Dancing Bare

PROLOGUE

The headlights of the old truck bounced from skyward into the ground as it lurched and rocked over the unpaved weather beaten road. The two passengers bounced hard on the squeaky seats with broken springs sometimes hitting their heads on the ceiling.

Must we go so fast? the stranger said.

I drive this road every day and believe me it doesn’t help to go slower, it only takes longer, said the driver, My name is Abdul-Hakim, but you probably know that.

I am Ali, the stranger said.

Ali? Abdul said.

Just Ali. Your brother promised me you know every road and alley in town and you know the location of all the Army outposts and rebel strongholds. He says you drive through them with impunity every day.

Impunity? There’s a good word.

How is it you can do this thing without getting shot?

Chickens. I sell chickens to both sides, all sides, even the Christian rebels. I drive through the outposts and strongholds almost every day. If they move, I ask around and go find them again.

You know where we are going and how to get there?

Like the back of my hand, but that part of town has been abandoned for weeks. What’s your business there?

You shouldn’t ask so many questions. It might shorten your life.

We are here, Abdul said as he stopped the truck in a narrow dark alley.

Where?

That building on the left.

Suddenly, there was a pistol pressed against Abdul’s temple. As Ali loaded a round into the chamber, Abdul trembled uncontrollably.

Abdul, you will be here when I come back no matter how long it takes. If you are not here, I know where you live and I will find you and kill you. If you try to hide, I’ll kill your family, and then I will find you, Ali said.

Don’t worry. I’ll be here even if I am dead, Abdul said.

Ali el-Aziz sat in the darkest corner of a sandstone hovel, ravaged by artillery the night before. Moonlight flooded the doorway and much of the room, but not a sliver touched Aziz as he sat cross-legged on the floor waiting for his visitors. Now and then, he heard footsteps on the rocky gravel road outside. He could tell from their pace, scuff, and stagger they were dodging from doorway to doorway so as not to be seen. Syria was at war, at war with itself. Some of the rebel factions were as dangerous as the regular Army. He would not be here if not for his burning desire to punish the infidels in the United States and rain a new terror on their putrid American lives. He could only hope his visitor would make it through the roadblocks and snipers along his way.

Aziz heard two sets of footsteps coming that were different; the fools did not dodge the rebels’ eyes as they ran, although they had their own unique, irregular patter. The one with the staggered gait sounded like an old or injured man with a tendency to drag one foot. The other sounded like a short-legged young sprout with small nimble feet. If they were not more careful, they might lead the rebels’ right to his hiding place. Their hurried footsteps got closer and suddenly they were in the doorway, an old man and a boy silhouetted by the moonlight. The young silent boy lugged two large suitcases and was clearly exhausted from carrying them. The old man looked bent and exhausted just from the trek alone.

Aziz? whispered Yakob Gazzara. Aziz, we are here.

Aziz recognized the voice of the old man.

Aziz thought Christians, infidels, but they serve His purpose.

Who is this piece of snot you have with you? Aziz said.

It is only my poor idiot grandson. His idiot friend picked up a mortar shell and now he cannot hear and he can only see through one eye. I think he is simple, but I cannot carry this burden so far. Please forgive me, Aziz. I am your humble servant.

If you brought the goods as promised, then there will not be a problem.

I have, I have, exactly as you directed.

Aziz leaned forward so the moonlight lit his face, but not the pistol he clutched tightly under his robe.

Bring it here and show me. Sit down, both of you. I want to see your faces and know the truth or treachery in them.

No, Aziz, no. There is no treachery here in my face or in my heart, and the boy is not smart enough to deceive anyone.

I warn you. I have men just around the corner waiting for my call. Do not test me. Show me what is in the cases.

Yakob Gazzara sat down cross-legged on the floor and signaled his grandson to put the cases before him. The boy had one eye closed by recent scar tissue. Gazzara opened the first case and tipped it forward for Aziz to see into it.

No, you idiot! Do not spill them out.

They cannot spill out, see.

Gazzara reached inside and slid out a finely machined aluminum cylinder.

See. The globules are encased in aluminum for shipping. Now, watch this.

Aziz moved his seat back, putting more distance between him and the old man. Gazzara slowly and carefully unscrewed the top of the aluminum cylinder, removed a piece of foam, and slid out something wrapped in foam. He carefully unwrapped it to reveal a sealed hand-blown glass globule.

