Out of Focus

Key Characters and CIA Agents

Key Characters and CIA agents (with code names italicized) are listed according to the name by which they are most frequently referred to in the novel. CIA Operation Doghouse agents’ code names were adapted from various species of dogs.

Basset - Agent Larry Ruggins; Agent Grey’s CIA partner

Blodt - a pilot for Global West Airlines

Cobrotti (Marcello) - head of a South American cartel

Doberman - a junior CIA agent

Edward Noble - the governor

Hunter (Craig) - the Chambers family attorney and a former agent

Jeff Ruggins - Basset’s son

Josh and Megan Grey - Michael and Morgan Grey’s children

Labrador - Agent Michael Grey, a senior pilot for Global West Airlines; Agent Ruggins’ CIA partner

Monteal (Bob) - Minneapolis Police Liaison for the CIA

Morgan Grey - Michael Grey’s wife

Nancy Ayn - a flight attendant for Global West Airlines

Nikki Chambers - Morgan Grey’s best friend and Tim Chambers’ wife

Nuño - a henchman in the Cobrotti cartel

Pitbull - Senior Controller of the Minneapolis/St. Paul office of the CIA

Salazar - the major conduit to Cobrotti’s South American cartel

Setter - Agent Jorge Santiago

Shirley (Ron) - a senior pilot for Global West Airlines

Terrier - Agent Bryan Noble

Tim Chambers - Michael Grey’s copilot

Tomosato (Jimmy) - Framing Photography Lab owner

Townsend (Johnny) - a former Vietnam War fighter pilot and POW

Turner (Lawrence) - a pilot for Global West Airlines

Table of Contents

Key Characters and CIA Agents.

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Epilogue

About Susan Egner

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Prologue

As Global Flight 700 flew toward its South American destination, the captain scanned the skies to the southeast. He didn’t like what he saw on the horizon. A line of thunderstorms loomed in the distance along their flight route and extended hundreds of miles to either side. He began to doubt the accuracy of the aircraft’s navigational system. He had flown to Sao Paola enough to be familiar with the Brazilian landscape and the terrain below was not familiar.

Verify our position, Dan, the captain requested of the copilot. We have plenty of fuel, but it’ll be getting dark soon. I don’t want to be screwing around in bad weather at night if we’re off course. There are too many mountains that could pose a danger.

As the first officer switched radio frequencies to check in with Brasilia Control, the captain commented, I’ll feel better when we’re in radar contact. It’s a big plus in mountainous terrain.

Brasilia Control, this is Global 700 maintaining 15,000 feet, transmitted the copilot.

A few seconds’ delay brought a weak response. Global 700, this is Brasilia Control. What is your position? Squawk IDENT!

Brasilia Control, responded the captain, Global 700, we are 200 NM northwest of Brasilia at 15,000 feet.

Global 700, I’ve got your IDENT but you are several miles west off course. Turn left thirty degrees to get back on course. There is heavy thunderstorm activity ahead.

As the airline crew complied and the aircraft made its turn, Brasilia Control came up again. Global 700, you have unidentified traffic at your two o’clock position. No altitude information.

The crew scanned the skies alert for telltale signs of another aircraft. A midair collision was always a possibility. Keep your eyes peeled, this is no place for a mishap, said the captain.

There he is at one o’clock! shouted the Second Officer. Christ, he’s going to hit us!

The cockpit crew tensed as the unfamiliar aircraft passed scant feet before them.

Shit, can’t that bastard see us? We’re only ten times his size!

I recognize that bird, that’s an old A4D Skyhawk, said the copilot. He’s camouflaged too. I haven’t seen one of those since Vietnam. Must be forty years.

Probably a Brazilian Air Force Jack, out hot-dogging, commented the captain, grunting as he picked up his microphone. Brasilia Control, Global 700. We’re clear of the traffic but need to report a near miss. One of your Air Force A4D Skyhawk’s just buzzed us.

