Dark Vessel (COIL Book 4), page 3
"One last job for you, Terry." I gave him a piece of paper and a fifty-dollar bill, interrupting his count of other bills I'd already given him. "Here's cab fare. All this stuff should fit in the trunk and back seat. I need everything delivered to this address, the underground garage. Wait one hour for me there."
"What's in it for me?" He was a hustler. There was a chance he'd simply resell my stuff and I'd never see him again.
"Five Benjamins."
"It's your money." He shook his head as if I were insane, and started to bundle the items in the tarp. The generator was by far the bulkiest item, but all of it weighed probably no more than one hundred and fifty pounds, I figured.
I hadn't walked through Marcus Garvey Park for years, and since I hoped to use its sparse trees and scattered bedrock terrain as a meeting place later that day, I decided to scout the area. The pathways were empty, though an occasional pile of clothing here and there identified a homeless person lying off the path against boulders or under bushes.
To get close to General Forglade, I'd have to go over his head for the bluff I had in mind. That meant I had to get close to New York Senator Nettleton, the man who held the purse strings to everything from airport security to the Coast Guard. This chairman of the Subcommittee for Domestic Oversight was a powerful man, levels above whoever had carried out the TaTD attack on me. The senator's name was fresh on my mind since Senator Nettleton had recently replaced the late Senator Shannon Griffin as chairman four months earlier. Everyone knew who held the money.
Getting close to Senator Nettleton would be difficult to do quickly as myself, and next to impossible as an anonymous and supposedly deceased ex-spook. But God managed the impossible every day, so I anticipated His guidance and merely looked ahead.
In the distance, I saw a man in a business suit sitting on a park bench. As I drew closer, though, I could tell the man had a strange stare off to the side, and he didn't look at me as I approached. Perhaps he was a husband who'd blown his check on booze, and was too ashamed to go home to face his wife. Or maybe he was a Wall Street broker contemplating suicide after an unsettling day on the trading floor.
These hypotheticals reminded me that my own problems weren't so terrible, and that God had equipped me with the tools from His Word to manage through this life. But some lacked the faith or skills, and I was there in that park on that dark morning for a reason. I had an hour before I was to meet Terry downtown, so I stopped at the bench.
"Hard to imagine," I said in my natural voice, "that millions of people live all around us. How peaceful this spot is, huh?"
I sighed as I sat down beside him. From the corner of my eye, I saw the wind ruffle his hair. The man had a one-hundred-dollar haircut, and his navy suit was nothing cheap, either.
Leaning forward, I noticed even in the reddish glow of lights through the fall trees, that his cheeks were deathly gray. And then I realized . . .
Feeling a little foolish, I checked the pathway for walkers. Someone could come over the knoll any second and see me with the dead man. I didn't need that trouble!
Rising, I checked the bike path again. Maybe I needed to look at this as an opportunity.
Before I could argue against my impulse, I once again strained against my stitches as I drew the dead man over my shoulder and carried him into the trees. I dropped him gently into the leaves and searched his pockets for a wallet. Holding his ID up to a sliver of park light, I saw his name was Tom Channing. Fifty-seven. Business cards for an upholstery shop in Morningside Heights. And faded pictures of a wife and two grown boys.
My mind reeled at the possibilities. It really was just like Berlin all over again when the US had used a bluff to develop a cover. This man had evidently died from a heart attack, from the way his left hand was clutching his chest. With the right spin, I realized Tom Channing could be my ticket into Senator Nettleton's good graces. I was trained for this moment.
It was the second time in as many days that I'd hoped a dead man could provide me some advantage. First, parolee Roy Turpin, and now this man, Tom Channing.
I dialed one of my disposable phones before I over-analyzed the situation. After twenty minutes and three phone numbers, I finally heard a human voice on the line.
"My name is Peter Mitchell," I said quickly, as if in a panic. "This is an emergency for Senator Nettleton. Connect me, quickly! Please!"
This time, I was transferred, and a sleepy-sounding man answered after two rings.
"This is Chang."
