Summary: This is my take on how Webb gets back from Suriname, and, just so
you know, although various other JAG people make appearances, for the most
part, it’s a Mac and Webb adventure. There’s a fair amount of angst, and I’ve
enjoyed exploring sort of where these two characters are in the post-Need To
Know universe, particularly Webb. And I’ve tried to ensure that I use the
show’s canon as a point of departure for my own speculation, but if I’m wrong
about little details, I apologize.
Part One
/Webb/
The extent to which my life sucks right now cannot be overstated. I’ve been in
Paramaribo for about two months, and, try as I might, I’m bored out of my
mind. And so very, very, very hot. My boss, Frank Warson, the number one man
in this backwater, two-man operation, is a drunk. I can’t help but think the
DCI was well aware of this when he sent me down here, although I can’t imagine
why Warson’s still around, in light of his problems. He must have a lot of
outstanding favors owed him, is the only explanation I can come up with. Our
assistant, Reina Guardiola, was a complete bitch for the first week, which I
spent reviewing the files to try to make some order out of the existing chaos.
Reina’s actually a State Department employee, and she’s been highly incensed
to be attached to the Agency under these circumstances. She made that very
clear to me the first day, and, honestly, I can’t say I blame her. She didn’t
yet realize that I have no intention of allowing this little operation, as
insignificant as it may seem, go any further to pot than it already has.
Warson hasn’t even noticed I’m here, I think. He’s too busy drinking
caipirinha, the main ingredient of which, cachaça, the Brazilian equivalent of
Everclear, is his alcohol of choice.
Reina and I came to an understanding my second Monday here, when I pulled her
into my office for a meeting that ended up lasting all day. We talked about
how we were going to handle Warson, ultimately deciding to just let him do his
thing and pretend like he’s not here. Reina became much more pleasant over the
course of the meeting. In other words, she realized I was here to do my job,
even if my ultimate goal’s to get the hell out of here as soon as humanly
possible. She told me what little information she’s gleaned that could be of
assistance in doing my job here, and, more importantly, making enough of a
mark to get me back to the States. Her information related primarily to
narcotics and weapons trafficking, which was no surprise, and I decided to
start following up on it to see where it might lead.
After we were done talking shop, I asked Reina questions about the town, and
the country, and she gave me a lot of information on where to go and that sort
of thing. I was still staying in a hotel at that point, and Reina admitted to
having slacked on having my apartment prepared. I was very surprised that
she’d do that, since, you know, she didn’t know me from Adam, but she’d
assumed I was being exiled for a similar reason as Warson. I’m beginning to
wonder about the guy I replaced, and if maybe the DCI thinks *I* have a
drinking problem. I rarely drink. What I have, though, is a Harmon Rabb
problem; although, come to think of it, that may be just as bad. It’s
certainly as chronic a problem as alcoholism is.
Warson was apparently very up front with Reina about being a drunken slob, and
told her, when she got assigned to him, that he was here because he could do
very little damage, and was just biding his time until retirement. When I told
her why I was here-- and I told her the truth--Reina apologized profusely, and
got right on the apartment thing. I didn’t really want to tell her that I
don’t care all that much, since the hotel’s fine. I don’t have to make my bed
or anything, which is a plus; but, on the other hand, it would be nice to have
a home-like place here. I’m moved in within two days, and I feel a little more
settled. Mother even came down for Christmas. She forced me to look around a
little, and we did some exploring. Suriname’s surprisingly lovely, actually,
and the park system’s top notch. I’ve been taking advantage of it on the
weekends, to hike and clear my head a little. By Monday at noon, though, all
of the tension comes back.
I’d made a sort of New Year’s resolution when I got down here, even though it
was November: I promised myself that I won’t start off the year 2004 in
Paramaribo, and I’ve been making slow, but steady, progress towards that goal
since then. I’ve started to develop contacts, and continuing to work the ones
I already have, which I’m doing as quietly as humanly possible so that the DCI
doesn’t realize what I’m up to. I’m also learning Arabic. When I made the
decision to leak the Angel Shark tape to Harm, I’d decided that, if I got
exiled to someplace “boring,” I’d use my time to learn Arabic. I should’ve
started some time ago, since my career for some time prior to my exile, even
before September 11, had been involved in hunting down terrorists, many of
them from the Middle East. It was high time for me to learn the language,
although, in my defense, I hadn’t had time to learn in any kind of organized
fashion despite having picked up some things along the way. But learning it
now has the added potential of forcing the Company’s hand. With this
particular language skill, they’ll eventually need to bring me back, because
we just don’t have enough qualified Arabic-speakers right now.
I’m keeping the Arabic thing to myself, though, and I manage to find a teacher
fairly quickly by simply asking at a local Moroccan restaurant. I’m not quite
sure what a Moroccan restaurant’s doing in Paramaribo, but it’s meeting my
purposes nicely, so far. Plus, I love couscous. I also start checking out some
bars and restaurants that might be the hangouts of smugglers and drug runners.
I actually need to find somebody to tell me these things. That person would
normally be Warson, but he’s probably passed out at this late hour of 10:00AM.
/Mac/
Since the tribunal, I’ve been reading up more on international criminal law.
That experience really piqued my interest in it. I also know that there are
people in the DOD preparing cases for a potential war crimes trial against
Saddam Hussein and his cronies. I’d like to get more involved in this area,
generally, and I wouldn’t mind being considered as an attorney for any
additional tribunals that might occur. I don’t really have the kind of
background in international law that the DOD group does, so, even if I were
inclined to do so, I doubt a transfer request would be successful. Further
down the line, though, whether it be a war crimes trial concerning Iraq, or
additional military tribunals, my experience with Mustafa Atef and all the
criminal cases I’ve worked on will likely be very helpful in any reassignment
I might want; although I’m very happy where I am, right now. In addition to
learning more about international law, I decide that it’s time for me to start
learning Arabic. This would be helpful in getting me assigned to these types
of investigations and cases, and I think I can learn it fairly quickly, all
things considered. All of my additional languages are of the “difficult”
variety – Farsi, Russian, and Japanese – so I don’t anticipate Arabic posing
the same difficulties to me as to someone learning it as their “first” second
language.
It’s actually a lot of work keeping up with my job and learning Arabic. I’ve
found a tutor, who I work with a few days a week. I’m concentrating more on
speaking and understanding it than reading it, and it’s going fairly well. It
also gives me something to do on the voyage back to port on the Seahawk, as
well as long plane trips, of which I’ve had quite a number, lately. It kind of
bugs Harm, though, although I can’t understand why. He thinks it’s ridiculous
for me to be doing this, but, then again, he only speaks English, and he
believes everyone else should learn it, so he’s not the best judge of these
things.
The saddest thing is the fact that Harm not being supportive of me doing this
isn’t at all surprising to me. Actually, he’s been acting like a prick for a
while now. He said something incredibly hurtful to me about John Farrow when
Sturgis and I were prosecuting Commander O’Neil’s sexual harassment case, and
I’ve had a hard time forgetting about it. He’s always pointing out my faults
to me, and everyone else’s to them, but we can’t take the same liberty with
him. His favorite way to start a sentence seems to be, “You know what your
problem is…” I’m well aware of my faults, and I know I tend to be harder on
female officers accused of misconduct, but, in my defense, I’m no harder on
them than I am on myself.
Harm, all of whose clients are innocent as newborn babes, likened O’Neil’s
situation to my situation with John. I understood what he was trying to say,
but there was no need to be so hurtful about it. My affair with John didn’t
start until after I’d applied to law school, after I got his recommendation to
the Corps, and after I was transferring out of his chain of command. As Harm
should know, doing all of this takes time, and I wasn’t thinking about
sleeping with the man when I first considered going to law school, and I had
to apply and get accepted before I did the paperwork to get the Corps to pay
for it.
And then, when I was assigned to the bench, I was so close to holding his ass
in contempt of court for behaving like he did. Rolling his eyes, arguing with
me in open court, trying to make me look stupid in front of the members. And
then behaving like a child at Bud and Harriet’s housewarming party! I don’t
know what I ever saw in him!!
I’m trying now to think when my feelings towards him changed to the point
where they are currently, which is that I wouldn’t go out with him if he asked
me. I guess it was during the tribunal, actually, which really has turned out
to be a watershed for me, professionally and personally. Harm was not
respectful of what I had to bring to the table, dismissing my concerns about
whether the court had jurisdiction at all, he was pissed at me, and with Bud,
when I went to the detention camp. After the whole mess was over, I realized
that he’d never have gotten the information that I was able to. When I thought
about it later, I also came to understand that, if Harm had been standing in
front of me instead of Clayton Webb, we’d probably both be dead. In that
moment, Webb showed me more professional respect than Harm ever had, which is
sort of a sad state of affairs. I’d trust Webb again in a heartbeat in a
professional situation, more than I trust Harm right now.
Actually, I might trust Webb more personally too, than I would Harm. I know
where I stand with him better than I do with Harm, which is a very *very* sad
state of affairs. Harm has said so many hurtful things to me over the years,
that I sometimes wonder why I bother with him at all. Well, I guess I
shouldn’t say that, because he really has helped me through some extremely
tough times in my life. But the constant competition and bickering that we do
is really getting very, very wearing on my nerves. Not to mention the
selfishness. I can’t believe I’d been painting rosy pictures of marriage and
family. I would’ve been so unhappy with him in a romantic relationship. Okay,
I need to stop replaying the many, many mean things he’s said and done to me
over the years. It’s making me depressed, and a little crazy.