Tower response was immediate. Global 700, we have no aircraft of that type in our Air Force.

Global 700, Brasilia Control, the aircraft is turning back in your direction. Do you have visual contact at your eight o’clock?

Three sets of cockpit eyes searched visible airspace for the rogue aircraft, but visibility was dwindling. Suddenly a glint of sunlight bounced off the intruder’s canopy.

The bastard’s making a gun run on us, alerted the captain to his crew.

Before the words had barely passed his lips a stream of tracers erupted from the A4D’s guns as he closed on Global 700.

As the captain banked hard to the left, the crew felt the shells hitting their aircraft.

Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! he transmitted as fire warning lights flashed for number one engine.

Jesus Christ! screamed the Navigator We’re going to die. He means to kill us.

The Skyhawk swept by in another pass spurring the captain to push up the power and head toward a giant thunderstorm, now only a few miles off. No pilot flew into a storm by choice but there were no other options.

The A4D Skyhawk was piloted by Johnny Townsend, disenfranchised Navy pilot, abandoned and captured in Cambodia in 1971. All pilots flying over East Cambodia knew that if they were shot down, the U.S. government would deny knowledge of their presence. Johnny knew this, but he was an ace and he loved combat flying. Years of training had not prepared him for the adrenaline rush that would accompany wartime flying. Or for the potential of failure. In fact he had never failed. Not until he was captured and held for seven years. Seven years to plan his revenge. And this time, failure was not an option.

But he cursed himself now for his haste in opening fire prematurely on the big airliner, giving its captain, none other than former Navy ace pilot Michael Grey, a chance to react: to turn toward him and cause him to overshoot. Michael Grey, the cat with nine lives. He’d been on the same mission with Townsend in Cambodia; but while Johnny was left to rot in a prison camp, Grey made it home, safe and sound. Well, not for long. Today was catch-up time.

He looked back as he pulled into a steep climb while executing a 180-degree turn that he knew Grey would recognize as a Chandelle, hoping for another pass, but cursed again as he watched his prey heading toward the towering thunderheads.

He must be mad. There’s no escape in that direction, challenged Townsend, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

He pulled his aircraft around and prepared for another pass. The Boeing 767 would be entering the clouds in a few minutes. Townsend’s orders had been specific: Global 700, piloted by Captain Michael Grey, to be destroyed at any cost. The meaning was clear, but Townsend had no intentions of being sacrificed for this mission. Not again. Never again! He didn’t care how much money his South American amigos threw at him. Townsend sighted-in on the 767’s cockpit and squeezed the trigger.

Get ready for the ride of your life when we take cover in that storm, warned the captain. Maybe we’ll make it. Tracers spewing across their path, then stopping suddenly interrupted him. Out of ammo or jammed, he breathed a sigh of relief as turbulent air began to lift and rock his craft. He watched in amazement as the Skyhawk banked and headed toward them once more. A steely coldness crept through his body cementing the truth of the situation. They were doomed.

Do something! his copilot screamed as the A4D closed on them. The captain wrenched the controls desperately, determined to take their stalker with them.

Townsend raced toward the lumbering airliner, madness lifting the corners of his mouth in a deathlike grin. No purple hearts from the Company for you, Commander Grey! he yelled, as he fell through the sky. On final attack, his eyes opened with the awareness of change. The two aircraft had reversed their roles. Just as Townsend dove in for the kill, the giant aircraft in front of him did the same. It banked left, rolling over like an elephant rolling on a mouse. The Skyhawk shrieked with the impact, and fuel escaped one ruptured tank like blood being let from an opened artery. Townsend caught just a glimpse in the 767’s cockpit, and his eyes locked in horror on the captain’s steely look as the four men entered eternity together. The ultimate failure!

Interlocking machines, like twisted puzzle pieces, somersaulted through the air as pelting rain washed the blood and tears from faces frozen in terror. Locked together, they fell to the earth.