"Chang? Who's Chang? I asked for the senator! This is an emergency!"
"Easy, easy! I'm Senator Nettleton's assistant and advisor. No one gets to him except through me. Now, what's going on?"
"My name is Peter Mitchell with the Weltersand Operation."
"The what?"
"The Weltersand Operation. Come on! For four months, I've been hanging out here, waiting for you guys to make contact!" I coughed into the mouthpiece. "Now they've started to kill us off. They got Tom earlier tonight. I'm standing over his body right now! And it all points back to the senator!"
"Whoa! You have a body there? Where are you exactly?"
"Marcus Garvey Park, near the—"
"Don't say another word. I'll be there in twenty."
Shutting off the phone, I knew that a dead body would always get a politician's attention. I had twenty minutes to fine-tune my plan—forty minutes before I had to meet Terry for my gear. It was going to be a busy night.
*~*
Chapter 5
I awaited on the bike path in Marcus Garvey Park and prayed for guidance as men in overalls and some in suits approached me from various angles. Three of the five who were advancing in the early morning darkness had drawn firearms, though they had them aimed at the ground.
One of the lead men was a short Asian—probably Chang, Senator Nettleton's personal assistant. During the twenty-minute wait, I'd looked up Rod Chang in the CIA's database. I didn't need a back door into their servers to access intel; I had only to recall past agents' passwords or old covers of mine that had yet to be deactivated. Sometimes mismanagement could be an asset.
With a subtle nod, I let Chang know that I was indeed waiting for him. Understanding, he approached me directly as his four men established a perimeter. Chang had been a research analyst for the CIA's subversive logistics division. He was no fool.
"Mitchell?" he asked. As I had researched him, he'd surely done the same with the name I'd given him. This Peter Mitchell was an ex-Green Beret from Alabama. I'd used the cover off and on for twenty years.
"That's right." I glanced over my shoulder. "Sorry if I seem skittish. That's two of our guys dead inside a week. I haven't showered in two days; been too afraid to hole up anywhere."
"You'd better explain yourself, Mitchell. I know who you are. Years ago, you trained down in Birmingham with the 21st. Take your time and tell me what's happened."
"Actually, it was the 20th in Birmingham," I corrected, appreciating the test. "Senator Griffin had my boys and me tracking personnel under an op called Weltersand. Weltersand was initiated to investigate the Tactical anti-Terrorist Division. The senator had evidence that the Division had been compromised."
"That's General Forglade's baby." Chang turned his head and I followed his gaze to see two more men emerge from the trees. One was pushing a wheelbarrow. "You said something about a body?"
"This way." I led him and his men off the path to where I'd left the dead man. "Senator Griffin said if I couldn't get hold of him, I could trust Senator Nettleton. When Griffin died and you guys never contacted me, I realized Nettleton's office might not know how to contact the Weltersand operators."
We reached the body. Chang knelt and studied Tom Channing's face and position.
"I'm not familiar with Weltersand," Chang said, "but Griffin and Senator Nettleton were friends. This guy was one of ours? Expensive suit."
"His name was Tom Channing." I knelt next to Chang, shoulder to shoulder. His men remained paces away, keeping the area secure. "His cover was an upholstery shop in Morningside Heights. He had a wife and two grown kids. We were hiding in plain sight, but when Senator Griffin died, we all got jumpy. Our investigation into the TaTD continued, but my daily activity reports were no longer logged by a handler. That stopped almost four months ago."
"Get me copies of those DAR's," Chang said.
"We've been burned." I shook my head. "My network's shattered. Everything we had was in Tom's upholstery shop, or maybe he had it on him tonight. He told me he needed to clean out, just to protect his family. They knew nothing, of course."
Chang searched Tom Channing's body until he found the wallet I'd replaced. He studied the ID then pocketed the man's wallet.
"Looks like a heart attack."
"Yeah, looks like it. My guess is ricin." I touched Tom Channing's cold cheek. "Whatever it was, it's probably untraceable. Our rendezvous was for midnight, but he's been dead for hours."