/Webb/
I’ve managed to spend about three hours a day on Arabic, since my cover at the
Embassy doesn’t require all that much work. Anyway, in addition to the Arabic,
I spend the time boning up on the major players in the drug trade through
Suriname, concentrating primarily on those originating from Colombia, and
trying to figure out how all the pieces fit together. I know that al-Qaeda has
felt the pinch because of so many assets being frozen and so many avenues of
funding being shut down entirely or restricted to a trickle. They continue to
plan and they need cash, and I suspect they’re turning more to illicit
activities in order to fund themselves. For all their talk about Islam, they
certainly don’t hesitate to throw away certain central tenets when it suits
them. I doubt Mohammed would be too happy about his followers engaging in drug
trafficking to pay for the slaughter of innocents, and I’m sure they’ll all be
surprised when there are no virgins waiting for them when they die.
Al-Qaeda started in heroin, which is easy enough. They get it primarily from
Afghanistan and sell it through networks, mainly in Europe. Drug use tends to
go in cycles, though. When people got tired of being hyped up on cocaine all
the time, they turned to heroin. Eventually, cocaine’s going to come back
around, joined this time by methamphetamine. It occurs to me that al-Qaeda
will become bolder, and probably try to branch out into selling more of a
variety of drugs. This is just a hunch, really, but I have nothing but time on
my hands right now, so I can play it out. I decide to concentrate on cocaine,
which only comes from South America; specifically, from Colombia, where almost
all of the coca, whether it’s local or from Bolivia or Ecuador, is refined
into powder. The cocaine trade is, more or less, like a huge, well-run
multinational corporation, although there is, of course, competition. Cocaine
keeps the economic wheels turning in Colombia, Bolivia, and Ecuador, and it’s
the reason that Colombia is basically in a state of anarchy right now.
I spend a lot of time talking to the small military contingent, particularly
one of the Marines, a really green PFC named Raul Garcia-Solar, who’s trying
to get on one of the task forces in Colombia. His mother’s Colombian, and
she’s too afraid to visit any of her family there. It’s all very altruistic,
since I don’t know that he had any idea of what things are actually like
there, but he’s smart enough to educate himself on the situation and know the
names of the major players, both in the Colombian military and out.
His homework has been invaluable to me, helping me get to know who to get in
touch with to find the additional information that I need to get the big
picture of what’s going on. I’ve now got a pretty good chart going of the flow
of drugs from Colombia into the U.S. However, drugs bound for the U.S. don’t
seem to tend to flow through Suriname, although it’s clear that this is an
exit point, most likely to Europe. I make some inquiries with the Dutch and
French embassies, and they confirm my suspicions.
It’s not clear who the middlemen are, since the Colombian cartel leaders like
to give over responsibility for their product as soon as possible. They prefer
people to take possession in Colombia, but, in any event, before the drugs
leave the continent. They often sell to other Colombians, who are the kingpins
in the U.S., and, although they’re involved in the cartel, the cartel leaders
want as little risk of loss as possible. Through inquiries made to the local
police, I begin to piece together what’s going on locally, so I can try to
figure out the identities of the middlemen, and if there’s been any shift in
the power structure lately.
I figure al-Qaeda’s far more likely to sell its product in Europe and Asia
than in the U.S. American drug gangs are far too organized to allow such
interlopers, and a sudden influx of Arab dealers would raise serious red flags
with authorities. But in Europe, it might not so much, since Middle Eastern
Arabs, North Africans, and Turks are the perceived criminal underclass. It
probably wouldn’t be too difficult to get a loan or an outright donation -- in
cash, of course -- from some rich Saudi, in order to put down the infidels,
and use that to buy cocaine. After all, the drug trade is, fundamentally, a
business, and, because of that, there’s a certain predictability about it.
I start frequenting establishments of a certain amount of ill repute, and
observe the comings and goings as best I can, even though I stick out like a
sore thumb. I’m hoping to recruit a snitch, to whom I can probably give the
best of both worlds, which is cash and the probability that the snitching
won’t lead to any arrests and the accompanying danger of having snitched. I’m
not as interested, at the moment, in shutting down the operation, as I am in
following the drug trail to the cash trail, if my hunch plays out. I’ll make a
few well-placed phone calls, when I get what I need, but that’s going to be a
ways into the future, I hope.
/Mac/
Shortly after the New Year, I’m summoned to the Admiral’s office. When I
arrive, Sturgis Turner’s already there.
“Colonel, Commander, I’m sending you both on an training mission involving
arms theft, and dealing in Central Asia; specifically, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikstan,
Turkmenistan, and Uzbekistan. I realize this is a large geographic area, but
you’ll be operating out of Khanabad Air Base, in Uzbekistan. You’ll work with
local authorities from each country, training them to investigate and trace
these thefts, which are from old Soviet facilities. You should cover issues on
nuclear material, since the Soviets had a number of warheads in this area,
although no nuclear material seems to be missing. But your other assignment
involves our bases over there. It appears that someone’s been quietly
siphoning off our weapons and ammunition, a little at a time, for sale to God
knows who. The counts are coming up short; no one really noticed at first,
since men sometimes check out weapons ‘unofficially.’ But the problem seems to
be growing, and we need to find out who’s behind it. I don’t know if our
thefts are related to theirs, but keep your mind open to that possibility.
Your so-called training mission should provide you with the cover you’ll need
to be poking around.
Commander Turner, Lieutenant Colonel MacKenzie’s going to have the lead on
this. She has the language skills, and knows the customs, and she’s worked in
the former Soviet Union before.”
“Understood, sir,” Sturgis says. And, much to my relief, he seems a little
relieved himself not to have to spearhead this. It’s probably because he knows
his limitations, which, in this case, are primarily that he doesn’t speak
Russian.
The Admiral tells us that we’ll be reporting to Air Force Colonel Aaron Witt,
and that we leave at 0600 from Andrews the next morning. We’ll land briefly in
Germany to refuel, before heading to Khanabad. This gives the rest of the day
to get our cases divided, and get packed. We both practically run back to our
offices to get started, after deciding to just talk further on the plane about
the details of this mission. The Admiral gives us two hours to get our stuff
together, before he calls everyone into the conference room. Harm’s highly
incensed that he didn’t get picked for this mission, and he keeps harping on
it, even though the Admiral tells him he’ll talk to Harm privately about it,
after the meeting.
Finally, after Harm makes yet another snide comment, Chegwidden loses all
patience and says, “Commander Rabb, of late you have been unable to maintain
objectivity, and you have been stepping on toes right and left. I saw your
little performances during General Manzarek’s trial, when Colonel MacKenzie
was presiding, and, because she’s the presiding officer in this investigation,
I didn’t think you’d be able to handle it. Do you have any other questions
about my choice in this matter?”
Harm says, “No, sir,” in such a small voice, that I actually feel kind of
sorry for him. For myself, I think he deserves to be taken down a peg,
although I’m sorry it became necessary to do that in front of everybody. I’m
glad for his sake that Singer’s not here. Nevertheless, because of Harm’s
behavior lately, I think I’ll be eternally grateful to the Admiral for
assigning me with Turner to this case, instead of Harm. This mission’s going
to require a certain amount of subtlety, which Harm is sometimes lacking, but
I also don’t need him second-guessing me at every turn. Actually, it’s not the
second-guessing I mind, it’s the way Harm does it, as well as the fact that he
does it constantly. Sturgis has a much more delicate and polite way of doing
it, although I know I sometimes work his nerves.
We manage to get Sturgis’ and my cases divided without further incident, and,
when the meeting’s over, Harm practically shoves the both of us out of his
way, as he runs for the door. Sturgis just rolls his eyes at me. We get the
rest of our loose ends tied up, and decide to arrange separate transport to
Andrews in the morning, since Sturgis and I don’t really live near each other.
I get myself packed up in record time, considering the potential length of
this trip, then I go straight to bed. I know it’s probably going to be at
least a few weeks before I see my bed again.
/Webb/
Although my travels into the underbelly of Paramaribo have yielded a certain
amount of information and a few names, none of them are obvious connections to
al-Qaeda. It occurs to me, after a few days, that I might be looking in the
wrong place, so I started to investigate the local mosques, as well. I pose as
a writer for the Suriname Weekly, which isn’t exactly the best journalistic
venture going, writing a story about increasing interest in Islam. It was
perfect, because the imams I spoke with were very enthusiastic about the
increase in membership, and I focus in pretty immediately on the main mosque
on Keizerstraat. Of course, having done all this “research,” I pretty much
have to write an article to maintain my cover, in case I need to use it again.
Since the Suriname Weekly isn’t all that professional, they pretty much
printed the story I sent with no edits. I sent it to my mother as a joke,
particularly since my by-line was, of course, fake. She gushes over it, and I
just start laughing at her on the phone. It’s not like this stupid little
thing, which I was doing for ulterior motives, is worthy of the Pulitzer Prize
or something. She gets upset with me for not taking my big “publication”
seriously, but I guess that’s what makes her a mom.
My visits to the Keizerstraat mosque, which is, oddly enough, right next door
to the main synagogue in Paramaribo, yield a lot of information. I’d gone to a
couple of services during my “reporter” period, and I struck up conversations
with a couple of people afterwards. One of my conversations extended beyond
small talk, and I’ve become friendly with a guy named Ismail. Only the imam
thinks I’m a reporter, so I tell Ismail my name’s Wim Van Houten, and I work
for the Dutch embassy, and that I’m learning Arabic, and about Islam, in the
hopes of influencing my next posting somewhat. He’s more than willing to talk
to me and help me out. It’s actually very helpful to have someone else to
practice with, and I’ve been asking him some questions, from time to time, but
nothing overly obvious, about the mosque. He eventually tells me there have
been some new guys from the Middle East who’ve been attending services. He
points out one of them to me, Mohammed al-Faisel, one day as we’re having
coffee, because he just happens by, and that provides the jumping off point to
further investigation.
