Russell Blake - Betrayal

Arthur nodded, raising a cloth handkerchief to his mouth to blot the saliva that had begun welling in the corner. “I would expect nothing less.”

“And you’ll supply me with whatever resources I need to pull this off, without question.”

“No. I reserve the right to question. I won’t just write you a blank check.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. “No interference, though. I won’t be second-guessed by agendas that differ from my prime objective. I’ve seen that too many times, and it can get you killed.”

“That’s reasonable. Terminate the target, and get the diamonds back. There is no additional agenda. That’s it,” Arthur stated flatly.

“Then we have a deal. Once I am successful, I get my daughter back, the million dollars, and we’re even. No surprises or strings. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

The big SUV took Jet to a safe house in Manassas, Virginia, where she found a simple but comfortable two bedroom residence with a fully-stocked fridge — a marked improvement over the damp cell she’d woken up to. A CIA physician was waiting for her when she arrived, and explained to her that she would need to get a tracking chip implanted under her skin near her shoulder as part of her arrangement with Arthur. She couldn’t think of any easy way to avoid it, so she sat in the offered chair and stoically allowed the doctor to insert the microchip.

The procedure only took a few minutes, and then he and the two agents that had accompanied her left, one of them advising her on the way out that they would be in a parked car only a few yards away if she needed anything.

Even though she was tired, she resolved to go through the files that sat on the dining room table, along with a laptop computer for her use. She assumed that everything she did was being watched or tracked — that would be standard procedure in a safe house. It wasn’t worth trying to spot the various hidden cameras that were sure to be in every room. She couldn’t do anything to disable them that wouldn’t result in immediate problems, so she would have to make the best of being a virtual prisoner, albeit one with clean sheets and freshly-squeezed orange juice in the refrigerator.

Jet picked up the first folder and fell into an overstuffed reclining chair in the living room and then switched on a lamp next to it. A prominent Top Secret stamped across the top and bottom greeted her when she extracted the file.

Flipping it open, she found five photos grouped together on a contact sheet, followed by six more head shots of a Caucasian man in his early forties. Blond in some of them, brown-haired in others, a chocolate brunette in still others. Neutral features that had likely been rendered even more so by cosmetic surgery — field agents were often made to look generic so as to better blend into any situation and draw no attention. Hairstyles changed across the photos, with side parts replaced with a longish shag that gave him a vaguely bohemian look.

Most of the photos were taken from passport and official identification shots. His eyes varied in color as much as his hair, ranging from blue to green to brown.

She appraised him and saw a decent-looking, completely generic white man with no distinguishing qualities — a chameleon. Designed to be the perfect operational asset, capable of convincingly being a businessman one week, a tourist the next, a professor the following one, a journalist or doctor or attorney at whim. She supposed, somewhere there was a file at the Mossad with similar photographs of her, although David had sworn that none of the team existed in the official records. Like so much of what he’d professed, she now doubted the veracity of his assurances.

The target’s name was Matthew Hawker. Matt, to his ex-colleagues. His list of aliases ran two pages.

Forty-four years old, born in Philadelphia, recruited from college after serving a stint with the American Army’s ultra-elite Delta Force commandoes, his service record while in the army classified, but with a short note that he was an expert in special operations, insertions, explosives, sniping, and every kind of weapon. Scuba certified. A pilot’s license dated three years after his honorable discharge. A bachelor in international business from Hampton University. Spoke fluent Vietnamese, Thai and Cantonese from having been raised abroad by parents who had been with the U.S. diplomatic corps. No further elaboration on what positions they’d held.

Hawker’s first assignment in the field for the CIA had been in Cambodia, where he had been stationed undercover as a small time exporter, collecting data on strategic targets in the region and developing a network of informants. From there he moved around, to Vietnam, and then ultimately to Thailand, where he had been the most senior field agent in-country. The operations he was involved in were classified at a higher level than the file could reveal, but she could read between the lines with Myanmar right across the border. A senior field agent with these skills would have been involved in information gathering, insurgency sponsorship, and assassinations — whatever was required.

He’d been offered promotions to desk positions in Langley three times over the last four years and had declined them all. Apparently, Hawker liked to play the field. She understood the type of personality — once you lived in the parallel reality that was covert ops it was hard to ever go back to living any kind of a normal life. It was addictive, even if hazardous to one’s health.

She looked at the photos again and noted that his eyes had the same flat, expressionless gaze that her photos always had. A professional skill learned early. The eyes were indeed the windows to the soul, and one of the first lessons had been that it was best to shutter them at all times.

Hawker’s personal relationships were limited to casual girlfriends that never got serious — the story she knew all too well from having lived the life. You avoided entanglements and compartmentalized everything — there was no way of knowing on any particular day whether you would be redeployed the next, or have to run. It was a difficult existence where an operative was an island unto himself, isolated from all the usual connections that humans naturally sought out. For that reason, her relationship with David had been forbidden and would have provoked immediate consequences, had it ever been discovered. You could never grow close to anyone. It was dangerous, and endangered your partner. Better to keep it limited to the superficial, never growing attached.

Nothing in Hawker’s background suggested anything but a model agent. There could have been no warning that he would betray the master he’d served obediently for close to two decades.

His last assignment wasn’t described in the file. Which was understandable. At some point, all documentation became vague as an agent became immersed in more sensitive areas — as Arthur had intimated, in affairs that required discretion and deniability.

She pored over the information again, committing it to memory, and then stretched and yawned. It was two in the morning. The rest would have to wait till the following day.

Jet locked the front door deadbolt, slid the security chain in place and peered through the window. The two agents were hardly visible in their government sedan. She padded to the bedroom, took a quick shower and brushed her teeth — making a mental note to go shopping soon and get some clothes. Hers were due for a change.

The bed was blissfully comfortable, and she was asleep within a few minutes of her head hitting the pillow. The cameras and eavesdropping devices recorded her tossing and turning several hours later, along with a few muffled cries as her slumber was disturbed by visions of her daughter being torn from her bosom, and of a white-tufted monster covered with scar tissue tormenting her as she lost her grasp.