Bloody Truth: A Granger Spy Novel Page 6

  “But as a precaution, I’ll have Zach secure all three of your identities. So if Leecy and Val join you undercover, they’ll just be nameless mercenaries for hire, got it?”

  “It’s risky, but I don’t see that we have another option,” Val said.

  “We don’t,” Wakefield said before turning toward me. “Ron, I like the idea of sticking with the Peter Heely cover. Zach will leave just enough information out there in the cyber universe to make it believable, but if Tia digs too deep it could unravel. We don’t have the time or equipment to dummy up papers for any of you, let alone create a full-blown legend. You guys okay with that?”

  “Understood,” I said.

  “If you two don’t have anything else to add, I’ll brief the team.”

  “I don’t have anything,” I said.

  “Me, either,” Val said, standing, “I’ll follow you up front.”

  Watching Valerie following Tammy toward the front of the plane and listening as Tammy began her briefing, I recalled the event Tammy referred to earlier. The one she was thinking about when she said she didn’t want to rush Leecy into anything. I had little doubt Tammy was thinking about the first time we met.

  Running the numbers in my head, I calculated CIA Agent Tammy Daniel Wakefield first entered my life twenty-four years ago. Iraq had just ended its war with Iran in 1988, and a year later in September 1989, was engaged in talks with Kuwait in Baghdad regarding border demarcations that failed. This failure to reach an accord highlighted just one of the many differences in the region between Iraq, Kuwait, and Saudi Arabia.

  By the time talks were scheduled to take place in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, US Intelligence reports coming out of the region indicated the tensions between Iraq and Kuwait wouldn’t be easily resolved. The US had decided they’d waited long enough and it was time to take preemptive action.

  Phase one of Operation Nighthawk, code-named Eagle Eye, was given the green light. Known only by the call sign Alpha, I made a midnight HALO jump from thirty-five thousand feet above Iraq on July 19, 1990, along with one other person, known by the call sign Bravo.

  We were told to plant signal beacons—a secondary measure incase dust storms affected the Satellite Guided Missiles—ensuring strategic Iraqi military targets would be destroyed in the bombings carried out by Nighthawk stealth bombers.

  When we splashed down in Lake Tharthar 120 kilometers north of Baghdad, Bravo, failing to cut away his parachute before hitting the water, became tangled in the rigging and was pulled below the surface of the lake. I remembered how hard I struggled to cut him free before having to rush to the surface of the lake or risk drowning myself.

  While I treaded water above him, Bravo’s parachute-entangled body disappeared into the darkness of the deep lake. I remembered wondering who he’d been. What was his name? Neither of us had been wearing dog tags or carrying anything that identified us as US citizens. We were just nameless, faceless arms of our government.

  Swimming toward shore alone, I assumed Bravo was like me, at least, I’d hoped he was. Back then, I was alone in the world, and with nothing to lose, had volunteered for the mission during my last month of active duty. Looking back now, I realized the death wish I was carrying around with me at the time. Facing discharge from the army, I’d taken on that mission as an out. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to face civilian life.

  Once on dry land, I’d stripped off the drysuit, adjusted my ankle length dishdasha, and put on the traditional ghutra headdress. Checking my compass for the proper heading and the contents of my gear bag, I started walking out of the lake basin and up and over the surrounding mountain range. I hiked toward the southwest and my rendezvous with my in-country contact, a CIA agent named Wakefield.

  Meeting Wakefield on the road to Ramadi proved to be more difficult than I’d anticipated, and I was running late, but spotted the jeep waiting for me as I crested a hill about thirty meters from the road.

  “Wakefield?” I remember calling as I approached the vehicle.

  “Identify,” came the curt response, and I smiled at the memory of how surprised I’d been that the voice was female.

  “Alpha here. Bravo’s DOA.”

  “Body?”

  “At the bottom of the lake,” I said, climbing into the truck’s passenger seat.

  “Shame.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Questions?” she asked me, turning over the engine.

  “None.”