I continue meeting Ismail to practice my Arabic, and he tells me I’m making
great progress. Ismail’s actually a really nice guy, and I feel kind of bad
lying to him. It’s part of the job, and I knew going in that I’d have to lie,
but that doesn’t necessarily make it easy. I really don’t understand how
people manage marriages under these circumstances, but I quickly shake that
thought out of my mind, when Ismail walks up. During our meeting, he talks a
little more about the new guys at the mosque, who he feels are a little odd.
They seem to take things a little too far, in his opinion. I file that away
for later.
My investigation into these “new guys,” for lack of a better word, proceeds
very slowly, at first. It takes me a few days to figure out who the other two
are, and where they all live. They turn out to be Amir bin Sultan and Najib
Mohammed. It turns out that Amir and Najib are Yemeni, and they share an
apartment, while Mohammed’s Saudi, with an apartment in the next block. This
is looking suspiciously like an al-Qaeda cell, although I suspect they’re here
to either buy weapons or drugs, rather than execute a terrorist plot. I run
their photos and names through the database of known al-Qaeda, but nothing
comes up. Either they’re unknown, which is certainly possible, or, they could
have new identities.
These three are very suspicious of everyone, so I need to be extra careful
that they don’t know they’re being investigated, especially by me. I don’t
want to scare them off of what they’re doing here. I set up surveillance on
them, which leads to me spending a lot more time on my Arabic, since I’m
spending hours sitting in my car and in the cafes along the street where they
live. It would be really helpful if my boss would, you know, help me with
this, but I’ll have to figure it out on my own. After about a week and a half
of not being able to figure anything out, one way or the other, primarily
because I’m hampered by doing it alone, I decide to break in to their
apartments. For being supposed operatives, they have fairly set schedules, so
it shouldn’t be too difficult.
I get my opportunity the next day, and, at Amir and Najib’s, I find a list
containing a lot of names that I recognize from my earlier investigation, and
it appears that they may have been spending their initial time in Suriname
exactly the way I did. They’re doing their homework before they make an
approach, it seems, but it’s pretty clear to me that they're looking to buy
drugs. There’s also information from the Internet about how to transport drugs
while escaping detection. I’m not sure how useful these tips will be for three
Arab guys who are likely going to get more than their fair share of attention,
especially when going to or from a major drug city. I say that, because
there’s all kind of guides about Amsterdam in Amir and Najib’s apartment.
They’re so obvious, and seem to be so stupid, that I wonder if they’ll even be
able to purchase the kind of quantities they seem to be thinking of. I hide
some bugs in the place before I leave for Mohammed’s, where I find similar
information, and also leave behind some bugs.
/Mac/
Sturgis and I land at Khanabad Air Base after a long and very bumpy flight
from Germany. We got nothing accomplished during this leg of the trip, because
we were both too busy concentrating on not being sick. I just want to lay down
as soon as humanly possible, so that I can recover from the nausea that’s been
plaguing me for the past however many thousands of miles. I feel a little
better that Sturgis is almost as green as I am.
“I’ve been on pitching submarines, but, honestly, I feel like we’ve been on a
roller coaster since we hit the European continent,” he tells me, as we wait
in Colonel Witt’s office for someone to show us to our quarters. All I can do
is nod, and that I have to do gently, so I don’t throw up.
“I’m glad it’s not me just being a wimp,” I finally say, after the wave of
nausea passes. Sturgis shakes his head “no.” Two enlisted personnel show up to
show us to our separate quarters. “Let’s meet at 0700 tomorrow back here to
talk to Colonel Witt.”
“Fine,” he says. We’re both more than happy to hand our bags over, and we
trudge off in different directions. It’s only 2015 local time, but I go
straight to bed; although it takes me a while to get to sleep, which doesn’t
happen until my stomach stops lurching.
Sturgis and I walk into Colonel Witt’s office almost simultaneously the next
day, and we spend the next three hours or so in a briefing. He’s arranged for
us to meet our State Department contacts later today at the Embassy in
Tashkent, the Uzbek capital, and they’ll brief us on the other part of our
mission. Colonel Witt provides us with his best guess on potential suspects of
the weapons thefts on U.S. bases, as well as from some of the local
installations in all four countries, which have hosted U.S. military
personnel. We check to see which personnel have rotated through all four, for
either military or humanitarian operations, since the same people were tasked
to set each of them up. Sturgis and I decide to start on the assumption that
the same person’s responsible for all the thefts, and we’ll investigate the
list of people from Colonel Witt first.
Our meeting with the people from State goes well, and our Asian counterparts
are coming tomorrow. We don’t expect much cooperation from Turkmenistan,
considering the rather bizarre nature of the government there, which is built
around the cult of personality that President Saparmurad Niyazov, aka
Turkmenbashi, has constructed around himself. Our State contacts explain that,
there’s a rotating statue that overlooks the capital city and turns with the
sun. He also recently renamed the month of January after himself. Then there’s
the doctrine of neutrality they’ve adopted. Ultimately, we hope that all four
nations want to ensure that old Soviet ordnance or, God forbid, nuclear
material, doesn’t make its way to al-Qaeda. We’re flushing a lot of money into
these economies. They want more, so they’re being fairly cooperative. The
Uzbeks, though, are walking kind of a fine line, because there are a fair
amount of fundamentalists here who, they think, need to be appeased, although
they’ve managed to seal the border with Afghanistan fairly well.
When we get back to the base, Sturgis and I hole up and look through the files
Witt provided to us. Although neither of us has any expertise in profiling, we
know enough to realize that this might be a useful time to use what we do know
to weed down our suspects. We begin by concentrating on the men on Witt’s
list, and then looking closely at those men with easiest access to the
armories. We figure that the person who’d do this is likely selling the
weapons, or planning to sell them, which means that either he’s desperate for
money, or he’s got mercenary instincts. We look at past conduct problems,
washouts or rejections from Special Ops, or anything else that might raise a
red flag, such as a recent divorce with possible custody and financial
problems, and the like. Based on these factors, we call back to JAG with ten
names, and ask the Admiral to pull their credit reports and any other
confidential information, such as psych reports. I’d like to know if anyone
who got “no’s” from Special Ops were rejected on their psych evals.
It will be a few days before we get this information, so Sturgis and I turn to
our other reason for being here, and we read through the material provided by
DOD on the conduct of such missions. We were, of course, supposed to read this
information on the plane, but that wasn’t possible, since our plan was to read
it after we took off from Germany. Using this information, we devise a plan of
attack with the locals. Of course, it revolves primarily around the security
they have in place, and proper investigative techniques. We also make a note
to ask the embassy about local graft and corruption, and whether the local
military and other security are actually being paid. Because, frankly, when
people don’t get paid and they have families to support, it’s very difficult
to prevent them from taking bribes, or selling things they have access to,
because it becomes necessary to put food on the table. It’s a hard problem to
solve, since the reason people aren’t being paid is that there’s no money to
pay them with.
Part 2
/Webb/
My bugs start to yield information fairly quickly, as Mohammed, Amir, and
Najib, who I’m now calling the Three Stooges, suddenly become very aggressive
about buying cocaine. I’m pleased that I’ve been able to understand more and
more of their conversations in a fairly short time frame. My continuing
lessons and conversations with Ismail are paying off. Anyway, it’s abundantly
clear that they’ve never done anything like this before, and their
aggressiveness concerns me a little. I really don’t want them to blow this
deal out of sheer stupidity, which they very well might. The Colombians tend
to be a little jumpy with new people, particularly with the quantities these
three are talking about. I feel like going up to them and offering them some
pointers, but that would very likely blow my cover, and, therefore, be a very
bad idea.
I know it sounds incredibly cavalier of me to essentially be hoping that these
narcotics make their way into the marketplace, but, face it, people will get
their fix somehow, and this will benefit me, and everyone else, if the trail
leads to someone big. Okay, okay, I just need to rationalize this, and I
freely admit my motives are selfish. I just have a feeling I’ve stumbled onto
something big, and something tells me it’s not just wishful thinking.
It takes me couple of days to figure out which sellers the Three Stooges are
contacting. After I’ve now narrowed down who it is, I’m still not sure where
they are. I’m reluctant to get local law enforcement involved because of graft
problems, and, as for involving my own people, I’m still playing a hunch,
although it seems to be a good one. But these guys haven’t even reached the
“attempt” stage of a crime, anyway, so there’s really no point in wasting
anyone’s time. The Stooges could still blow it. I finally find someone who
seems to be really knowledgeable, considering that he’s a small time dealer. I
think he’s been demoted, or something, probably because he seems to be using
the product, which is a no-no if you’re trying to make a profit from drug
dealing. He’s willing to provide me with information, after repeated
assurances that I don’t actually plan on doing anything with it. Our office
has a fairly large cash reserve for these sorts of things, what with Warson
having done absolutely nothing with it except, thankfully, submit the same
budget year after year. In other words, I have plenty of discretionary cash
for this little project of mine. I have to say, I’m somewhat surprised Warson
hasn’t appropriated any of this money for his own use.
I’m keeping a log of what I’m doing, and Reina knows what’s going on. In case
Warson ever asks. If he actually showed up at the office. He made an effort
the first month or so that I was here, but I haven’t really seen him around
since. Of course, I haven’t been around all that much, either. Anyway, my
snitch, Carlos, tells me that it’s likely the sale to the Three Stooges is
going to happen, but in a smaller quantity than they’re asking for. I gather
the cartel’s hoping to establish a long-term relationship with these guys,
assuming it pans out. They’re still a little skeptical.
