Evil Deeds (Bob Danforth 1) (17 page)
Read Evil Deeds (Bob Danforth 1) Online
Authors: Joseph Badal
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers, #Spy Stories & Tales of Intrigue, #Espionage
The satellite messaged information, including a dozen photographs, back to the National Reconnaissance Office. Copies were immediately wired to the White House, State Department, Pentagon, National Security Agency, and CIA. The information ultimately landed on CIA Analyst Rosalie Stein’s desk. Rosalie scanned the dozen satellite photos on her desk, and then, shaking with rage, called Bob Danforth’s office. Danforth’s assistant transferred her call to one of the conference rooms at Langley.
Discussion in the conference room stopped when the telephone rang. Bob picked up the receiver, listened for a moment, and then said, “Bring them right up.” He replaced the receiver, rubbed his hands over his face and sat back in his chair.
“What’s up, Bob?” Frank asked.
“Another slaughter in Kosovo. It looks bad. We’ve received photographs from the NRO. That was Stein down in Analysis. She’s bringing them up here.”
“How many dead?” Tanya Serkovic asked.
“Don’t know,” Bob said. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
Rosalie Stein burst into the room, red-faced and out of breath. She dropped a stack of photographs on the table in front of Bob.
After studying each picture, Bob passed it around the table. “This thing’s escalating,” he said. “The Serbs aren’t satisfied with just driving the ethnic Albanians out of Kosovo. Now they’re slaughtering them, too. It’s ultimate ethnic cleansing.”
Bob felt anger building inside. Stay cool, he told himself. Stay cool.
After the meeting broke up, Bob took an elevator down to the Crypto vault.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Danforth?” the Crypto Clerk asked.
“I want this message sent on a Flash Traffic basis.”
“Yes, sir,” the Clerk said, taking the paper from Bob’s hand. After inputting the message text into his computer, the Clerk punched in encryption instructions and tapped the transmit key. Bob’s message sped across space at the speed of light in a burst of code toward the radio-fax receiver of Agent Olga Madanovic, code name: Bessie.
Olga found the message on the machine she kept hidden under a floorboard in her apartment:
The Butcher Is To Be Extracted. stop. Code Name: Operation Oracle. stop. Advise Earliest If Gypsy Is On Board. stop. Instructions To Follow. End Of Message
The Gypsy girl looked nervous, Olga thought, when, later that day, she approached Miriana sitting on the park bench. The girl kept glancing around the park as though she was afraid someone had followed her.
“Good evening, Miriana,” Olga said. She took a seat next to the girl. “It’s good to see you again.”
“What more do you want of me?” the girl asked.
“You know, Miriana. I’m going to give you ten thousand American dollars for telling General Karadjic’s fortune.”
Olga waited for the girl’s response. None came.
“Do like I tell you and you’ll have the cash in twenty-four hours.”
Olga paused. When the girl finally nodded, Olga continued.
“First, do you have another appointment set with Karadjic?”
“Why?”
“That’s none of your business,” Olga snapped, then quickly softened her tone. “It’s for your own safety. The less you know, the better.”
“I don’t think I want to play this game by your rules,” Miriana said, sudden confidence in her voice. “I want a million dollars put in a numbered account in Switzerland.”
“What?” Olga exclaimed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Miriana gave her a slip of paper. “This is the name of the bank. I also want safe passage out of Serbia for my parents, my brother, and me.”
Olga sat stunned. “What makes you think you’re worth that much money, that much trouble?”
“Why else would you want to know when Karadjic’s going to meet me? It must be very important.”
“A million dollars is out of the question. It’s ten thousand or nothing.”
Miriana stood. “Fine, then it’s nothing.” She walked away.
“Wait!” Olga said. She rose and hurried after Miriana, not caring about the curious stares from people on nearby benches. Gripping Miriana’s arm, she whispered, “Maybe I can get you a little more than ten thousand.”
“All or nothing,” Miriana insisted. “And you better get it quick. I’m meeting with Karadjic three days from now. On Sunday.”
Miriana felt the sweat trickle from under her arms and down her sides. What is O Babo thinking? she thought. Why would he risk losing ten thousand dollars? They will never agree to one million.
“A million bucks!” Jack Cole yelled.
“Hell, Jack, it’s a whole lot less than the cost of one Cruise missile,” Bob said. “If this operation works, we’ll save twice that for every minute we can shorten the war. And think of the lives we can save.”
“Jee-zus, Bob! This is absurd.”