The radar operator in Brasilia Control recited a Hail Mary as he reached for the telephone to report the atrocity that lasted only a few terror-filled minutes.

Chapter One

Central Intelligence Agent Basset had no idea what had caused the disturbance on the other side of the French doors, but it signaled danger. He had been mistaken that the house would be empty. Having created a disturbance within, he guessed correctly that a call to 911 would follow, and quickly vacated the area. He would have to wait for another opportunity to search his fallen partner’s house.

Until his purported death, Basset had been an active covert agent for the Minneapolis/St. Paul office of the Central Intelligence Agency. Older by a decade than other agents, he'd served twenty years as an Air Force officer before switching his government allegiance. His appearance contradicted the tailored stereotype of the military officer. Clothing, formal or casual, hung in awkward folds on Basset's bulky frame. His face lacked the patrician features typically found in persons of rank. He had an expansive forehead, broad cheekbones and a bulbous nose propped up wide, mismatched eyes; one brown, the other ocher yellow. When in public, a brown contact lens concealed the oddity.

What he lacked in personal aplomb however, he successfully achieved in diligent service. Self-discipline had pulled him through two days of raging fevers, tortuous pain and unconscious oblivion following his ejection from an exploding automobile. He had ebbed in and out of consciousness while he waited for contact from his partner, Labrador. As luck would have it, the twosome was thorough in their preparation for the unexpected. Basset’s second apartment, known only to Labrador, was no decorator's showplace but elaborately equipped as a state-of-the-art medical emergency room guaranteed to impress any ER surgeon.

Ejected from the detonated car by the physical force of the explosion, Basset was able to limp away unnoticed and board a bus as his exit strategy. Basset had leaned his head against the cold glass of the bus window, fearful that he'd faint at any moment. Neighboring passengers eyed him warily but when he returned their perusal, their eyes fluttered away like frightened sparrows. Blood oozed beneath his jacket, saturating his shirt and the left hip of his trousers. He prayed that no one would try to assist him when he rose to get off. He needed to contact Labrador!

The bus coughed to a stop, and Basset was relieved to see the street corner empty of people. He exited through the rear door and hurried along the sidewalk, away from staring eyes. As he approached his driveway, he pushed his left hand into his pocket and fumbled for his keys, thankful that the Agency preached separating house keys from car keys. He found them matted in his blood-soaked pocket.

He hadn't entered his garage apartment for over a year. The agency was unaware that he owned it, so it provided a sanctuary for him until he recovered from his injuries. Trained to avoid contact with doctors and hospitals, he kept the bathroom medicine cabinet well supplied for emergencies such as this.

As he eased the key into the lock, he surveyed the surrounding area for signs of overly curious neighbors. The workweek neighborhood was devoid of life. Everyone, husband and wife, sometimes children, was employed. It was an oddity of the area. Edina was considered one of the preferred, affluent residential areas of the Twin Cities. I'm from Edina, residents would say with pride. The statement conjured up images of palatial homes, servants and four-car garages when, in fact, a considerable portion of the Edina population was comprised of lower-middle-income families. Some were servants to the others, but all were from Edina. When he stepped into the silent apartment, he was greeted by stagnant air and an accumulation of dust of an uninhabited dwelling. Too cool to open a window, he switched on the ceiling fan and the ventilation fans in the kitchen and bathroom. He collapsed on the bed and fell into a comatose sleep.

When Basset awakened, he was surrounded by darkness. His head boiled. Sweat made his hands slippery as he struggled to turn on a light. His fingers groped for the switch but failed to grasp it. Uttering an expletive, he yanked the lamp off the table and into his lap. He turned the switch, flooding the room with light, and returned the lamp to the bedside table. Looking back at the bed, he noticed the wide circle of red. He'd lost a lot of blood. He needed to dress his wound.