Now that the sale seems to be a go, it’s time to figure out where these drugs
are going, and who they’re talking to on the receiving end. They’re not making
calls from their apartments; at least they know enough not to do that, so it’s
time for me to do more surveillance. Fortunately, they use the same pay phones
over and over, and they also frequent the same Internet café. Where they use
the same terminals. I swear to God, you’d think, with the kind of money and
motivation this group has, that they’d train their people a little better. Not
that I’m complaining. It’s a good thing they’re not a brain trust, because it
makes things easier for us. Well, me. I concentrate on the computers, and it’s
very easy to figure out what e-mail addresses they’ve been using. They’re even
dumb enough to use sex words as their passwords, so I set up my account to
pull copies of the mail off their accounts and into mine. My nickname for
these three is very apropos, it turns out, because, although they’re using
code, it’s easy to crack, and I’m able to figure out where the drugs are going
-- Amsterdam. I have to say, though, the person on the other end clearly has
more experience than my Three Stooges do.
I send the information I have to a contact in Amsterdam, Jan Van Der Woort,
and he tells me he thinks it’s an established heroin dealer named David Ali.
This guy doesn’t check out as al-Qaeda, either, but we haven’t necessarily
worked back to a really deep level, since neither this guy, nor any of the
other “pure” money men, would be actively involved in plotting terrorist acts.
There’s a method and series of priorities to what we’re doing. In addition,
though, the pure money men are more difficult to track back to the
organization. Ali seems to be within the “funding” leadership, and apparently
is very good at what he does. He lays low, and the authorities in Amsterdam
have had trouble pinning anything on him, even though he’s a “known” dealer.
As always, “knowing” something doesn’t mean being able to prove it.
Maybe it’s time to bring more people in on this little operation, because I
need confirmation of some things. I write a detailed report, including names
and photographs, and prepare to send it off. I’ve never actually been nervous
submitting a report before, but I feel like my entire future’s riding on this.
Probably because my entire future *is* riding on this. I feel confident in the
information I have, but I’ll be so pissed if these few months of work go to
hell, either because they don’t believe me or, worse yet, they send someone
else down here to take over.
/Mac/
Our Central Asian counterparts are very receptive to our presence; so much so,
in fact, that Sturgis asks me at the first break what sort of money we’re
throwing at them to get such cooperation. I start laughing so hard that I end
up crying. I don’t know what’s come over me, it wasn’t really all that funny,
but it was the way he said it. Sturgis is pleased that I liked his joke.
Seriously, though, theft has become a bit of a problem for them, because of
pay issues, so we start with the basics, and request information on each
theft. It becomes pretty clear, from small talk over lunch, that these four
nations take their nuclear security very seriously, particularly lately, so
their efforts in theft prevention have been concentrated in that area. There
doesn’t appear to be any nuclear material unaccounted for, which is good.
Rather, the recent thefts have been more standard ordnance, although a couple
of big ticket items, like shoulder rocket launchers, are missing, along with
some mines and grenades.
Because of budget constraints, there really aren’t separate military
investigative services, and neither the military police nor the lawyers have
received forensic training in terms of how to treat a crime scene and that
sort of thing. No one even questioned why JAG officers are here instead of
NCIS, although I’d come up with an explanation. We explain that a fair amount
of investigative work’s somewhat instinctual, pointing out that they had all
automatically found out and brought the names of people who had access to the
facilities. Now that we’ve met our counterparts and know what we’re working
with, Sturgis and I need to come up with a lesson plan in terms of forensic
techniques to use, treatment of crime scenes, interrogation, and the like. For
example, our Tajik contact, Yevgeny Ivanovich, has interrogated the people
with access to the facilities at Dushanbe, where there was quite a large theft
recently, but he came up against a brick wall. When he explained how he was
doing it, we realized he was bulldozing his way through, more or less.
They invite us out after we’re done, and I agree, but explain that I don’t
drink at all and Sturgis really doesn’t either. They absolutely do not
understand this. I finally say I’m allergic, and that seems to pacify them. I
explain to Sturgis that, if things go as they usually do in this part of the
world, they’re probably going to be drinking astonishing amounts of vodka. I
tell him it would be impolite if he didn’t have at least one, although he
certainly didn’t have to imbibe like they would be doing. It ends up being
pretty entertaining, although the fact that we’re not drinking seems to slow
the others down a little bit. I know that Webb had come to Russia to get
information on Khabir Atef, and I start giggling internally at the thought of
him throwing back shots like these guys. I wonder what he’s like drunk? When
it becomes clear that our colleagues have no intention of eating, I excuse
myself to call for our ride, and we’re saved for the evening.
Sturgis and I head to a restaurant suggested by the Embassy and come up with a
game plan for educating these guys, avoiding future “happy hours,” and trying
to run our parallel investigations. Sturgis offers to put together information
we need, since the actual communication of it’s up to me, and I agree to
synthesize what we find out from our “official” investigation with our
“unofficial” investigation. I tell him to be sure to save interrogation
techniques for later, until we can get a better handle on things, and, if our
two missions end up being related, we can better whittle down their list of
names to something that might be usable. Then I can arrange a demonstration
and, I hope, get some real information. I also tell him that he can work on
our unofficial investigation while I’m talking in Russian, in order to save
time. If we need to re-delegate, we can do it as it comes up. We have the work
split just about fifty-fifty, and Sturgis is being very conscientious about
doing his part. He tells me to be sure to let him know if he needs to help out
more, since he realizes that I’ve got almost 100% of the burden of
communication. It’s so nice to work with someone who thinks about other
people.
The next few days we spend solely on our “official” mission, but we turn our
attention back to our secondary task when we get the information we’d
requested from JAG on our ten prime suspects. Sturgis spends the day making
notes on it, as I talk to the locals. Later, after we talk about what’s in the
files, we prioritize the list, and there’s five names at the top of it. Number
one on the list is Army Lieutenant Casey McCloskey. Not only did he get a “no”
on his application to the Rangers, based on his psych eval, but he also seems
to have some financial problems. After reviewing the results of his
evaluation, though, we need to tread very carefully. We meet with Colonel Witt
to get a feel for the situation, and it seems that McCloskey and his C.O.,
Lieutenant Colonel Antoine Jefferson, do not get along. It’s possibly racially
motivated, since Jefferson’s African American, but Witt’s not sure. It’s
apparently a touchy subject with both men, and we need to be subtle,
particularly our questions to Jefferson. He apparently bristles at questions
along those lines.
Jefferson loves to play basketball, so Sturgis decides to try to either get in
on the pickup game, or ask him if he wants to go one-on-one, then try to
become friends with him so he can broach the subject of problematic
subordinates and how you deal with them. Jefferson reminds me a little of
Lieutenant Curtis Rivers, only slightly more cooperative, if only because he’s
not under suspicion himself. It takes a while for he and Sturgis to talk shop,
but they are sure playing a lot of basketball. Sturgis told me he’d taken an
opening during some “shop talk,” asking Jefferson about how he’d handle
someone like Singer, and I think Sturgis genuinely wanted an answer. I told
him to be sure to tell me, if it was a good one!
While Sturgis is honing his basketball skills, I ask around about the others
on our list, and McCloskey solidifies his position as our frontrunner, since
the others don’t really pan out, either because the man has an alibi, or he’s
a model soldier who made, or whose wife made, stupid decisions about credit
cards. We decide to spend our energy on McCloskey before going back and
redoing the lists, since we’re not really pressed for time. I’m exhausted
after every day, although I manage to exercise. Living life in two languages
is just very tiring, and I collapse into bed as early as possible every night,
although I also force myself to study a little bit of Arabic every day. Mostly
I do this at lunch, by conversing with our Uzbek contact, Ahmed. Ahmed’s
extremely straightforward and logical, so he’s really good about correcting
me, although he’s also very complimentary.
Finally, after about a week of basketball, Jefferson ends up asking Sturgis
about how he’d deal with someone fitting McCloskey’s general description.
Sturgis learns that McCloskey’s got a couple of guys in the unit who seem to
be willing to follow him to the ends of the earth, showing more loyalty to him
than the unit or Jefferson, while the others barely tolerate him. Jefferson
can’t tell if they’re intimidated by him, or if they don’t like him and are
just ignoring him. Unit cohesion seems to be rapidly deteriorating, and he’s
getting frustrated. From the descriptions Jefferson gives, we’re able to
figure out who McCloskey’s followers are, since we’ve been more or less
observing the unit, along with McCloskey. I talk to a couple of the guys who
appear to fall into the “barely tolerate him” category, and they’re only too
happy to vent to me. I learn who he hangs out with, where he hangs out off
base, and that he apparently plans on becoming a mercenary when he gets out.
I’m pretty sure we’ve got our guy, but, right now, it’s still just a hunch.
/Webb/
At this point in my career, with everything I’ve been through, I never thought
I’d be this excited about a drug case. My life’s truly pathetic. Although it’s
looking better, since I can now use Agency resources in my investigation.
They’re letting me siphon off two people from our ongoing missions in
Colombia, and they’re due to arrive tomorrow. I spend the rest of the day
trying to contain my impatience. I run a really long way, trying to work off
some energy.
Vinnie Catalano and Tony Gutierrez are right on time. They’ve been undercover
in Colombia for a long time, and they have the “brutal drug dealer” act down
cold. Maybe they’ve been under too long, because even I’m kind of freaked out
by them. They both know their stuff about the Colombian drug trade, though,
and that’s what I need right now.