Hold it in the moonlight so I can see it.

Gazzara held it high in the moonlight and it showed the globule contained a clear liquid. Aziz moved closer.

That could be water. How do I know it is not?

Would anyone go to such risk and cost for water?

How many containers are there?

Twelve cylinders, they are all the same. They used only the highest quality precursors and stabilized it with aluminum. As long as the sarin is inside the globules, it has a shelf life measured in years. Once the sarin is removed to another sealed container, its lifetime is still twelve months.

Gazzara carefully wrapped the tear shaped bubble in its foam packing and slid it back into the cylinder. He screwed the cap back onto the aluminum cylinder and expelled a sigh of relief.

Aziz, how many more would you like to see? I swear on my mother’s eyes they are all the same and to drop only one would end us all within a minute: an agonizing death.

No, I have seen enough.

Then, perhaps, I could see the gold?

"Of course . . .

Aziz pulled his pistol from under his robe and shot the old man in the forehead. He swung his gun around and his grandson’s one good eye bulged in terror. Aziz shot him too. Then quickly Aziz picked up the two cases and ran through the door into the street. He glanced both ways and ran around the corner where the pick-up truck was already running, waiting to take him home, away from this war-ravaged place.

It was no secret where to find the sarin; the Syrian military had stockpiles of it scattered all over Damascus. The rebels had commandeered some sites and controlled its own stockpiles of sarin. The promise of gold in sufficient quantity—never to be paid—brought out a willing army of traitors from either side of the conflict who would smuggle it out. Until now, the only problem was transporting it to the United States, a problem Aziz had finally solved. His mighty sword would soon fall on their heads in the name of Al Qaeda.

CHAPTER 1

Early in the morning, we pulled into our reserve parking space at the Mind and Body Institute. As I waited for Sandy to put the final touches on her make-up, I stood back and took in the whole facility. It had a perfectly manicured lawn, the size of four football fields, surrounded by a contiguous rod-iron fence broken only by the security guard’s shack with its car-trap concrete barrier. The single building was a four story white oblique modern structure with blacked-out windows. It was constructed entirely of perfectly smooth white limestone without a single symbol, marquee or placard to mar its surface, or identify its purpose. The Mind and Body Institute was a privately held non-profit company that, in its public façade, and largely in its interior operations, did pure research in psychic phenomenon. The other part, the secret part, was that it was an independent contractor for covert operations for the government. Mostly, that was what Sandy and I did.

We walked up the ten steps to the towering glass doors that opened with a single finger. I held the door for Sandy and she spoke to me using telepathy.

"Oops Mark, surprise weapons inspection today," Sandy thought.

I’m glad we left plenty of time, I thought.

I pulled my Glock 35 9mm from its holster in the small of my back, removed the magazine, cleared the chamber and laid it on the guard’s desk for him to verify the serial numbers, cleanliness, and operation. There were not many people that carried a side arm on premises and many of those only shot once a year for recertification.

I looked at Sandy leaning against the counter a little farther down, chatting with the guard as he inspected her weapon. I thought to myself ‘Oh, what a lucky man you are.’ She had golden hair that hung down passed her shoulders in soft curls, blue eyes, the body of Venus de Milo, and her face always drew a second glance from passing men. She was wearing a blue windowpane flip dress even though I said it was a bit too provocative. That was Sandy: independent and provocative.

The guard was running his wand over my trousers. I looked down at my new Allen-Edmonds Cordovan Oxford shoes and thought a bit proudly how well they complimented my Brooks Brothers Grey Plaid Suit. I ran my thumbs under my red suspenders and felt the cool touch of my Italian silk tie. It was only recently I changed from a belt and I felt good about my decision. I was feeling very classy; very Wall Street and it made all the difference in attitude when working in this formal environment. Of course, these were office clothes, when we went out in the field; we usually wore something more appropriate, according to the situation.

I put my gun back in its holster as Sandy put hers back in her shoulder bag. We climbed the stairs and smiled at the Marine guard. Most of them did not smile back. We entered the elevator and I pressed the button for the second floor coffee mess. We stood at the counter.

"Mark, I don’t understand why you’re so concerned. The mission was a success."

"It was only a success by degrees. Yeah, we killed the three guys and the Deputy knows that. What he wants to know is why it didn’t go as planned. Why did it go south? That’s what upsets me too. To some extent, we just got lucky and the purpose of a plan is to take the randomness and luck out of the job."