  “Good; that’s the way I like it,” she said, driving away. “We’ll be in Baghdad in a few hours. You know your strategic target location and extraction coordinates?”

  “I know I look dumb, but I know what I’m doing.”

  She looked over at me, smiling that trademark smile of hers, the one I’d come to rely on years later as a CIA operative. “You sure about that, soldier?”

  The memory of our first words to each other resembled every word we’d spoken to each other since, in tone, intent, and brevity. I laughed to myself, but that nostalgia quickly vanished when I remembered what happened to me next. Standing up suddenly, hitting my head on the fuselage of the plane, I realized I’d reacted involuntarily to the memory.

  “Something to add to the briefing, Granger?” Wakefield asked.

  Her question snapped me back to the present moment. “No, just

  stretching my legs.”

  Sitting back down, listening as Tammy continued her briefing on the mission we were about to undertake in Cologne, I flashed back on the scene near the ammunition supply depot located one mile from the center of Baghdad. That’s where it happened.

  I’d planted all but three of the satellite-guided devices I’d been charged with deploying, leaving one inside the munitions depot building, and was on my way to the last three spots when two members of the elite Iraqi Republican Guard surprised me. The fight that ensued wasn’t as quick or as easy as I’d hoped. It had been sloppy, and I’d been careless. Though I’d killed the guards, I’d been stabbed in the thigh and forced to abandon the rest of the mission and double-time it toward the evacuation point.

  My inability to recall how I arrived at the extraction point or the CIA safe house has nothing to do with a faulty memory and everything to do with the fact I never made it under my own power.

  All I remember was waking up in a bed inside the Baghdad apartment, with my leg heavily bandaged, to learn I’d lost a full seven days and that Iraq was now on the verge of invading Kuwait, having amassed a hundred thousand troops along the border. And Agent Wakefield had saved my life.

  Somehow, she’d found me two blocks from the rendezvous point, passed out in a roadside ditch and bleeding to death from the wound in my thigh. She’d brought me to the safe house and nursed me back to health.

  Watching her now, standing in the front of the plane addressing her team, a team which included my wife and daughter, I thought how strange fate could be.

  Back then, Wakefield and I became trapped in that CIA safe house when the fighting began. The targets I’d affixed with SGMs were being destroyed by the smart bombs the Nighthawks dropped on Baghdad, and all of America watched it happen on their TV sets.

  Wakefield and I lived together for almost a month in that tiny apartment. We’d found safety and security in each other’s arms while the battle raged around us. We’d made love—a desperate, frightened, raw love; a love born from the circumstance and the death and destruction of war. When we finally left Baghdad and parted ways, I recall her saying only, “Maybe I’ll see you again, Alpha.”

  And I’d responded, “You can call me Granger.”

  Six years passed before I saw Agent Tammy Daniel Wakefield again. By then, I was married to Valerie and reporting to the CIA farm for training.

  *

  “Ron.”

  I heard my name and snapped myself back to the present moment. “What?”

  “Pay attention; I’m about to cover emergency protocols.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Sorry, you were saying? E
mergency protocols?”

  “That’s right. In case of catastrophic event outside our control, stick to the CIA playbook for damage control. Does everyone understand what that means?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Ignoring me, Wakefield asked, “Zach, what’s your damage control initiative?”

  “Uh, well, my particular area involves disinformation and clean up.”

  “A specific example would be?”

  “Well, an example would be in the case of a dead agent, I suppose. If the death is public, I’m to monitor local police activity, hack the local system, create a false identity for the dead agent to match the fingerprints the locals will take, and submit it to the IAFIS database.”

  “Very good,” Wakefield acknowledged. “That’s an extreme example and one we don’t want to deal with on this mission, but it’s not realistic to assume everything will go as planned. The protocol is in place for a reason.” Walking down the aisle, looking at each us, she asked, “Any questions?”

  The pilot’s voice came on over the speaker system, announcing our approach.

  “We’re on approach for Cologne; buckle up,” Tammy ordered, glancing at me. “Granger! What’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Yeah, I’m on it. Sorry,” I said.