Civilization, such as it is in Paramaribo, does its work, and they’re less
intense and creepy after a couple of days. It’s actually nice to have
colleagues again, and I have them howling with my stories of the Three
Stooges. The two of them go down to the dives I point out, because I’m just
too conspicuous to be hanging out in bars frequented by swarthy drug dealers,
particularly since Carlos the Snitch has turned up dead. It was noticed the
few times I went in, but, because of Carlos, I need to keep scarce. In
Amsterdam, I’ll be fine. I fully plan on going there to follow the drugs,
assuming the deal goes through. In fact, I’m even growing a goatee in
preparation.
While Vinnie and Tony are handling the Colombian end of things, I’m keeping my
eye on the Three Stooges and continuing my Arabic studies. It’s coming along
far faster than I thought it would, but it’s also been an intense program,
since I’ve had plenty of time to devote to it. I’m doing fairly well
understanding what the Stooges are saying, and it’s looking more and more
certain that a sale’s going to go through. They’ve been communicating with
their contact in Amsterdam, who seems almost certain to be David Ali. He
appears to be giving them advice, as well as fronting them the money for this
little operation. As a consequence, they’ve become less hyper about wanting to
make this sale, which has apparently made the Colombians relax. Ali’s also
told them they need to be trying to establish a long-term relationship, which
is also helping their cause, it seems.
I almost can’t believe my hunch has paid off like this. I’m sure the DCI will
be pissed; like I give a shit. But his little plan for exiling me has
backfired, and, between this and some political favors that I can pull in,
he’s going to have to suck up to me by the time I get back to DC. It’ll be
nice if the DCI has to attach his lips to my ass for a little while, after
sending me down here to cover his own. Okay, I know this line of thought’s
childish and pure fantasy, but a guy can dream.
Tony overhears a couple of our Colombian sellers talking about some potential
new clients, fitting the Stooges’ general description, who they hope will be
long-term customers. They’re not through vetting them, yet, because they’re
not convinced the Stooges actually have the money. This is problematic, and I
hope they have, or get, the cash, because, otherwise, I doubt this deal will
go through. I didn’t find that kind of cash in their apartment, but it’s
possible that they’re smart enough to have it elsewhere.
The Colombians string them along for another week, at which point the Stooges
actually produce proof of their funding, by showing a statement from an
offshore account that is, naturally, secret. There’s apparently quite a bit of
money in the account, because the Colombians are suddenly happy to up the
quantity they’re willing to sell to what the Stooges originally asked for, as
long as the Stooges understand that they take the risk of loss once they have
the drugs in hand. I’m not sure the Stooges totally get it, and I’m really
interested to learn how they plan on moving as many kilos as they’re
purchasing. My contacts in Amsterdam, where the drugs are almost certainly
headed, know what’s going on, and, they’re prepared to let these drugs
through, in order to trace where the money goes. In other words, how they’re
being packaged is more a matter of curiosity than anything else.
I think briefly about Harm and Mac. They’d absolutely freak out if they knew I
was going to allow these quantities through, but this is a unique opportunity
to follow the money trail and, I hope, bust this drug network, after we figure
out what all the profit from this is going to pay for. While I’m following
that, I’m sure there’ll be more cocaine coming into Amsterdam. I’m getting
better at rationalizing this, I have to say. David Ali’s network in Amsterdam
is fairly well known, and Jan is communicating with his European counterparts
to try to track down all the tentacles of Ali’s organization. All he has to do
is say “al-Qaeda financing” and people are putting what’s really an
information-gathering operation into a higher priority. After the recent
message from bin Laden threatening France, you can bet Europeans are sitting
up and taking notice. Things are coming together, slowly but surely, and, with
a little more luck, my days in Suriname are numbered. And I haven’t even
visited Devil’s Island yet.
/Mac/
After spending our days training our Central Asian colleagues, Sturgis and I
spend evenings checking out the places McCloskey frequents off base. They’re
alternative, to say the least, and the locals who go are the blend of
“American wannabe” styles that other cultures do so well. The music’s a
mixture of hip-hop, heavy metal, and punk, with a little Britney Spears thrown
in, every now and then. I think it’s hilarious. Sturgis, on the other hand, is
a little uncomfortable. After we look in the door of the first place on the
list, we realize we need to do a little shopping, and we decide that the
hip-hop look would be good for Sturgis. He actually knows a surprising bit
about it, although I’d been under the impression that he pretty much only
listened to jazz. I start calling him “Puffy,” which I wasn’t sure he’d
appreciate, but he seems to like having a nickname. He’s not always as stiff
as he seems, which is good. I stick to basic black, more of the punk/gothic
look that’s fairly easy to get, with dark makeup.
Next time McCloskey goes off base, we’re prepared, and we follow him to one of
the clubs. Sturgis and I bring a camera with us, and pretend to be celebrating
some thing. We have the bartender take a picture of us soon after we get in
the door, so it won’t seem strange, in case we find something we need to
photograph later. It was Sturgis’ idea to bring the camera, and it was a
brilliant move. McCloskey’s obviously conducting business with someone in the
back, so we snap a couple of pictures of us, with them in the background. We
both feel like spies, but they don’t seem to have noticed us. McCloskey meets
up with a couple of guys from his unit after about ninety minutes, but the guy
he was meeting with sticks around, although he leaves McCloskey’s table.
Sturgis and I dance a little, and, honestly, the man simply can’t dance. I
keep my amusement on this point to myself, though. I don’t want to tease him
too much.
Luckily for us, McCloskey’s contact notices Sturgis’ less than fly dance
moves, and asks me to dance. We were making no bones about the fact that we’re
American, but he’s impressed that I speak Russian. He says his name’s Genady
Yahuddin, and Sturgis sits down and lets us talk. Genady has apparently had
been drinking well before McCloskey’s arrival, and the two of them had been
throwing back vodka. I turn up the sex a little, and start asking questions.
Genady’s been well-trained not to give too much away, but he indicates that
he’s in the Army. He also lets slip, after I basically let him look down my
blouse, that he’s a weapons specialist. After all this, I sure hope he’s on
the list of suspects provided by our Uzbek associates.
Genady wants to take me home with him, and I’m tempted to go, but I’m not sure
how long it will take him to pass out drunk. I don’t want anything else to
happen in the meantime, that’s for sure. I have my limits. I tell him I’m
actually here with Sturgis, whose birthday it is, and that I feel kind of bad
for ignoring him. Genady stumbles off, and Sturgis and I take off shortly
thereafter. He pretends to be a little pissed at me while we’re still in the
bar, and we head straight back to base. It turns out that Yahuddi is on the
list of suspects. I call Harm to see if he’s still in touch with Captain
Volkonov. Even though he’s in the Russian Navy, he may be able to get
information, or maybe he has a contact he trusts. Harm’s a little snippy with
me, but he gives me Volkonov’s number. I want to do a little further
investigating, though, before contacting him, so, if necessary, I can ask one
big favor, rather than a bunch of smaller ones. I may not even need to call
him.
Sturgis and I agree that McCloskey’s more than likely our guy, so we tell
Colonel Witt, and he assigns MPs to watch him. We get permission to tap his
calls, and we search his quarters. There’s some cryptic notes, which we
photograph with our handy digital camera, and a list of names, a list of web
sites, and some addresses -- just numbers and street names -- with no
indication of where they are. We forward the information back to JAG – it’s
the perfect project for Bud, actually, since he’s not really able to try cases
yet, having not been cleared for full duty. I tell him that if the sites seem
at all related to al-Qaeda, to be sure to get the Navy and/or the CIA
involved, ASAP. I almost tell him to call Webb, until I remember Webb’s in
Suriname. The DCI really sucks – Webb didn’t deserve that.
/Webb/
Finally, the Colombians have stopped yanking the Stooges’ collective chain,
and the sale’s going through. Between Vinnie, Tony, and myself, we plan on
keeping local law enforcement at bay if they get wind of this operation. The
Stooges have been doing some shopping, including plane tickets to Amsterdam
for Amir and Mohammed, and some tourist trinkets and toys, presumably to pack
the drugs in. I buy a ticket for the same flight, and we watch the deal go
down a few days later.
I have a goodbye coffee with Ismail, telling him that I have to go back to the
Netherlands because of a family illness that I anticipate will result in a
prolonged visit. He tells me how well I’m speaking Arabic now, which I
appreciate, even though I have a long way to go. We have a pleasant
conversation, and I take my leave.
The sale goes down as planned, and I leave Vinnie and Tony to keep an eye on
the Stooges while I get a few things wrapped up. As I take off for Amsterdam
the next day, I don’t know that I’ve ever been happier to leave a place as I
am to leave Suriname, and I sincerely hope I’m on the road back home now,
although I have no idea where my journey will lead before I get there.
I’m seriously tempted to kiss the ground when we finally reach Amsterdam. Not
only was it a really bumpy flight, making me happy to set foot on terra firma,
but I’m so supremely happy to be both cold as hell and in Europe, in one of my
favorite cities, words can’t even express it. I immediately spot the Dutch
operatives sent to follow the Stooges, who are down to two, and I point them
out in the manner we’d talked about. The Stooges head off, tails in tow, and I
check into a hotel, phone my CIA contact, Rachel, to let her know I’m here,
change clothes, and head to the red light district to meet Jan Van Der Woort.
I’m stepping over more junkies than I remember being here my last time, and, I
swear, it’s always a shock to see the prostitutes sitting in their windows,
even though I know they’re going to be there. But, still, I’m not in
Paramaribo!
Jan’s right where he said he’d be, in a seedy dive full of people who seem to
have been plucked out of the Sex Pistols’ London in the late 1970s. I’m glad I
decided to wear all black here, and that I grew a goatee. I know this scene
well enough to know that I need to do a little shopping for a more appropriate
look. I glance around to get a feel for what I’ll need. I draw the line at
piercings and tattoos – what are these people thinking? I focus back on the
matter at hand. According to Jan, David Ali hangs out here during the day
sometimes, although he spends nights at the club he owns. Ali, like many
big-time drug dealers, is careful to maintain the aura of a legitimate
businessman. Jan also tells me that the Stooges have stashed the drugs in a
storage locker, and have made initial contact with Ali.