This morning we had a mission debriefing with our boss, the Deputy. I was anxious even if Sandy was not. I pressed the button for the fourth floor. We were tired. The mission took place yesterday in San Jose and we took the red-eye back to Boston rather than stay in a hotel overnight and watch the news talk about ‘brazen daytime murders’.

The elevator doors opened directly across from the Deputy’s etched glass mantrap door. Out of habit, I glanced left and right and verified a Marine guard stood at each end of the main aisle. There were two guards on every floor plus a few more in their break room. Once you go through a mantrap door, you cannot get out until somebody buzzes you through, or possibly arrests you. We stepped through the door and heard the positive electronic lock engage behind us, closing the trap. We looked up at the video camera. Then, we heard the reassuring buzz and saw the green light on the Deputy’s office door, permitting us to enter. We have never learned where the other door leads.

The Deputy was a balding, somewhat portly man that always wore the best in three-piece suits with a gold pocket watch hanging from a gold chain fob. The Deputy bought me my first Brooks Brothers Suit and, more importantly, my first pair of Allen-Edmonds shoes. He was right, they were the best pair of shoes I had ever owned. His face beamed with intelligence. He was smiling, his eyes had their usual sparkle and he looked genuinely happy to see us. We had seen him with dark, still eyes, when the situation was dire, and knew the difference in his moods.

His office was almost grand; it had all solid cherry furniture. It was bookish, and it had that wonderful smell of leather. There was a row of bookshelves behind his desk and another row in front of his desk with a large screen television in the center. It had a conference table with six smaller chairs on a silk oriental rug, but for meetings with just one or two, he had a pair of leather chairs across from his desk that matched his own.

Miss Lewis, Mr. Matthews, come in, come in, said the Deputy with a hardy handshake. Have a seat. I am so relieved, so happy, to see you both alive and well. You know, no matter how much confidence you have in someone, there is always this lingering doubt something could go wrong. And it did, and you recovered beautifully, beyond even my expectations.

Now, today we are going to ask ourselves why the mission did not go according to plan. To say we accomplished the mission objective, doesn’t explain why we failed to execute the plan. Miss Lewis, let’s start with you.

Well sir, the meeting went as planned; I met Admiral at eleven o’clock at the restaurant. The hostess seated us at his normal table; Mark was behind me in the corner. The prospect of bedding me so excited Admiral he ordered champagne and caviar for later in his apartment. About fifteen minutes before noon, Mark got up and left, per the plan. The call came at noon that presumably told Admiral someone had firebombed his office. However, instead of just leaving the restaurant in a panic, he grabbed my wrist and said ‘I don’t know how, but you’re involved in this’ and he yanked me out of the booth. Both of his bodyguards were on their feet. Still, I could have broken free or even killed him, but I decided to stick to the plan as closely as possible, my friends were right outside. When we got outside, I immediately saw Frederick and I looked in his eyes for a signal. Instead, he put his gun back in its holster. I decided to just force the issue, break free, and give Frederick a shot, when Admiral slammed me into a pedestrian. I might have been a little stunned for a second. I immediately started searching the crowd ahead for Mark and calling to him telepathically.

Where was Tommy? the Deputy said.

I never saw him, Sandy said.

Mr. Matthews, do you know where Tommy was? the Deputy said.

No. He should have been on the sidewalk opposite Frederick, but the first time I saw him he was driving the getaway car, I said.

Ok. I think we’re ready for Mr. Matthews’ part of the story, the Deputy said.

"I stationed myself about a half-block away in the direction Admiral would come to get back to his office. When Frederick gave the signal Admiral was coming out, I joined a small group of people walking towards the restaurant; some were in my line-of-sight and I counted on them parting left and right to avoid the larger on-coming crowd and give me a clear field of fire. As nearly as I can recall, I saw Admiral’s party walking towards us leading a big crowd, and sensed Sandy calling me about the same time. Admiral was in the middle holding Sandy by the wrist and he had a bodyguard on each side, a few steps behind. I was worried about taking out the bodyguard behind Sandy because they were too close together. I knew Sandy could handle herself so I thought to her ‘When I give the signal, break free and take out that guy behind you’. She thought ‘That’s just what I was thinking’. Then my group parted to allow Admiral’s larger group to pass through and I gave Sandy the signal. I took two steps forward, stopped and aimed. I put one shot in Admiral’s chest and then one shot in the bodyguard’s chest. We were using hollow-point bullets so there was no need for a second shot. Meanwhile, I saw Sandy stomp on the bodyguard’s instep, hit him in the solar plexus, and break his neck with a single karate chop. All in three seconds sir, you should have seen it. Sandy calmly, but briskly walked away. I removed my magazine and threw my gun in a trash container along with an incinerator puck. Fifteen seconds later the incinerator puck ignited and a panic broke out."