We stood and backed away as Chang's men in overalls loaded the body into the wheelbarrow, covered it with leaves, and wheeled it away. It was a much more efficient cleaning crew than I'd anticipated. Chang and I walked slowly along the paved path past the bedrock.
"You said two deaths in a week. Who's the other?"
"Just a contact we had. Corban Dowler. Died in a car bomb in the Bronx two nights ago."
Stopping, Chang stared at me.
"There's been a lot of buzz about that. Dowler was a CIA man. One of the best, it's said." He bit his lip and browsed the park. "A lot of details will be missing about his life if I dig into his past. I should know because I was with the Agency at the end of Dowler's career."
"Well, we know the TaTD was behind these deaths," I said. "Tom Channing was just a minor asset for the investigation into the Division, but Dowler was no slouch."
"The TaTD recently petitioned for next year's budget. It's on Senator Nettleton's desk right now. He'll want to know everything you have on this investigation—Operation Weltersand." Chang offered me a business card. "Extension 421. Memorize it. You wire me everything you have by noon. Got it? Even if it's been stolen and you have to spew it from memory. Unless I need to bring you in to debrief you?"
"I'll probably be safer in the shadows for now." We shook hands. "If General Forglade knows you're onto him for these deaths, he'll do whatever he can to protect himself."
"Let him try," Chang said. "There's nothing else important on my desk until this TaTD issue is sorted out, but I need to hear from you later today. I can requisition Dowler's body, but your intel can link this all together. We'll burn down General Forglade's little empire if we need to, but I want everything verified first."
"You'll get everything I've got by noon. If I do need to come in officially, you might think about assigning me as a Department of Defense agent. I'll be in touch," I said, then turned and walked away. I didn't have to look back to know that I was being followed.
#######
By the time I lost my tails by swapping taxis throughout Manhattan, I was thirty minutes late to meet Terry in the underground garage. It was four-thirty in the morning when I walked up to Terry and my tarp of gear. However, Terry wasn't alone.
"Terry, I appreciate you waiting." I drew out a wad of cash and counted the bills in the view of four other thugs, presumably Terry's friends from Harlem. "Promised you another five hundred, right?"
"It was more trouble than that." Terry stepped around the gear and glanced at his pals, who began to surround me. "We'll need everything you've got on you."
"Everything I have on me?" I chuckled, playing the naive suburbanite until the real me was required. With an unsuspecting itch to my left elbow, I dislodged a pen-shaped device from my forearm under the sleeve, which then slipped into my palm. "If you need more cash for food or rent, I'm sure we can work something out."
"Well, it's been worked out already. Hand it over."
I didn't see any weapons. They probably didn't want my blood on their hands, but I wasn't taking any chances in the isolated garage.
A youth in a hoodie on my right reached for me first. I grabbed his arm and roughly drew him stumbling across in front of me. As he passed, I poked him once in the back through his clothes with the tranquilizer.
Two came at me at once, from the back and front. I kicked blindly at the one behind to buy time, then parried a punch from Terry. The pen jabbed into his forearm, then I let him go. The first man to receive a drop of neuro-inhibitor into his bloodstream was seizing on the ground, but the others were blinded by adrenalin, seeing only me in their tunnel vision.
Terry fell, and I went on the offensive. One man backed away, but I caught his jacket and pricked his neck. Before I could face the last two, a blow glanced off my left shoulder. The camel coat absorbed most of the impact, but I was still bruised to the bone. While he frantically slapped and jabbed at my face, I stepped closer and kneed him in the side. The pen poked him in the shoulder as he twisted away.
The last man, with fear on his face, held a knife leveled at my gut.
"Your friends aren't dead." I retracted the needle tip of my pen, then stowed the weapon up my sleeve again. "I'll give you one hundred dollars for that buck knife, and you can walk away. Your friends'll be awake in twenty minutes."
He shifted his feet, his eyes on my handful of twenties.
"Terry said you'd be easy money."
"Nothing is free, buddy. Cash for your knife. Drop it."
"Maybe you'll . . . do something to me." He gripped and re-gripped his blade.