Jan’s also been in touch with his counterpart in Paris, where the bulk of
Ali’s drugs apparently end up. Most of the money, on the other hand, goes
elsewhere -- Switzerland being the most likely destination. Although Ali and
his network are well paid, they’re certainly not living the life of luxury
they would if they were profiting to the extent they’d be if some of the money
weren’t being siphoned off for other reasons. The next questions are: where’s
the money, who’s tapping it, and how’s it being used? Well, I’ve always loved
a good mystery. But have I mentioned how happy I am to be in Europe, even if I
am in a seedy hash bar in Amsterdam?
Part 3
French to English Translations are at the end of the chapter.
/Mac/
Our search of McCloskey’s quarters turns out to have yielded the mother lode
of incriminating information. The list of names contains a total of three,
including Genady Yahuddin, that are also on the lists given to us by the local
authorities investigating thefts. Bud tells us the websites may or may not be
connected to al-Qaeda, it’s hard to tell, but they have tons of information on
the network of mercenaries that’s active throughout the world. In the
meantime, the missing guns from Turkmenistan, of which there were quite a few,
turn up in a unit in Khanabad. The guy in charge of checking out the weapons
from the armory was apparently too drunk to remember to do it, which is a
whole separate problem, and charges are pending. But, now we know
Turkmenistan’s probably not involved in the thefts we’re investigating,
although they still have their own theft problems, unrelated to this
particular investigation. It ends up making sense, because we confirmed that
McCloskey had taken two weeks of leave to return to the States because his
father died, and, during that time, his unit was working in Turkmenistan, but
he wasn’t.
With respect to our “official” mission, we’ve decided that it’s time for our
interrogation lesson for our local counterparts. Although they haven’t really
questioned what we’ve been doing, we’ve stretched our lessons out for a fairly
lengthy time, in order to keep our investigations on a parallel track. Now
that they seem to be intersecting, we need to move a little faster. Sturgis
comes in with the names of the three people we want to talk to, as if they
were a random choice. We explain about interrogation techniques, and then do a
little demonstration. That is, I do the demonstration on the first guy, and we
do a joint interrogation of the second. I tell the locals they’ll do Genady,
and I’ll observe from behind the mirror.
All three end up confessing, and they all indicate that they’d sold the
weapons to an American; specifically, McCloskey, so I end up not needing to
call Captain Volkonov, after all. It appears they have no idea what his plans
are for the weapons, and they never questioned why he’d need Russian-made
weaponry when he had access to American weapons. Genady was the one who stole
the shoulder missile launchers. Unfortunately, none of the three of them have
any idea where the weapons are now. We ask the locals to let us know if anyone
comes up with further information on the American, or the weapons. Our
suspects may know more, but I don’t think that coercive interrogation’s really
warranted, at least at this point. In any event, these guys know how to do
that; it’s one of the problems they’ve had in the past.
We’ve got more than enough to arrest McCloskey at this point, and our Uzbek,
Tajik, and Kyrgyz counterparts are very excited to be able to make their own
arrests. We only spend a few more days on our official mission, and we spend
those evenings trying to figure out how to handle McCloskey. Once the official
mission’s over, we need to try to push McCloskey into making a move. McCloskey
isn’t really communicating anything to anybody that we can tell. But if we let
him know that we’re onto him, we need to be prepared to follow him if he runs.
Colonel Witt, Sturgis, and I end up on a long conference call with Admiral
Chegwidden. We decide to plant a tracking device in his luggage, by putting it
into the lining.
The next few day, a CIA agent, who’s the spookiest spook I ever met, stops by
and gives us a couple of bugs, as well as tracking devices, and the receiving
devices, and explains how to use them. When McCloskey’s on duty, we plant the
devices in the lining of his duffel bag, as well as a couple of shirts we’d
seen him wear when he was off duty, then let leak why we’re really on base. I
hope to hell these things work, or we’re totally screwed, because we can’t
spare anyone to watch this guy 24/7 and follow him if he slips away.
Sure enough, the gossip about who we are, and what we’ve really been doing,
spreads like wildfire. Less than 48 hours later, McCloskey’s gone. It’s very
clever, because the tracking device gets set off when he gets far enough away
from the monitor to trigger it, and I’m awakened at 0310. I’d been sleeping in
sweats, due to the cold, and because we thought he might go UA. We’ve been
keeping our bags packed since we leaked the purpose of our mission, and I run
to grab Sturgis. We hop in the Humvee assigned to us for this purpose, and
take off after McCloskey.
/Webb/
After arranging with Jan to meet him later at Ali’s club, I leave to do a
little shopping, also in this neighborhood. I’m getting a little too old to be
getting dressed up like this; although, the entire experience is sort of
throwing me back in time, to college and impromptu train trips to Manhattan
for the weekend. One of my buddies’ fathers was a lawyer whose firm did a lot
of business in New York, and the firm kept an apartment there. We’d go for the
weekend if no one was going to be there, and we’d go out all night. Those were
fun times, actually. I haven’t had any of those for a while. I didn’t think
I’d still be doing similar things at my age; although now I’m getting paid to
do it, I guess. God, I hope this entire operation works out the way I think it
will, and we can bust up what seems to be a large arm of the al-Qaeda money
operation. Otherwise, I may spend the rest of my life in Suriname.
Once I have what I need, I grab a bite to eat and head back to my hotel. I
need to get a few hours’ sleep before heading out tonight. Ali often meets in
his club in a private, very secure room, with various sellers, as well as his
distributors from other countries. It’s difficult to get drugs out of
Amsterdam. Because it’s a source city, the trains and planes get virtually
torn apart at their destinations, so Ali and his people are constantly looking
for a new angle.
After a long nap, I order room service and make a couple of calls to the
States, before I leave to meet Jan. I dress carefully and do my hair a little.
I don’t even look like myself. In addition to the goatee and hair, I’m wearing
leather pants, combat boots, a tight pullover shirt, and a leather coat. I
almost forget to take my class ring off, even though I bought something to
replace it with. I know it’ll bug me all night if there’s nothing there. I
don’t know why, but I briefly picture running into Bud Roberts looking like
this. Thinking about the expression on his face makes me laugh out loud.
Actually, I wonder how he’s doing with his rehab. Of all the people to get
hurt... I shake my head, focusing back on why I’m here.
I get to the club at the appointed time, and it’s everything I would’ve
expected. Pounding techno music, a few half naked girls dancing in cages,
people getting a little too into each other on the dance floor, probably as a
result of ecstasy, and me feeling like I’m the oldest person here. I order a
drink, then stand back against the bar and scan the room. I’ve seen a photo of
Ali, and I think I spot him. Jan arrives about ten minutes after I do, with a
female agent in tow who introduces herself as Margot. He confirms who Ali is.
We circulate a little, and Jan tells me after a while that Ali’s French
distributor, Mustafa Gibral, is here. Gibral comes from a family of legitimate
wealth, so it’s a little odd that he’s selling drugs.
We think the Stooges are probably going to come by tonight, so we need to
stick around for a while. Margot dances with both Jan and myself, and I’m
shocked when a couple of other women ask me to dance. I know I can dance, but
I’m pleased to realize I’ve still got it, in this context anyway. The Stooges
finally show up, about two and a half hours after we get there, and they meet
with Ali in the VIP area, but he didn’t bring them into the secure room.
Margot and I try to get closer to where they are, to see if we can see
anything. The Stooges still have a few things to learn, because I can clearly
see them pass a key to one of Ali’s men. After the exchange, the Stooges come
down into the club, and they seem intent on spending the rest of the night
there. The three of us wait another twenty minutes or so before we leave.
Ali’s people are very efficient, and they collect the cocaine the next day.
They keep about a quarter of what’s there, and the rest gets handed over to
Gibral. I meet with Rachel after that, and she gives me the profiles on Gibral
and Ali. Gibral, it seems, is a “true believer” and will do what it takes to
root out the infidels, even if it means being an infidel himself, although
these guys do have rationalization down to an art. I notice that he’s not
moving from his cushy home in Paris for the cause. I’m sure his family’s
position protects his activities somewhat, although I doubt he could survive
in a cave. Ali, on the other hand, is primarily interested in making money,
and only secondarily in the cause, which he doesn’t seem to be that
ideological about. That is, he’s all for it, as long as he’s insulated from
getting caught. He’s someone who may very well start talking if he got
arrested on a charge that might stick. As I said, though, it’s been a little
difficult to pin anything on him; although the Stooges have just made that
easier, since we know where to look. Gibral, on the other hand, may well be
the key to the movement of money from the drug network into the coffers of al-Qaeda.
After consultation with the Agency, I’m headed to Paris.
/Mac/
We catch up to McCloskey about a half hour after his departure from Khanabad.
It seems he’d walked off base, then called someone to come get him. Sturgis
and I follow him to the train station in Tashkent. He buys a ticket to
Alma-Ata in Kazakhstan, which is the second train out in the morning, and then
goes into the bar to wait. Sturgis and I look at each other in puzzlement.
Where the hell are the weapons? Kazakhstan?
I suggest to Sturgis that I take the train, as well, while he goes back to
base to see if he can figure out what’s going on. We both suspect McCloskey’s
going to be headed someplace else from Alma-Ata, and I’ll contact Sturgis from
there to tell him where to meet me. Sturgis is a little reluctant about my
plan, particularly since McCloskey knows who I am.