The Deputy said, You know I get real-time reports from an FBI agent that, let’s say, wasn’t there, and the first report I heard was ‘It has gone south, it has gone south!’ My heart sank to my stomach. Then when he said Mark was moving into position, took out two of the targets, and Sandy took out the other, I was on my feet. It was like listening to the Red Sox vs. the Yankees on radio. I’m yelling ‘Get out, now just get out!’ I’m surprised my heart can take it.

It may surprise you, this completes my investigation into the Admiral case, and I must ask you to contain your emotions about it. Your accounts correspond precisely with what the FBI agent told me and largely with what Frederick and Tommy told me last night. For reasons I cannot fathom, Tommy went back to the car and was out of position when Admiral left the restaurant. Frederick knew this and realized he could not pull-off the hit with just one gun. Frederick saw Sandy there, in the grips of Admiral, and that convinced him the best line of action was to let the mission fail.

"I’m steaming mad. Tommy!" I thought.

"Let it go Mark," Sandy thought.

Frederick intentionally let the mission fail? I said.

Frederick is not the kind of man that lets a mission fail casually. He could do so because he knew there was a second backup team in case yours’ missed. Therefore, the outcome is we have reprimanded Tommy and he will never work another mission for us. On the other hand, I have added a commendation to your personnel files. Let’s leave it at that and go on to more pleasant things.

I think we’re golden out in San Jose, the Deputy said. That incinerator puck in the trashcan caused so much panic those even reliable witnesses who thought they saw something got confused. However, we are going to take one more step to mix things up out there. We have an FBI sketch artist coming in today who is going to sketch your faces. Then he is going to make changes to the sketches so your own mother would not recognize you, but witnesses will or at least it will make them doubt their memories. Mr. Matthews, I think you are going to be light-skinned multiracial, with African American stubble and a slightly broader nose. Miss Lewis, I think we are going to raise your forehead, give you deep-set eyes, and a button nose. Then the FBI will cycle those sketches back to the San Jose Police claiming they are looking for these two criminals with a similar MO. Our sketches will be so much better than theirs; they will start showing them to witnesses.

The Deputy paused as if he had said everything on his mind.

Deputy, I said, this was a bad plan. We should never have been out there in the daylight and during the lunch hour. It was a suicide plan. We deserved to be caught or identified.

I know, but don’t come down too hard on Frederic and Tommy. First, they thought they were taking all the risk and second they had no idea about Sandy’s abilities. They see a beautiful young woman and their natural instinct is to protect her. However, your complaint has been noted.

I have a piece of news for you, the Deputy said. "I have been worried for some time about your personal security, specifically how attractive you and your powers are to those who would wish us harm. Until today, we have been protecting you by documenting everything you do in security level C4 case files. Today, I have managed to get your personnel files classified as C4 also; they actually contain information that is more sensitive. We may never have done it before, but when you combine that with a need to know rider, it will significantly cut down on the number of people that can get access to your dossiers. This means your entire professional lives are highly classified including whom you work for and your training, capabilities, mission assignments, and achievements. In fact, the only information you may freely share are the most mundane facts about your personal lives. You should be especially cautious about using you real names outside of this office and excepting your family and friends. Otherwise, rely on your alias and your background story. I hope this gives you some added anonymity and security."

Now I have a more relaxing assignment for you. The Lab Mother has been planning an experiment for weeks and I finally said he could have you for four days. However, first I want you to take a couple days off. I suggest you go home and see your parents.

In his inevitable way, the Deputy ended the meeting by abruptly standing.

CHAPTER 2

We drove to the Berkshires along Route 2 in our company provided and modified BMW X3, a car I really loved to drive. Fortunately, though Sandy was a highly skilled driver, she did not get a thrill out of driving, so I always drove. The car had bulletproof glass all around and bulletproof panels in the doors.