"I'm a Christian, you understand? Even though you have assaulted me, I'm willing to forgive and help you. Look, I'm offering you money for your weapon. This is a crossroads for you. You and your boys can take this opportunity to undergo some changes. The next guy you try to rob may not be so gracious."
"Yeah." Hesitantly, he set the knife on the concrete. I handed him the money. He gave one final look at his friends, then ran away.
Checking my watch, I set the timer for fifteen minutes, when the first of the thugs would start waking up. I needed to be out of sight—with my gear. My car was parked a few spaces away, but that was no hiding place. Somehow, I needed to get upstairs to the seventeenth floor apartment, with over one hundred pounds of gear.
*~*
Chapter 6
"One . . . two . . . one . . . two," I said in cadence. "Good, Ruth. Steady. One . . . two . . ."
My roommate's name was Ruth Holland. With the promise of household provisions, she'd agreed to help get the gear upstairs. Using my nylon rope, I'd hooked the tarp of gear to the other end, and we were hauling it a draw at a time up the side of the building to our balcony.
"Almost there," she said through clenched teeth. Since I was heavier, her one-hundred-and-ten-pound frame was in the front and I anchored the line. "There! We got it!"
A moment later, I dragged the bundle over the balcony railing and dropped it onto the floor. Almost greedily, Ruth unwrapped the tarp to see what goods I'd brought us.
"This way, Wilbur won't know what we have." She laughed. "He'd probably charge us more if he knew you had money for— Whoa!"
I slid the solar generator aside.
"Let this charge for a few hours here on the balcony, then we'll have electricity. Here are some candles, a cooler for our food, more blankets, and other things."
"Can I . . . ?" She looked up at me, her brown eyes watering. "Can I use some of this stuff?"
"Anything you want, Ruth. It is for you and Jenny. How about this: you are in charge of everything. Situate it, then tell me what else we might need before I go out next time."
By the time I'd set up the generator and battery pack on the balcony, the sun was above the East River. Though I was exhausted, and feeling my bruises and wounds, I'd committed myself to Chang's investigation into General Forglade. I sat against the wall on my side of the room as Ruth fussed over the provisions. Using the keypad on the cell phone from the safe house, I typed a lengthy report to Chang.
The body of Tom Channing had created an opening for my bluff with Chang. A dead body and a story—mixed with shreds of truth—had a way of convincing people to believe. Yes, I'd bluffed Chang and Senator Nettleton's office like a fisherman baited a hook, but it wasn't all bluff. Already, General Forglade and the TaTD might be feeling the heat. Though the death of Tom Channing would never be decisively tied to the TaTD, with people poking around my own supposed death, my enemies would certainly be getting concerned.
With a careful eye, Chang could've even discovered by then that I was indeed Corban Dowler, if he'd compared my old service photo with that of my cover identity, Peter Mitchell. Chang had been the only one in the park close enough to see my features. Even then, my black, spiked hair, bushy, dark eyebrows, and goatee might've thrown him off. It didn't matter now. The investigation was rolling. If Chang did figure out who I really was, he'd spoken highly of Corban Dowler, the deceased ex-agent. I doubted he'd blame me for my improv.
"Look, honey!" Ruth juggled a bottle in front of the wide-eyed baby. "Shampoo! You get a real bath today! Yes, you do!"
I connected to three international proxy servers to send my report to Chang. The text detailed General Forglade's request to use the alias, Muhammad ibn Affal. When the general had been denied access to use it for whatever operation he was working on, he'd retaliated by targeting the possessor of the alias, the ex-agent named Corban Dowler. These were serious accusations against a general.
My moves thus far had been risky, but the next one would be even more precarious. Nothing, I imagined, would be more destabilizing to my enemies than for them to see their plans fall apart without understanding why.
Since I guessed their whole plan had been to use the Muhammad ibn Affal identity, I needed to stop them before irreparable damage was done to that cover. Lives and livelihoods depended on it—people whom General Forglade had so casually dismissed—but I wouldn't let those lives go so easily.