  CHAPTER THREE

  COLOGNE, GERMANY

  “RON, WE’LL BE CLOSE by monitoring any activity around the building and the action inside on our earpieces,” Wakefield said. “If things go sideways, we’ll be there.”

  “Got it,” I said, “but I’m hoping this is an easy in and out. I think we’ve had enough trouble for a while.”

  “Agreed.”

  I nodded at Leecy and Val, saying my silent goodbye before opening the door to the van and walking to the address Jenny had given us. As I stood on the sidewalk in front of the building at thirty-three Portalsgasse, I looked left, seeing Hodges and Franks taking up position on the corner, and right, spotting Leecy and Val strolling arm in arm past the windows of a dress shop.

  I heard a click while reaching for the door’s buzzer and realized it was the sound of the front door unlocking. Scanning the façade of the semi-attached, three-story concrete building, I found the camera mounted near the roofline. It was aimed at the sidewalk and the entrance to the building, and I said loud enough for my earpiece to pick up, “Camera on the front entrance.”

  Inside the small, dingy lobby, I saw three doors. There was an old single-door elevator directly in front of me, flanked by frosted glass doors located on the adjacent walls.

  Both sets of glass doors opened and two men joined me, crowding into the small space. The man on my right was taller and heavier than me. His bald head was covered with beads of sweat. His t-shirt was soaked through and his hands were wrapped with yellow boxing wraps. His socks sagged beneath his enormous calves. The man on my left was my height, but twenty pounds lighter. Beneath his off-the-rack suit and tie, I could see the outline of a well-muscled man. I thought these two must be the MMA-types Jenny had warned me about.

  “What are you doing here?” the suit-wearing man asked me.

  “Yeah, you interrupted my training,” the larger man echoed, his droplets of sweat clearing away the grime on the floor, revealing the marble beneath. “Who the hell are you?”

  Smiling, I extended my hand to the suit wearer, saying, “Peter Heely, and you are?”

  Shaking my hand and looking confused, he answered, “Hector.”

  I offered my hand to the other man and repeated, “I’m Peter… and you are?”

  “You don’t want to know me.” He had to be six foot five, weighing a heavily-muscled 250 pounds.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “Sure I do, ‘cause we’re going to be working together.”

  Hector turned to face me after staring at his partner for a long moment. He was running his fingers through his jet-black hair.

  “Is that right? I’m not aware of anyone being hired.”

  “Oh,” I said, walking between them toward the elevator, “I haven’t been hired yet, but after your bosses hear what I have to say, they’ll hire me. And if you two play your cards right, I’ll keep you on staff when they put me in charge.”

  The elevator doors opened and a third man entered. Japanese, I thought, and about my size, wearing jeans, t-shirt, and cowboy boots. He put a hand on my chest.

  “Not so fast.”

  “Hi,” I said, taking his hand off my chest and shaking it. “I’m Peter Heely.”

  The three men closed ranks around me.

  Hector asked, “What is your business here, Peter Heely, and don’t tell me some crap about being hired?”

  Ignoring his question, I spoke directly to cowboy boots. “And who are you? Or are you like that guy,” I gestured toward the man in workout clothes, “and going to tell me I don’t want to know you?”

  “That’s right,” he said.

  “I’ll ask once more,” Hector said, his suit jacket flapping open as he pointed his finger at my face, revealing the shoulder holster and gun. “Why are you here?”

  Looking at Hector, I answered, “Is this how you treat all your guests? I mean, you did let me inside.”

  “We don’t appreciate people hanging around our front door,” cowboy boots said, “so we allow them access and then we persuade them to go away. That is, after we make certain of their intentions for being around our building to begin with.”

  “I see,” I said. I backed away from the three men in an effort to create space, but they matched me step for step.

  “So, Mr. Heely,” Hector began again as the group of three men stood shoulder to shoulder in front of me. I could smell their collective breath and the stench of sweat from the biggest of the bunch and made my move. Reaching inside Hector’s suit jacket with my right hand, I relieved him of his gun.