He ripped off his jacket, then the shirt, half of which stuck to his injured side, wrenching raw flesh open. An animal howl of pain escaped his lips before he controlled himself. Head spinning, he turned on the television to drown-out his own sounds. As he did so, he watched pictures of his car burning where he'd left it. The press had arrived shortly after his departure. God, what if they had found him? Someone had known of his meeting with Meehan. Who had blown his cover? Should he contact Labrador?

Bracing himself against the hallway wall, he wobbled into the bathroom and eased his partially clothed body into the empty bathtub. He removed his shoes and dropped them to the floor. As the water gushed into the tub and immersed his body, he struggled to peel the blood-soaked undershirt, slacks and undershorts from his skin. A narrow, ragged gash opened his side from under his arm to the top of his hip. Pieces of flesh hung in tattered strips. He took a pair of surgical scissors and cut away the detached flesh. He soaked the area with hydrogen peroxide and fainted with the rush of hot pain. When he awakened, the overflow drain gurgled with bright pink water. He pulled the plug, pushed a towel against his ravaged body and climbed cautiously from the water.

After an hour of painstaking work, he'd managed to staple the wound closed, a skill taught at the agency, bandaged it with compresses and strips of butterfly tape and swallowed three painkillers. Sweat dripped from his forehead. His body convulsed. He pulled a blanket from a shelf and wrapped it around himself, climbed into his bed and pulled another sheet and quilt on top. He reached for the phone and punched in his coded number, which would appear in a matter of seconds on Labrador's digital pager. He replaced the handset and closed his eyes to wait. Pain pushed him into a fog of sleep

The duo trusted no one and was paranoid under the most minor scrutiny. Each comprised the perfect personality make-up of a spook. Traits not easily acquired in the classroom. They were always on guard and suspicious, always prepared for the unexpected and never easily convinced by the look of things.

Basset had married once. Though that marriage had ended in divorce after eleven years, it had produced one son. Jeff was a brilliant carbon copy of his father's intelligence but more generously housed in a handsome, athletic body. Basset, always the skeptic, chided himself for believing in miracles but Jeff was proof that miracles did happen. A delight of a boy who seemed to have no other purpose in life than to excel and please his father, crowning all his youthful accomplishments with acceptance to the United States Air Force Academy. Brimming with fatherly pride, Basset often struggled to take his eyes off his son, consuming his image whenever they were together as if eating a feast that might suddenly disappear. His heart swelled with this treasure that seemed to glow in its own special light.

Near the end of Jeff's third year at the Academy, Basset was deeply involved in drug surveillance with his partner, Labrador, a.k.a. Michael Grey. During a routine investigation they'd uncovered a drug sale that ultimately led them to the forty-eighth floor of the IDS Building, the tallest building in the Twin Cities at that time. Though Minneapolitans resisted, determined to keep their growing metropolis a familiar and comfortable hometown, the atmosphere was changing. As the city grew, expanding outward and upward, it acquired the sister sins of other growing urban areas. International flights, once connected by national flights to New York, LA or Miami, were now nonstop flights from Minneapolis, making Minneapolis a coastal city with its related problems. Drug running was one. CIA investigation revealed a suite of rooms at the top of the IDS purchased by the South American Cobrotti Cartel for use as a place of exchange.

Bring the money. Receive the goods, said Basset, his voice registering his irritation. So easy, no dark back alleys. No isolated wooded locations. No meetings in sleazy neighborhoods. Not for Cobrotti. No, he leases a penthouse suite overlooking downtown. One bank of windows looks down on police headquarters, for Christ’s sake.

Easy Basset, we’ll get ‘em. Never you fear, said Michael with his devil-may-care gusto.

Labrador and Basset had gotten lucky. That day, the day of Jeff's return, the two agents had positioned themselves in the IDS Building to apprehend two kingpins of the Cobrotti's billion-dollar drug industry. They waited. Each loaded for bear. Side arms sitting in holsters, fingers played with triggers of military issue assault rifles. Labrador was positioned by the elevator, Basset, by the window on the top floor of the exit stairway.