The train doesn’t leave for ninety minutes, so I tell Sturgis not to sweat it.
There’s a store inside the train station that’s already open. I buy some hair
color, and tell him to keep watch over McCloskey while I dye my hair. He
thinks I’m crazy, but with that, some makeup and a change of clothes,
McCloskey shouldn’t recognize me. When I get done, and it takes a while to get
my hair rinsed out and dried to the point where I don’t look like a drowned
rat, I realize precisely how red this dye is. It’s a dark red, but really
quite red. I pull on the “club clothes” I had on when I met Genady, and put on
heavy makeup. I barely recognize myself. And I swear, the Navy’s going to
reimburse me for the time it’s going to take at my hair salon to get me
looking normal again!! I mean, I like a little red in my hair but this… I’m
sure the brightness will fade after a few days. When I walk out, Sturgis has
his back to me, and I sit across from him. His eyes flit over me briefly, and
then I see the shocked look on his face when he realizes it’s me.
“Jeez, Mac! I barely recognized you.”
“Good. That’s what I was going for.” About this time, they’re calling for
boarding on the train.
“Listen, Mac, be careful. I don’t want to have to explain any injury to the
Admiral. Or Harm.”
“It’s my decision, and I’m in charge, so I’m taking full responsibility. You
shouldn’t have to explain anything. It’ll be fine. The only stop we’re making
between here and Alma-Ata is Bishkek. That’ll make things easier. Our stop
there isn’t very long, but I’ll call you from Kazakhstan… Puffy.”
Sturgis laughs, telling me again to be careful. Although he’s trying to stay
in the shadows to avoid detection by McCloskey, I know he watches as I get on
the train. I’m careful to get on the same car as McCloskey, although I don’t
get into the same compartment. I pay attention to where he goes, though, and
he doesn’t seem to recognize me. I doze off for a little while, even though I
try really hard to keep my eyes open. I’ve been up half the night, since
McCloskey’s leaving base woke me out of a deep sleep. I wake when we cross the
border into Krygyzstan, and the immigration official doesn’t question why I
look the way I do, although my appearance is a bit extraordinary, considering
I have military travel papers. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.
When he leaves, I get up and walk to the bathroom, past the compartment
McCloskey went into, and he’s fast asleep, even though the immigration
authorities just came from there. I open a window at the end of the car and
let in some cold air to wake myself up. I need to pay attention. I head back,
deciding to study Arabic for a little while. Eventually, the old man in the
compartment with me strikes up a conversation. He feels that my appearance
contradicts the fact that I’m being quite studious and concentrating. I tell
him I’m still in school, and I’ll be more conservative when I get a job.
We have a nice conversation, and he offers to bring me something back from the
restaurant car. Although I’d like to go myself, I don’t have anyone to help me
keep an eye on McCloskey, so I take Mr. Mikhailovich up on his offer. I sneak
another look at McCloskey, who’s still in his seat, sleeping. McCloskey
doesn’t leave the train at Bishkek, making my life a lot easier. Mr.
Mikhailovich does, however, and I end up alone in my compartment, which is
just fine with me.
I doze off again, once more waking at a border crossing. The Kazahk
authorities question me a little more, but they’re satisfied with my
explanation. I surreptitiously check on McCloskey again, and he’s still on the
train, reading a comic book. Why does that not surprise me?
I’m starting to get really bored, and now I wish I did have someone to talk
to, or that I’d at least thought to buy a book in that store at the Tashkent
train station. We finally arrive at Alma-Ata, and I’m glad to be able to get
out and walk around. McCloskey’s met by a woman about my height, and, although
they speak in English, she’s clearly Russian. They get into a cab, and I get
into the next one, telling my driver to follow them, but if he could, not to
be too obvious. He laughs, and says he always wanted someone to say that to
him. They end up at the airport, where they both buy tickets to Kiev. I do as
well, and, immediately afterwards, get on the phone with Sturgis. When he
informs me they don’t have a line on the weapons, I tell him to head to Kiev,
as well. We’ll have to keep tracking McCloskey, but I hope he makes a move
soon, before we’ve followed him all over Europe. Going all over Europe has its
appeal, I guess, but not so much when it’s work related, and in the ex-Soviet
Union. I’m a little concerned that McCloskey may notice I was on the train to
Alma-Ata, but he and the woman disappear into the bathroom for an extended
period of time, and are so into each other when they get back out, he’s not
paying attention to anyone else. Nevertheless, I wait until after McCloskey
and his girlfriend get on the plane before I board.
/Webb/
I head to Paris on the train, spending the entire time reading up on Gibral.
The more I read, the more I think that he’s going to be the key to this. I
think he’s probably the one link between the drug money and whoever spends it.
I doubt Gibral spends it himself, because I think he’s using up whatever
political capital he has, doing what he’s doing now, and he doesn’t want to
flaunt it. I’ll say one thing; as dumb as the Stooges are, these higher-ups do
seem to know what they’re doing, although I think, sooner rather than later,
Gibral will end up getting himself into trouble that his daddy’s money can’t
buy his way out of.
We finally arrive at the Gare du Nord, and I manage to get out of there
without getting my pocket picked. I hail a taxi and head for my hotel, where I
clean up a little before heading to meet the people I’ll be working with in
Paris. The French authorities are very cooperative, far more so than they
usually are, but in one of the last messages allegedly given by bin Laden, he
specifically mentioned France, and I think it has everyone spooked. People
remember the Algerians, not so long ago, putting bombs in trash cans, and no
one wants to go through that again. We set up a plan for surveillance of
Gibral and his men. Like so many other drug dealers, Gibral hangs out at
clubs, so I’ll be spending some more time getting to know techno music, I
guess. Unlike in Suriname, it’s going to take a little more than a hunch to be
able to bug him and wiretap his phones, so it may take a bit of time to get to
that point.
I spend the next few nights clubbing it, and Gibral meets with a succession of
people, but it’s difficult to tell what’s business and what’s pleasure. One
evening, one of the French detectives I’m working with, Thierry, overhears
someone tell the bartender to make sure he has some specific kind of liqueur
on hand, because some VIP is coming the next night. This could be our break.
When Thierry tells me this, we start trying to figure out a way to get closer
to the door that leads to the room that Gibral hangs out in. It’s got windows
that look out onto the dance floor, but it’s also private. I wish we had a
female agent working on this, someone who might be able to gain access, but
it’s doubtful Gibral would let her in with someone important in the room, no
matter how dumb she pretends to be, or how amazing she looks. On the other
hand, it’s astonishing how much some of these guys talk in front of women they
don’t know. Gibral doesn’t strike me as that type; although, if the
conversation’s being conducted in Arabic, he might. It’s a moot point, though,
and we need to find another way to find out what’s going to happen.
We return to the club the next night, and this woman, a girl, really, asks me
to dance just as our VIP walks in the door. I almost laugh, because I realize
how young she is when I get a better look at her. Instead of waiting for an
answer, she drags me onto the dance floor. I don’t want to make a scene, so I
follow her, hoping she won’t notice that I’m really not paying attention to
her. It’s clear this guy’s important, the way he’s being treated. Anyway, this
girl seems to have taken dancing lessons from rap videos on MTV – not that I
spend a lot of time watching rap videos on MTV, although I know they involve a
lot of bump and grind – and she’s oblivious to the fact that my attention’s
elsewhere. I’m still trying to figure out how to get close enough to the door
to listen. The door to the room’s around a corner, so if someone stood there,
it wouldn’t be that noticeable to people dancing; although the bathrooms are
down that corridor, which would attract attention to people walking down the
hall.
Anyway, I go to leave after the dance is over, and I can’t even imagine what’s
going through this girl’s mind, because she starts following me. I head down
towards the bathroom, and she shoves me up against the wall and shoves her
tongue in my mouth. I can sort of hear what’s going on though, inside the
room, so I don’t push her away. I don’t particularly want to be kissing this
girl, who’s probably young enough to be my child – okay, the thought that I’m
old enough to be the parent of anyone, much less a full grown girl, is just a
little upsetting – but I need information. I maneuver us around until I can
hear a fair amount of what’s going on. I’m not getting that much, really, but
someone in there has a fairly loud voice. They’re speaking in Arabic, as well,
so I have to concentrate hard. I also have to attend to what I’m doing with
this girl, whose name I still don’t know, despite the fact that she now has
her hand on my zipper. Okay, we are *not* going there. I move her hand, say,
“Attends, allez, doucement,” and then take charge. I figure it will be to her
advantage to give her a little lesson in kissing, which, although I don’t
think I’m Casanova or anything, I know I do better than she does. It might
also be good for her to learn that groping does not immediately follow the
first kiss you give to someone.
Once I gain control of the situation outside the door, I can put my brain on
autopilot, but I start when I hear the name “Irina Davidovich.” The voice says
he hasn’t met her face to face, and then I hear the words “first meeting” and
“Kiev.” Irina Davidovich’s a dealer of stolen weapons, specializing in weapons
stolen from the various former Soviet republics. She recruits people to steal
for her, and she’s a complete mercenary. She’ll deal in anything, if she’s
paid enough. I know little more than that about her, and apparently she’s
opening up shop now with al-Qaeda. I need to get information on her, the VIP,
and book a flight to Kiev, but, first, I need to delicately get out of the
current situation in which I find myself. I break the kiss with this unknown
girl, who actually whimpers a little. This makes me feel good, actually, but I
need to get going on this other thing.
“N’arrete pas,” the girls says.
Just then, Thierry rounds the corner, looking for me. Thank *God.*
“Qu’est ce que tu fait?” he asks me, in an irate tone of voice.
“Rien.”
“Marie te cherche.” I’m so glad Thierry has realized what’s going on. I wonder
how long he waited, though, come to think of it.
