Disavowed (17 page)

Chapter 37

Alexandria, Virginia

6:28pm, October 5
th

Anthony Farrago slipped into the elevator just as it was about to close. He’d checked the day before. No cameras. The building’s community bulletin board said that security was being installed in the coming weeks. Not that he cared, but it was always prudent to be careful.

He got off on the fourth floor, pulling his ball cap lower as he scanned the length of the hallway. All clear. He took his time walking down the stained concrete hall, his footsteps barely making a sound.

The condo development was new, built especially for the twenty- and thirty-somethings who worked in and around D.C. It was only half sold, or so the real estate agent had told him when he’d posed as a buyer the day before.

He mentioned in passing that his friend might live in the building, an old friend from the military. When he said the name, the agent smiled and told him that his friend had actually moved in on the first of the month.

It was good to know that all of his contacts hadn’t been burned. With the disappearance of the former President of Afghanistan, his business partner, along with the billions, Farrago was left with almost nothing. It hadn’t been easy sneaking back into the States.

He’d vanished, severing his ties with the CIA. According to his contacts, they were still looking for him, thinking that he may have been killed with the Afghan president.

Farrago wanted answers, and if anybody would know what had happened, it was the man he was about to visit. He pulled the keycard scrambler from his pocket and flicked the ON switch. When he came to the right door, he pressed the scrambler against the lock and five seconds later the lock disengaged. He eased the door open and stepped inside.

A shower was running. He pulled a blade from a wrist sheath. Guns were too messy. Knives were better for interrogation.

Even though he’d had the place under surveillance, he still moved from room to room making sure the two bedroom condo was empty. No signs of life except for the master bedroom. His target was getting ready for dinner, a fact his surveillance team had picked up earlier.

The water was still running when he slipped into the bedroom. There was a pistol lying on the bedside table on the opposite side of the room. Stupid.

He sidestepped into the walk-in closet as the shower shut off. A moment later, Major Bartholomew Andrews walked out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.

Farrago made his move, sliding out of the closet and cutting off the Marine’s path to the gun.

“Where’s the money?” he asked.

Maj. Andrews turned. Nothing in his look said that he was surprised by Farrago’s sudden appearance.

“It’s gone.”

Farrago took a step closer and held up the blade in his hand.

“What do you mean it’s gone.”

Andrews shrugged. “We took it.”

This wasn’t how Farrago had imagined the conversation going. Andrews was supposed to be squirming. He was supposed to fight back until the CIA veteran had to tear the information from his chest.

“Let me guess. You’re probably wondering where your partner went, right? The
former
President of Afghanistan?”

Farrago almost threw the knife at the arrogant upstart. Didn’t he know who he was dealing with?

There were too many questions. He’d had it all worked out. Every contingency planned to the smallest detail. The clients. The money. The overthrow.

“It’s over, Farrago.”

Farrago shook his head. “It’s not over until I say it is.”

“We’ve got the money. We took care of the president. And we took care of your clients. The prince in South Africa. The warlord in Somalia. The general in Ghana. I could keep going, but you know them all. I’ve gotta admit, you guys had a helluva plan. Teach aspiring leaders how to incite revolt and violence in order for America and its allies to come in and dump a boatload of money. Then you show them how to siphon off as much cash as they can and you guys get a hefty cut. If it wasn’t so twisted, I might have been impressed. But it’s over now. The racket is gone along with your friend.”

Nothing made sense. But he still had what really mattered. It was what he’d been trained for, what he’d been bred for. Not by the CIA and its legions of pussy-footing government employees, but by his father, the man whose legacy was alive and well. It was all he’d thought about since joining the Agency. It was now his legacy.

He was going to be to the CIA what Edward Snowden was to the NSA.

“What do you think the world would do if it found out that the CIA, that our country, was handing out money just to get our way?” asked Farrago.

Andrew’s eyes hardened. He didn’t know. Farrago laughed.

“It wasn’t about the money, you know. Sure that would’ve been nice, a good retirement. But I’ve got something much bigger in the works.”

“And what would that be?”