Basset stared out at the clear sky and waited, but his thoughts drifted to his son’s surprise arrival that morning. He had magically appeared at the kitchen door, dressed to the teeth in his stiffly pressed Academy uniform. Jeff had scored at the top of his class all three years and had just returned to Minneapolis for summer leave bearing his track ribbons, marksmanship medals and academic honors. Arriving one day earlier than expected, he surprised his father at the breakfast table.

I knew you'd be having coffee about now, said Jeff with a wide grin spread across his tanned face as he entered through the back door.

Jeff, I wasn't expecting you ‘til tomorrow. You nearly missed me.

The two hugged, and then Basset pushed his son to arm's length to inspect his appearance. Head shaved. Face tan and lean. All trace of the child removed in the rigorous three years spent at the Academy. The boy's shoulders were broader and muscles pushed at the creases in neatly pressed shirtsleeves.

You look fine, boy, real fine.

Hardly a boy, Dad, said Jeff, straightening his height to three inches taller than his father's. This here is a man! His fists thumped his chest gorilla fashion.

A military man, I'll be damned! How's it going for you? Basset asked.

Aw, it was tough at first. But I figured out the system. It gets easier. He popped two pieces of bread into the toaster and opened the refrigerator in search of orange juice.

I was going to shop today. Sorry, said his father.

You ought to drink OJ, Dad, and get off that caffeine. Stuff will kill you.

Father and son scuffled briefly; good humor always a part of their relationship.

Come on, we'll go down to the corner market. Roscoe will open early for you. You're his favorite, said Basset.

It was great having him home. Hard to believe with his rotten marriage and the endless hours required by the Company, that he'd turned out a boy like Jeff. A true miracle. One year until graduation, beyond which his son's future glowed with possibilities. He could be career Air Force or serve the mandatory time and maybe go into politics. With his good looks and easy style, he'd be a shoe-in come election time.

Standing by the emergency stairwell of the IDS, his attention lost in a pride filled daze over Jeff's potential, Basset missed the muffled sound of gunshots on the opposite side of the security door. The second, closer now, split the air with a loud crack and brought him back to full attention. As he turned from the window something streaked by but Basset had turned his back, pulled toward the door by a woman's screams in the hallway. As he eased the door open and stepped into the hall, Labrador shouted something. Doors banged open. Basset plastered himself against the wall, out of sight. He looked around the corner with one eye.

Salazar, one of Cobrotti's men, pushed two women in front of him, a gun rammed against each woman's neck.

Back off, he said. Short snaps of his wrists waved Basset back. Another man stood close behind Salazar. Basset recognized him as Nuño , another of Cobrotti's henchmen. He held a re-worked Uzi in his muscular hands and looked interested in shooting it. Basset backed against the wall. Labrador stood out of sight around the corner.

The silence in the hallway was deafening. When the elevator arrived and dinged open, the men herded the women into the small enclosure, Nuño now in front of his partner. Over his shoulder, Salazar said, Check the window again, Señor Basset. Señor Cobrotti sends you his warmest regards.

In every future arrest, Basset recalled this day. The door closed slowly, hiding the two grinning men. The two women, eyes wide with terror, moaned for help but remained obediently motionless and silent. Basset and his partner found the women unharmed and alone when they reached the first floor, their captors departed. In their place a crowd of people stood hushed on the sidewalk outside a bank of revolving doors. Labrador jostled two elderly women aside and opened the circle of onlookers.

On the pavement, they found a figure crushed into a small pile from impact following a fifty-seven-story drop. A large puddle of blood circled his head like a glistening red halo. One hand, outstretched as if to break his fall, bent backwards over its wrist, the fingers pointing to his elbow. An Academy ring adorned one finger.

Basset’s only reasons for living: Jeff and the Company. He never got over it. Nothing consumes a man more than the passion of resentment toward an injustice. Jeff was an innocent. The brutal death of his son spawned bone marrow hate that would govern the remainder of his career. A forever-warped personal agenda that would usher him toward his own destruction.