  Shoving the gun in the gut of the biggest man, I said, “You die right here right now if your buddies don’t back off.”

  With a look of shock on his face, he raised his hands shoulder height and said, “Back off, fellas. Just back up a step.”

  Grabbing the big guy by the arm and pulling him in front of me, I pressed the gun into the small of his back.

  “On your stomachs, all of you. Put your hands behind your heads.” Jabbing the big guy in the back again, I added, “That means you too, big guy.”

  “Easy,” Hector said. “Just take it easy, Peter. It is Peter?”

  With all three men on the floor, I answered Hector.

  “That’s right, but it’s too late to make nice. Shame, really, ‘cause I wanted to be friends. But at least now you know who you’re dealing with.” I kicked the big guy’s foot. “Isn’t that right, big fella? Now, who wants to tell me with whom I need to talk to about a job?”

  Silence.

  “Now, fellas, I have to say I’m disappointed. First, you ruin our chances at being friends with the tough guy act. I mean, has that ship sailed, or what?” I said, gesturing with the gun as I walked around the lobby. “And now, no one wants to talk. You three are putting me in a very awkward position. So I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll ask a few questions, and if you answer me, I think we can give being friends another chance, which I prefer. If you don’t answer my questions, I may have to shoot someone. Understand me?”

  “Put the gun down, and this is a different discussion,” the big guy barked.

  “Looks like we have our first contestant on Answer or Get Shot.” I kicked the big guy in the foot again. “Now, I’m going to start the game with you, and since you won’t tell me your name, I’ll call you ‘Big Guy.’” I moved a step to the left, and kicked cowboy boots in the foot, “And you, you’ll be contestant number two, and I’ll call you ‘Cowboy,’ okay?”

  Silence.

  “Now for the questions. If you don’t answer, I shoot Big Guy in the foot, then I’ll turn to you, Cowboy, and you’ll get a chance to answer. But remember, the same rules apply: I ask, you answer, or I work my w
ay up your bodies till I shoot something that’s really important, like, say, the femoral artery in your thigh. If you understand the rules, let me hear you say ‘I understand.’”

  “I understand,” rang out from Cowboy, followed by, “My name is Lee.”

  “Nice to meet you, Lee, but too little too late, I’m afraid.”

  Silence.

  “First question,” I said. “Who do I talk to about a job?”

  Silence.

  “Last chance to answer before I put a bullet in your foot, Big Guy. Who do I talk to about a job?”

  Silence.

  I slid back the slide on the Glock to check it, and there was a bullet in the chamber. Releasing the slide, I aimed at Big Guy’s foot and was about to fire when the elevator opened, revealing a man wearing a Blues Brothers suit, white shirt, and black tie.

  “That’s enough of that, sir. My name is Taka.” He paused, making a slight bow before gesturing toward the door on my left. “If you don’t mind following me?”

  I followed Taka toward the door on the left, dropping the gun on Big Guy’s back.

  Once we were through the frosted glass door, Taka paused in front of an interior solid steel door long enough to unlock it. The room we entered was long and narrow. I figured it was approximately half the width of the building, housing half a dozen work cubicles. Each cubicle contained an old 1980s-era desk and a computer from the early Nineties, and was covered in dust.

  Following him the length of the room toward the rear of the building, I passed a wooden door festooned with a nameplate that designated the space behind as Manager’s Private Office.

  Arriving at the back of the room, and almost the literal end of the building, I waited as Taka unlocked another door. This one, also made of steel, revealed a spiral staircase.

  “Please take the stairs to the top and enter the room you find there,” he said. “No need to knock; you’re expected.”

  Climbing the stairs situated in the center of the five-foot deep by twenty-foot wide rectangular space, I was surrounded by floor to ceiling swaths of red fabric. Once at the top of the stairs, I pushed open a five-inch thick, vault-like metal door. Entering the room, I was now walking toward the front of the CCP building from its rear. The overwhelming odor of incense filled the room and breathing it in reignited the dizzy feeling I’d felt after the explosion.