On Scope

25

Swanson stood before a mirror, hardly looking like his normal self. He wore stiff black leather shoes, black trousers and belt, and a black shirt buttoned to the neck, with no tie. A gold chain dangled loose around his neck. The new black leather sports jacket was still rigid around the shoulders, but a good fit overall. He had not shaved for several days, so there was stubble on his face, and his skin had been darkened with a spray tan.

Attacking someone who never set foot outside of his home was a difficult job, and Trident had supplied a set of CIA operatives for backup. Two field spooks arrived with a minivan filled with toys they would need, and they had pitched in with the high-tech surveillance. There was no longer any need to hold big binoculars for hours on end, because tiny microcameras that never got tired had replaced them, and listening devices could penetrate windows and walls. Even a small drone looked down with infrared eyes on the hacienda grounds from ten thousand feet and fed the images to monitors in the van. A computer program mapped the routes and timing of the guard details.

A third agent worked most days as a commercial makeup artist in Hollywood. In the movie industry, he went by the trendy one-word name Montaigne, but when the CIA needed his talents, he fell back into being plain old Mark Dixon, a former Army Ranger sergeant who could kick butt as well as cut hair.

Dixon had studied the photos of the guards and conducted some personal surveillance before he took Kyle and Coastie out shopping to buy what he called costumes for this one-act play. Back at the hotel, he set to work by trimming Kyle’s hair in a choppy way, then dyed it black and brushed it into some spiky peaks cemented in place with sticky goo. Some pieces of rubber and coloring gave Kyle deeper wrinkles around the mouth. The masquerade master had considered contact lenses to continue the dark color scheme, but Kyle refused. He would not chance anything happening to his vision, or the risk of wearing them if there was a fight. When Dixon was done, Kyle turned and looked at the mirror over his shoulder to see the back view.

“You look just like Zombie One,” Beth Ledford said, her arms crossed in satisfaction after her own afternoon of preparation. She didn’t look much like herself, either.

“I don’t know how the Zombies work in these clothes.” Swanson’s tight jacket had a bulge where the pistol rode in a holster on the right side. Everything about him was meant to be obvious and make him seem like just another flashy Eurocrook.

“It’s the intimidation factor,” explained Dixon. “All dressed in black, with a big gun and looking mean. Normal people will get out of the way.”

“Yeah. But the chain rattles and gets in the way.”

“The Zombies like their bling,” said Coastie. The hours of surveillance had given names to each of them. The Zombies were mercenaries from the Ukraine who had the overnight shift, with three around the house and two on foot patrol in the surrounding area. Kyle and Coastie and Dixon were betting that Swanson looked enough like a mercenary for a bluff to work.

Coastie was transformed with a long, curly wig, satin black, that fell to her shoulders, and a gypsy dress of green and white. The makeup artist darkened her eyebrows to match the hair and carefully applied mascara and lipstick. She wore low-heeled dancing shoes.

She was delighted with the new personality and preened before the mirror. “Ain’t we are a pair, buddy? Beauty and the Beast. I think this is just crazy enough to work. Say something in Ukranian.”

“Mene zavut Karl Vidal. My name is Karl Vidal.”

“That’s not going to get you very far.” She twirled and the skirts flared.

“All I have to do is get past the first sentence, then switch to grumbles and English.”

“Remember, guys, this all holds up for only a few seconds once you are under way. Keep any contact with others to an absolute minimum. I can fool a camera forever, but not a curious human eye.” Dixon wiped his hands on a small tower. “You look great. Maestro Montaigne has accomplished another masterpiece.”

There was a double knock on the door, and Coastie waited until Swanson and Dixon were both ready with pistols. “Who is it?”

“Calypso,” came the challenge code word. The other spooks had arrived.

“Broadway.” She gave the answer and unlocked the door.

“Wow. You look great,” said the agent they knew as Bob Smith, a genial six-footer with graying hair. “Let’s leave your trashy partner and go to the fiesta.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Coastie stood aside and let him look at Swanson.

“That will do, Gunny. That will do. All you need is garlic and onions on your breath. Good job, Montaigne.”

Swanson put away his pistol and took one last look in the mirror. He did not like what he saw, but that was the point. “Anything new on the surveillance?”

“Naw. They just did the shift change, and the Zombies are on deck right on schedule. The foot patrols should start in about five minutes. So, much as I hate to disappoint the lady and miss the music, we better go do our thing.”

One thing that Gary Leftwich loved about his wife, Ayla, was how proud she was to be an American. They had met in an Internet café in Turkey on a quiet night during his tour of duty at Incerlik, when the beautiful young schoolteacher with shining hair had helped the frustrated staff sergeant rescue the crashed chapter of a story he was writing. She loved the creative side of his personality, and he was enchanted from the start. Her name meant “Moonlight.” Before his time was done in Turkey, they were married in a base chapel.

In the States, Ayla dove into becoming a citizen with a ferocious intensity and had passed all of the tests with a will not only to succeed but to master the required information. He believed that she knew more about American history than he did, and she cared just as deeply about the country that had adopted her as did her husband, who currently held the rank of master sergeant in the Air Force and worked with secret operations at Fort Bragg.

Leftwich had arrived home tonight with a bouquet of flowers and the good news that a wonderful thing had happened: A powerful man in Washington had promised to break through the red tape of passport controls and bring Ayla’s mother over to live with their family so they could care for her and get her well again. In only two weeks!

She brought out some wine, and they were into the second glass when she noticed a bit of worry shadowing his eyes. “What is wrong? You are thinking on something.”