But two years had passed since Jeff's death, leaving only the Company as his focus for living. Now was the Company on the auction block too? He questioned himself harshly. Rage alone held death at bay for Basset while he'd hibernated in his secret apartment waiting for his wounds to heal. Only Labrador knew of his survival; had been his conduit to the outside world while his ravaged body healed without professional medical care. Labrador kept him supplied with medication and food. Held vigil when he sank into unconsciousness. Fed and bathed him. Once returned to the street, they'd kept his survival a secret, even from the Company. His car, rigged with an explosive device was reduced to a knot of twisted metal making examination of any remains an impossibility. Minutes before, Basset had picked up an airline informant for a short ride and some information. The snitch had bought Basset's slot in eternity. Labrador and Basset decided to keep his survival under wraps until they resolved the case. It was more than handy to have someone available whom everyone else thought dead.

Great back-up, Labrador had said.

Together they'd built a body of evidence from a fluke. Labrador, as a commercial airline pilot, had stumbled onto the linchpin to successful transportation of funds into the United States. A small, tight network of international airline pilots connected worldwide through their flight schedules. It explained the ease with which uncounted millions passed across international borders. They were a tightly controlled group and repeatedly one step ahead of the investigation known as Doghouse.

He and Labrador worked tirelessly to pull together the most remote connections. Tiny pieces of information woven over time created a sturdy fabric of collusion between numerous airlines and worldwide terrorist groups. A handful of people, already financially affluent, were becoming very, very rich. Only the pilots' source of information remained the missing link to the investigating twosome. When they found that link, that person, they would make their move.

In the last three months, however, their theory revealed flaws with no corrections. First.

Basset's own cover exploded when he nearly died in his detonated car. Who had pinpointed him? He grunted as he popped a brown contact lens in place to conceal his vapid yellow eye. What reason for his elimination? He grunted again, remembering Labrador's words.

Reason? The Brazilians were on to you. They wanted you dead, Labrador said.

But Lab, why me?

Labrador only shrugged.

You're at risk, too, Basset persisted. If they're after me, they have to be after you, too.

Labrador was unconcerned. They'd never considered a leak in the Company because Labrador remained untouched. Just figured they'd slipped up somewhere. That Basset had been singularly spotted.

Labrador as senior pilot for Global West created a perfect cover for the Company. At the time he started, it was a means of putting an agent in a variety of foreign cities without drawing unnecessary attention. Never had they suspected when Basset and Labrador first began their partnership, that airline pilots were the manipulators of worldwide terrorist funds. It was one of those lucky breaks that kept agents in the business. Labrador was an agent for just that reason. What had he said?

It's unpredictable, that's the incentive, he’d once said.

Incentive for what, for killing, for getting killed? retorted Basset, who had met Labrador after he'd discovered the death of a South American courier Labrador had been tailing.

I never planned to kill him, Basset, Labrador said, lifting his hands in innocence and flashing his toothpaste smile. He saw me. He wasn't a pro. Jesus, he bolted like a jack rabbit.

It could have brought everything down on our heads.

How? An old lady in a Volvo killed the kid. I never laid a hand on him, snapped Labrador.

The office didn't have a card on the courier? You were damn lucky.

You get too nervous, Basset. You and your details. You're turning into a little old lady, for Pete's sake. I'm not one of your rookies. I've gotten in and out of as many tight spots as you have.  I don't make mistakes.

I’m hardly in a position to follow up if something goes wrong. It's not easy being a dead man, Labrador.

Labrador softened his cocky tone. I know this is rough but once we fit all the pieces together, you get resurrected.

I read your rap sheet, said Basset, pushing away his envious urgings. You've never been bored in your life as far as I can see. I can't believe the shit you pulled as a carrier pilot. You really buzzed the wedding of that English Princess?

Labrador laughed.

She sent me a thank you note on royal note paper. He whistled, impressed with himself. Basset tried to exhibit contempt but his effort failed as a smile softened his mouth.