Bob didn’t respond, waiting for Jack’s anger to burn off.
Finally, Jack said, “Okay, Bob, I’ll sign off on it. But I want you there on the ground, to make sure everything goes as planned. As an observer only.”
“Right!” Bob said, wondering whether he’d be able to remain an observer during the operation.
Bob could always tell when Tanya was worried: She had two vertical creases in her forehead, just above her nose, which looked deeper than usual. “All right, out with it, Serkovic. What’s on your mind?”
“No insult intended, Boss, but you’re fifty-three years old,” she said. “What the hell is Jack Cole thinking, sending you into the field?”
“Don’t think I can handle it?” Bob asked, barely suppressing a smile.
Tanya shrugged.
“I won’t be in on the actual snatch. The Marines will handle that. I’m just going to observe.”
“Until something goes wrong.” Tanya said.
“What could possibly go wrong?” Bob said, with a wry smile – knowing all too well the Peter Principle was alive and well anytime an agent went into the field. If something can go wrong, it will. He waved Tanya out of his office. Then he sat back in his chair, hands behind his neck, and stared at the ceiling. The hardest part would be telling Liz.
Late that afternoon, Bob found Stan Bartell at a corner workbench in the Special Operations Section. Everyone called Bartell “Q” after the character in Ian Fleming’s James Bond series.
“Hey, Bob, long time no see,” he said. “I hear you’re going out.”
“That’s right, Q. Got my paperwork done?”
“You bet! Look here.”
Documents were spread out on the workbench. Each featured Bob’s photo.
“You’re going into Serbia with press credentials,” Bartell said. “This one says you’re a freelance writer for a Canadian newspaper. Next, here’s your Canadian passport. And your visa to enter Serbia.”
Bob examined the papers and nodded his approval. He put them in a leather briefcase Bartell provided. Stacks of cash were already in the case. “Where do I pick up a weapon?”
“There’ll be a Sig Sauer 9mm, along with two spare clips, under the mattress in your hotel room in Belgrade.”
Bartell slid a receipt for the cash – fifty thousand dollars in U.S. currency – and handed over a pen. Bob signed the receipt and pushed it back to Bartell.
“Thanks, Q,” Bob said. “I’ll see you when I return . . . assuming your documents pass the test.”
At sunset on Sunday, Olga again sat next to the Gypsy girl on their usual park bench. She briefly wondered if the girl really understood the risk, but quickly forced the thought from her head. That wasn’t her business. The mission was all that counted.
“Here’s the deal,” Olga said. “No negotiations, no changes. Take it or leave it. You understand?”
The Gypsy girl nodded.
“The money will be placed in your Swiss account after you do as you’re told,” she said.
“That was not our deal,” Miriana exclaimed, her voice rising. She kneaded her hands in her lap, scrunching the fabric of her dress between her fingers. “We want the money up front. We–”
Olga saw fear in the girl’s eyes. “Tough shit,” she said. “You do the job, first.” It was time the girl understood who was boss in this matter.
Miriana visibly gulped. “What do you want of me?” she asked. “What must I do to earn this money?”
“I’m going to tell you slowly, and I want you to repeat it – word for word. I want no misunderstandings or screwups. Your life . . . and mine . . . could depend on it.”
Miriana leaned forward and stared raptly at Olga. She listened to the blond woman’s whispered instructions. Her eyes grew bigger and bigger while Olga talked.
“One of these days you’re going to knock the door right off its hinges,” Liz said when Bob walked into the kitchen. Her voice displayed mock irritation. It was just part of their normal daily routine.
Bob paused. “Sorry. I can’t seem to close it softly. I’ll try to remember next time.”
“No you won’t,” she said, feigning anger. Then she turned from emptying the dishwasher, a glass in each hand, and gave Bob a kiss. “What are you doing home so early? The last time you came home unannounced was two years ago, when you were being sent off on some cockamamie mission to some godawful third world country in Africa.” Liz laughed at the absurdity of her comment. But then she noticed the frown on Bob’s suddenly reddening face.
“Bob, don’t tell me you’re going into the field,” she said. Her heart lurched. “That’s crazy! You promised that wouldn’t happen again.”
He hunched his shoulders and spread his arms. “It can’t be helped.”
She scowled.
“Calm down, honey. Getting upset isn’t going to change anything.”
She put the two glasses down on the kitchen counter. “Goddamit! What’s wrong with the Agency?” She stared at him, stepped into his arms, and began to cry. “Oh, Bob,” she said. “Not after all these years. Not now.”