Farrago almost didn’t say, but he wasn’t planning on leaving Andrews alive.

“I’m going to take the CIA down, piece by fucking piece. Do you know how easy it was to give you up to the Afghans? I have no idea how you got out of that, but I know the names and locations of hundreds of agents. Not only that, I also have the documentation that shows how much and which world leaders we’ve bribed over the last twenty years. Under that prick Coles I had access to everything. There will be congressional investigations, pressure from world leaders, implosion. By the time I’m done with it, the CIA is going to sublease its headquarters. And I’ll be sitting on some sunny beach laughing my way to the next cocktail. I already have four countries bidding for the information.”

“Why’d you do it?” asked Andrews. “For everything they did for you, for your family?”

“For my family?! The CIA hasn’t done anything for my family! They ran my father out. They killed my brother. You tell me exactly how they’ve helped my family.”

“I feel sorry for you.”

“You can go fu— “

The words stuck in his throat. He arched his back at the shooting pain, pressure in his chest, then came the burning and the tearing torment. Farrago tried to turn but he couldn’t, like he was pinned in place. He looked down, his eyes bulging. Five inches of blood-lined metal were sticking out of his chest. He watched as the first drops fell to the floor.

The knife slipped from his hand, clattering to the hardwood floor as his hands grasped for the metal poking out of his shirt. Sharp cold steel, like a sword. The edges cut into his hands, the pain excruciating as he tried in vain to pull it out.

Without warning, the blade slid out of his body, the release turning him weirdly. He spun to face his attacker, blood seeping into his mouth, metallic and warm on his tongue. His knees wanted to buckle, but he willed them to keep standing, wobbling from side to side.

His mouth dropped open when he saw the man holding the blade.

“You!” he wanted to say, but the only thing that came out of his mouth was a gush of blood.

“Your services are no longer required,” said the man, pulling the blade back and then thrusting it into Farrago’s heart.

One beat. Two beats. And then Anthony Farrago collapsed into nothingness.

+++

Andy watched Farrago fall to the floor as the blade slipped out of him.

Kingsley Coles bent down and wiped the long blade on a clean part of Farrago’s shirt. Once satisfied, he slid it into some unseen sheath behind his back. His face looked unconcerned, like he’d just taken out the garbage.

“I thought Isnard was coming,” said Andy.

“I insisted on doing this myself. He was my responsibility,” said Coles, readjusting his shirt like he’d just finished up in the men’s room. “Have you considered my offer?”

Andy nodded.

“And have you made a decision?” Coles took a step back to avoid the blood that was spreading from Farrago’s wounds.

“I have.”

“And?”

“I accept.”

“Good. Have you decided where you’d like to start? Back to the Middle East, or perhaps a position with Mr. Isnard?”

Andy shook his head. “I’d like to come work for you.”

Cole’s eyebrow rose followed by an amused smile, the first Andy had seen. “And why would you assume that I’m hiring?”

Andy pointed at the body on the floor.

Coles nodded. “Very well. Take the weekend. You start on Monday.”

“Thank you.”

“You may not be thanking me in a week. One last question. I’ve heard that you don’t like being called by your given name. I don’t do nicknames, so what should I call you?”

No hesitation. “Mr. Andrews.”

Coles blinked. “Very well, Mr. Andrews. Here’s the number of the man who will take care of Mr. Farrago’s body. He should have things cleaned up by the time you get back from dinner.” Coles set a card on the bed, looked down at the body one last time, and left the room.

After he heard the front door close, Andy looked at himself in the full length mirror and said, “What have you gotten yourself into now, Mr. Andrews?”

Epilogue

Marine Barracks Eighth & I Street

Washington, D.C.

9:11pm, November 10
th

True to form, the Marine Corps Birthday Ball at 8
th
& I was an extravagant event. Marines in dress blues mingled with guests in tuxedos and danced with dates in elegant gowns. The booze flowed freely, and the camaraderie created an electric hum in the room, accompanied by the thumping bass coming from the oversized speakers.

The cake was cut and served to the youngest and oldest Marines present, and the commandant’s message was played even though the commandant was in attendance, a last minute change.