“Merde. J’arrive.” I turn to the girl and say, “Je suis desolée. Tu ne m’a pas
laissé expliquer. Il faut que je m’en aille.”
She looks a little sad, but she gives me a little wave.
I motion for Thierry to follow me outside. We start walking, and, before he
can say anything, I explain. “She attacked me in that corridor, but I realized
that I could hear some of what was going on in the room, and that it was the
perfect cover. Anyway, apparently they’re going to be meeting with Irina
Davidovich about purchasing some weapons. It doesn’t appear that they’ve met
with her face-to-face yet, and she’s either in Kiev, or will be there. I
didn’t get the date of the meeting, but I got the impression it’s soon.”
Thierry gets on the phone and puts a tail on the VIP, who we still haven’t
identified. I get back with my people, then book a flight to Kiev. I swear,
I’ve really been able to make use of most of my languages on this mission.
That’s fairly rare. I also feel like I’m finally one step ahead, since I know
about Irina, and the fact that she hasn’t met this VIP guy yet. The Agency’s
going to try to find someone who might be able to impersonate her. They’re
also trying to update the intel about her, to see if she’s working with
anybody else.
/Mac/
We have a connecting flight in Moscow, and McCloskey and his companion spend
the entire layover practically having sex in the waiting area. In fact, they
may actually *be* having sex in the waiting area. I shouldn’t be watching, and
I stop, but it gets me thinking about how long it’s been since I’ve gotten
laid. Since Mic. Sex with him was fine, but it wasn’t all that adventurous, or
anything. Not that it had to be, but it didn’t vary all that much. He always
made sure I was satisfied, but, looking back, I wonder whether it was more to
affirm his own manhood than out of any real concern for me, or what I was
feeling. He was more interested in the fact that he could bring me to orgasm
than in the fact that I actually had one. I suspect Harm would be much the
same way.
I’ve thought about it a lot, and, really, Harm and Mic are a lot alike. Mic
was right, I don’t like to be alone, but I don’t think that makes me some kind
of freak, like he suggested. Most people would rather share their life with
someone, although Mic was right that I should’ve been more honest about *who*
that someone should be. At any rate, I’ve become more comfortable with the
idea of being alone, and not being with a man just to be with someone. That’s
been a trap I’ve fallen into throughout much of my life, but I think I’ve
finally gained enough self-respect to put a stop to it now.
I think back to the time I took, after Mic left, to sit back and look at the
entire course of our relationship. I never really realized, until that moment,
how controlling and manipulative he was. When I asked him, in a calm voice,
why he hadn’t told me that he’d started his own firm, was suing the Navy, and
had been engaging in settlement negotiations, he made me seem like a
controlling shrew. Like his treating me as an object at his firm party, and my
getting upset about it, was also a problem that *I* had. I still can’t believe
I apologized to him about that! Those are really the best of many examples of
his behavior. He seemed resentful of me because I was still in the service and
he wasn’t, even though he’d made that choice and taken the risk of resigning
his commission and coming to the States, hoping he and I could work it out.
When I realized all this, I decided then and there that being alone was far
better than being in a relationship with someone like Mic.
And, then, while I was coming back to the States on the Seahawk, after Singer
got sent home, and doing the same sort of review of my relationship with Harm,
I realized that it would be full of many of the same pitfalls. I think it’d be
great at first, probably, but then the wheels would come off the wagon. He and
I are just too competitive, and you can’t be like that in a romantic
relationship. I was really resenting his making me continually wait, while he
continued to play the field to make sure no one better came along, and I don’t
honestly know if we could have worked through that. Plus, Harm hasn’t exactly
shown me tons of personal and professional respect, at varying points,
throughout the years, and I find those times hard to forget, too. The other
reason he was waiting, I think, is because he’d convinced himself that, with
me, that would be it, he’d have to go all the way or no way at all. Getting
married on the first date isn’t what I had in mind, and, frankly, I wouldn’t
have wanted that pressure. You don’t wait to get involved with someone until
you’re ready to propose to them!
I shake out of this reverie when we board the plane. I can’t wait to sleep.
I’ve gotten a few minutes here and there, sitting upright. I need to lie down
in a bed, but that’ll wait a little while longer, until well after we’ve
landed. The flight to Kiev’s very smooth, and I read the whole way. I’d
pre-arranged with Sturgis to meet me at the hotel, just in case McCloskey
might recognize him at the airport. I knock on his door to let him know I’m
around, drop off the device he needs to track McCloskey, then change clothes.
It’s too early to go to bed, I decide, and I finally have some free time. I
decide to go to Babi Yar, the site of a massacre that occurred when the
Germans occupied Kiev in World War II. It’s a very moving place, and it helps
me remember again why I’m doing what I’m doing, why I’ve been studying Arabic:
so this sort of thing doesn’t happen again.
When I do get to bed, I sleep for almost 14 hours, and when I get up, Sturgis
has developed a plan of action. He’s a little worried that I might think he’s
taking over, I think, but he’s gotten all the information together, and it’s
kind of nice for me not to have to think! He located McCloskey and his
companion, who local police identified as Irina Davidovich. She’s an arms
dealer, and she’ll apparently obtain and sell whatever people are willing to
pay her price for. This explains quite a bit. They tell Sturgis where Irina
hangs out, and we decide to see what we can see. We talk about contacting the
CIA, but our investigation’s still into the theft of military ordnance. We
know they’ll come in and take over, leaving us out of the loop. Ultimately, we
decide to see how far we can take it, without any additional help. The only
club clothes I have are the ones I’ve been wearing for the past few days, so I
talk to the girl at the concierge desk at the hotel, who has a couple of
piercings and blue hair, where to go. I drag Sturgis along.
Along the way, he says, “You know, Mac, I’m not sure how to make it so that
McCloskey won’t recognize me. I can’t alter my appearance as easily as you,
with makeup and hair color. But, I’m going to be stand out, being, you know,
black and all.”
“I don’t know, Puffy,” I say, to let him know I’m joking. “We could dye your
hair, but it would look kind of ridiculous, I think.”
“It might turn Lucy orange, and, having dressed as a Rasta last Halloween, I
can tell you that that would likewise look ridiculous.”
I get mental pictures of this, and start laughing hysterically. “Listen, we’ll
let them go in first, and then you can sit with your back to them. You’ll have
to be backup, I guess, although we could put a fake tattoo on your neck or
something. Clayton Webb told me one time that drawing attention away from the
face is half the battle. I can’t imagine why we were discussing such a thing,
come to think of it, but, anyway, he swore that that was the most important
disguise trick.”
“I could handle that,” he says. We find some clothes that really seem to
transform him, too. And myself. We have a nice quiet dinner, at which we don’t
discuss business, and he tells me some stories about his and Harm’s days at
the Academy. Stories that I shouldn’t know, which makes me like Sturgis all
the more. We eventually segue into a frank discussion about Harm and me.
“Mac, I have to say, and this is only my own opinion of the situation, that I
think he thinks you guys will end up together. I know that what he’s been
offering isn’t good enough for you, but you know how dense he can be. He won’t
understand subtle. You need to somehow let him know. I’m not saying to bring
it up out of the blue, but you’re probably going to need to be blunt.” Then,
after a short pause, he says, “You know, I should butt out.”
“No, I appreciate you saying something. In some ways, you know him better than
I do. I would tell him if it came to that, or if the opportunity presents
itself. But, damn it, it’s so like him to assume that I’d just wait forever,
you know?”
“Yeah. I know.”
We finally head back to the hotel and get ready for our night of clubbing. I’d
picked up some glittery stuff, and, although I briefly think I might live to
regret it if I can’t get it out of my hair later, I take a deep breath and
spray it into my hair and onto the skin that will be exposed when I put my
shirt on. It’s long sleeved, but it exposes my stomach and quite a bit of
cleavage. My skirt hangs low on my hips, and I got fishnets to wear with my
boots. I laugh a little when I see myself in the mirror. I go to find Sturgis,
who looks quite hot in his outfit, actually, and we laugh at each other.
“Leather suits you, Puffy,” I tell him. Sturgis does have a nice body.
“And glitter suits you, Mac,” he jokes. He still has the digital camera, so we
take a few pictures of ourselves.
We head to the clubs frequented by Irina, and we find her and McCloskey at the
second one we go to. There’s a very heavy beat to the music, and we find seats
where I can see Irina and McCloskey. They’re all over each other, as per
usual, and they don’t seem too intent on doing business. I don’t necessarily
want to get too close, but I get up and dance a few dances with the guys that
ask. As I’m dancing, someone suddenly cuts in and grabs my arm, hard. I start
to go on the offensive, cocking my fist, when I hear a familiar voice hiss,
“What the hell are you doing here, Mac?”
“Webb?” I stop the trajectory of my fist out of shock. Clayton Webb’s standing
in front of me in a goatee, spiky hair, and clothes that are hugging his body.
I wouldn’t have recognized him, if I hadn’t heard his voice first. I can see
every muscle of his chest and arms through his shirt. I had no idea he had
such a good body. He’s being a little confrontational, though, so I snap my
attention back to what he’s saying.
Translations:
“Attends, allez, doucement.” -- Wait, come on, gently.
“N’arrete pas.” -- Don’t stop.
“Qu’est ce que tu fait?” – What are you doing?
“Rien.” – Nothing.
“Marie te cherche.” -- Marie’s looking for you.
“Merde. J’arrive.” -- Shit. I’m coming.
“Je suis desolée. Tu ne m’a pas laissé expliquer. Il faut que je m’en aille.”
-- I’m sorry. You didn’t give me a chance to explain. I have to go.
Continue to Part II |