Leftwich finished his glass in a gulp. He got a kick out of listening to her accented English, which was too precise to have the sound of a native-born American. The story came spilling out in a rush, and Ayla hung on every fact, her face darkening as the minutes went by and he recounted the call from Doug Jimenez as closely as he could remember.

“Did you do anything wrong, Gary? By talking to this man?”

“No, I don’t think so. He was legitimate. The more I think about it, the more I think that he may have not been telling the truth. When I balked—”

“What means ‘bawkt’?”

“When I started to question why he wanted some specific information, he turned on me and threatened that your mother would not get the passport after all. Unless I cooperated.”

“Did he want secret information?”

“No, it wasn’t all that important. Just some routine material about a single flight. He kept telling me how important he was and that this was something — he didn’t say what — something he was doing as a favor for the SEALs down in Virginia.”

Ayla’s dark eyes were reflecting heavy emotional weather inside of her. “Why could this man not just go through regular channels to obtain this valuable information, if he is so powerful?”

“That, my dear, is one of the many things I’ve been asking myself. It was a strange call.”

She poured another glass of wine, took a sip, and set it carefully on the glass-topped coffee table. “I do not like this man, Gary. I do not believe we should trust what he said, for if he lied to you, and you turned over secret information, then our life could be damaged, yes?”

“I could go to prison. Yes.”

“Then we must report the contact to your commander. Annem, my mother, will just have to wait a little bit longer. She would insist on it, if she knew what was going on.”

They both got up and fell into each other’s arms, and Gary ran his fingers through her thick hair and gave her a kiss. “You are right. I was stupid. Look, honey, I have to make another call first, just to confirm something, then I’ll contact the duty officer. We will be OK, and so will your mom. I will work something out.”

Ayla pushed him back and waved her hands to shoo him away. “Go and do it now, Gary. We are not traitors to our country.”

Senior Chief Richard Sheridan had finished the workday, satisfied that his SEALs were ready for whatever the world might throw at them. Then he signed out and went home to see his real gang — his wife of fifteen years and their four daughters and a bunch of pets. At work, he was the hard-nosed Rockhead, who never cut anyone a break. His training-ground voice could peel paint. At home, he discarded both the uniform and the granite persona and entered a special place where the ladies ruled, and he loved them without reservation. It was pizza night, and when he was cleaned up enough to be deemed acceptable, they all piled into the SUV and headed out to a cheap family-style restaurant where everybody sat at long tables and helped themselves to plates of pizza, salads, and Italian food. He was a happy man until the telephone on his belt buzzed. He looked at his wife, who stared back at him, more than aware that danger might be calling. When he read the number, however, he winked at her. Personal call. Nowhere important was blowing up.

He unfolded the phone as he left the girls and stepped outside for some quiet space beside the beach. “Sheridan,” he said.

“Senior Chief Richard Sheridan?” It was a man’s voice, crisp but with some stress.

“That’s me. Who is this?”

There was an audible sigh. “My name is Gary Leftwich. I’m an Air Force master sergeant over at Pope Field. Your headquarters gave me your private number when I convinced them this was official business. Sorry if I disturbed your evening.”

Sheridan kicked at a rock. “OK, Master Sergeant. What’s on your mind? How can I help the Air Force tonight?”

Leftwich gave a short laugh. He liked this guy. “I’m calling about your request to Senator Jordan Monroe, Senior Chief.”

Rockhead felt something shift in his stomach, and it wasn’t pizza. “Let’s make it Rockhead and Gary. I haven’t asked Monroe for a damned thing. In fact, I have personally told him this very day to go to hell, not in those exact words, of course.”

As Leftwich began to lay it out, Rockhead Sheridan staked out a place on a wooden bench away from the crowd. His wife would come looking for him in a little while, and he knew she would understand the sudden change. As if on cue, she came out of the pizza place and brought him a slice of pepperoni and a fresh beer, then left him alone.

Sheridan pushed Leftwich for more details, breathing deeply to calm himself; the senator and his punk assistant had tried to roll a couple of patriots with a bizarre carrot-and-stick approach. Bad mistake. Instead of being a weak link, Leftwich and his wife were strong and determined to right the wrong.

“OK, Gary. I think I’ve got it all now. The next steps are easy. This is a national security matter for real, and some shit is going to hit the fan. You and your wife don’t have to worry. You are in the clear. You were jobbed by a big-time liar, but you picked up the smell and reported it to me almost immediately. Hell, before it’s done, you may get a commendation. Those bastards.”

“Good to hear that, Senior Chief.”

Rockhead could almost envision the man’s relief. “I want you to keep it under wraps for now. Don’t file an official report, because we don’t know the reach of these people. I’m going to holler up the special ops stovepipe and make this information known to those who count in the Pentagon, the State Department, on Capitol Hill, and in the White House.”

“Jesus Christ,” breathed Gary Leftwich.

“Yeah. Him, too,” Sheridan said. “One last thing. We have to get your mother-in-law out of harm’s way so she can’t be used to punish you. Once I get this rolling, she will be protected by the Turkish police until State can hustle her onto a plane to Virginia. That’s a SEAL promise.”

“I owe you big, Rockhead.”

“Bullfeathers. Your nation owes you, Master Sergeant Leftwich, and I’m buying the beer next time up in Fayetteville. I want to meet your family.”

Senior Chief Rockhead Sheridan folded his phone and drained the bottle, then walked back to the smell of pizza and good times. His wife smiled, and he winked. Family first; calls later.