.

Why
do you do this to yourself?

Sure, it
was always fun, especially in Thailand, one of his favorite places to get away
from the pressures of the job. But it was the drinking that killed him. While
on the job, he never touched more than his cover demanded, but while off, he
seemed to drown himself like there might be no tomorrow, then partake of all
the carnal pleasures available to him.

He felt
the warmth of the two ladies he was now sharing his bed with, and regretted the
amount he had drank the night before. Partying with two beautiful ladies,
especially Chailai, deserved to be remembered, but all that flashed through the
fog were glimpses of a wild night on the town reminiscent of a Hangover movie.

Just no
monkey.

That he
could remember.

He
opened his eyes and looked at the beer. It beckoned to him like a siren, a
temptress urging him toward his doom, the two ladies pinning his arms making
him feel like Odysseus tied to the mast of his ship. He again lowered his head
into the soft down-filled pillow, and closed his eyes. A little hair of the dog
was what he needed right now, but it was exactly what he didn’t need.

He
needed to stop drinking.

He
grunted, and Chailai moaned. He placed a kiss on the top of her head, and she
squirmed with pleasure, her naked skin rubbing on his as she shifted slightly.

There
are
perks to this lifestyle.

He was
paid well, and his cover afforded him pretty much the best of everything when
on the job, if that’s what it called for. More often than not he was in some
shithole with a six inch fan to keep him cool where the term running water
meant there was a boy who would fetch a bucket “real quick like”.

But when
he was off duty?

The sky
was the limit. He didn’t save for retirement; he didn’t expect to see it. He
had no wife, no kids; his parents were well off so didn’t need his money, and
he had no siblings. He had a small apartment back in Virginia, and a modest
car, paid off. Ostentatiousness was frowned upon at the Agency. At least
locally.

But out
of country? Look out. Nothing but the finest for him. Whether that was the five
star hotel he was in now, or the five star escorts. Or the fine bottle of
imported Budweiser sitting in a bucket of melting ice.

God I
need that beer!

When he
began drinking, it usually was to drown out the memories of whatever mission he
was just finished with. But a night like last night. That was something more.
That was a bender worthy of yet another futile attempt to kill off the brain
cells storing the memories that haunted him every moment of every day.

His
chest tightened, and he decided the beer must be had. He gently extricated
himself from the two ladies by lifting his arms straight over his head, then
sitting up. Moans of protest greeted him, but they quickly waned as the ladies
returned to sleep. He scooted to the end of the bed and dropped his feet on the
floor, only to be greeted with something soft that yelped. He leaned over and
looked.

Three?

Definitely
worthy of remembrance.

He
carefully planted his feet and stood, rounding the bed only to find a fourth
girl curled up on a blanket, her pillow appearing to be his tuxedo jacket
rolled into a ball.

What
the hell happened last night?

He freed
the beer from the chilled waters and ran the still dripping bottle over his
forehead then the back of his neck. Twisting the cap off, he snapped it to the
other side of the room and heard a cry of protest from the dark.

Five?

He
looked down his naked form and at the little guy.

A
little over ambitious, weren’t we?

He
chugged the ice cold brew, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort, the cool
water dripping off the bottle and down his chin then chiseled chest, the water
snaking its way down a set of abs any athlete would be proud to have. It was a
body any man would take pride in, but he didn’t. It wasn’t that he had any
negative opinion of his physique, but to him it was a tool. A tool necessary
for his work, and if he were to let himself “go”, he’d most likely die.

The spy
business didn’t have portly operatives.

Not at
least in his type of work. Yes, there were spies of all types. Men. Women.
Twenty somethings and sixty somethings. Short, tall, fat, ridiculously skinny.
Whatever the job called for, there were spies to fit the bill. But those were
mostly for the undercover jobs where a portly gentleman assigned to an embassy
was sent to a dinner party to eavesdrop. If he was caught he was deported, not
tortured then held until a prisoner exchange could be organized.

But not Dylan
Kane.

Kane was
a Special Activities Division operator, part of the Central Intelligence Agency’s
Special Operations Group. He was one of those sent in with little or no support
to every hellhole the world had to offer to follow out orders given by suits in
dark rooms whose code names were a lot cooler sounding than a letter chosen for
a purpose sometimes forgotten years later. He had committed sabotage,
assassinations, interrogations, covert influence missions—you name it, he had
done it.