Cal hadn’t been to the Ball since leaving the Marine Corps. He was one of the men wearing a tailored tux instead of his blues. Diane Mayer had come as his date and dazzled the room in her sapphire dress that twirled as MSgt Trent spun her on the dance floor. Cal laughed as the huge Marine dipped her almost to the floor, then guided her up like Fred Astaire. No doubt about it, Top had some moves.

The Marines of The Jefferson Group had come as guests of General McMillan, USMC, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. He wasn’t there to overshadow the event, but he’d explained to Cal that he wanted to support his old friend, Gen. Winfield, USMC, who’d just taken over the helm of the Marine Corps.

While Cal had first declined the invitation, the incessant prodding from MSgt Trent changed his mind. It was good to be back with real Marines. The feeling spread as he watched his friends enjoy themselves. Even Daniel was dancing.

Cal felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to find a Marine captain standing with his hands behind his back. He wore the golden ropes of a general’s aide-de-camp. Cal could never remember how many meant what, but he did know that more ropes signified a higher rank of general. This guy had a bunch.

“Sir, can you follow me please?”

“Are you sure you’ve got the right guy?” asked Cal, glancing over his shoulder to where Diane was jumping up and down with the rest of the crowd to MC Hammer’s “U Can’t Touch This”.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Stokes.”

Cal drained the rest of his whiskey and followed the Marine out of the ballroom and down a long hallway. A lance corporal and his date were making out in a shallow alcove, lipstick smeared all over the Marine’s face.

Some things never chang
e, thought Cal.

They went up a flight of stairs and came to a closed door.

“They’re waiting for you in there, sir.”

“Who?”

The captain had already done an about-face and was marching back the way they’d come.

Cal shook his head and opened the door.

It looked like a smoking lounge in a swanky country club, dim light coming from bronze sconces on the walls. Cushy leather armchairs here and there. No fire in the fireplace. Two of the seats were occupied. The men rose from their seats when Cal entered the room.

“Thanks for coming, Cal,” said Gen. McMillan. He was holding a water glass that was three quarters full of some dark liquid.

“Not a problem, general,” said Cal.

“Have you met General Winfield?” said McMillan, pointing with his glass at the Commandant of the Marine Corps.

“I have not had the pleasure.” Cal stuck out his hand. “General, my name is…”

“Staff Sergeant Calvin Stokes, Junior,” finished the Commandant. His grip was firm. He held Cal’s hand for a long moment. “You look like your dad.”

It wasn’t uncommon for Marines to know his father. At the time he’d left the Corps, Colonel Calvin Stokes was destined to be a general. There’d been talk that he’d pick up three, maybe even four stars one day. He’d given it all up for his family, for Cal.

“That’s what they tell me, sir.”

“He was a good man. I worked for him. He was my first company commander. Kept me out of trouble as I tried to figure out how to lead Marines.” Winfield let go of Cal’s hand and motioned to one of the leather armchairs. “Can I get you anything?” he asked, pointing to a row of bottles on a rolling cart.

“Whatever you’re having is fine, thanks.”

Cal took his seat while Gen. Winfield dropped ice cubes in a tall glass and then filled it halfway. Cal wondered how many of those the two generals had had together.

The commandant handed the glass to Cal and took his seat.

Gen. Winfield raised his own glass and said, “To the Corps.”

Cal and Gen. McMillan repeated the toast and took respectful sips from their glasses.

“I hear the president’s been keeping you busy,” said Winfield.

Cal eyes snapped over to McMillan.

“The president gave me the okay, Cal,” said McMillan.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot, son. Maybe me and Mac have had a couple too many. Wouldn’t be the first time, eh, Mac?”

Gen. McMillan tipped his glass then took a healthy swallow in reply. Cal amended his previous thought. These two weren’t tipsy, they were hammered. What the hell was that all about? Maybe it was just the celebration.

“It’s okay, general. Yes, I have a certain…arrangement with the president.”

McMillan chuckled and took another swallow of his drink.

Gen. Winfield set his glass down and put his hands together, palm to palm. His face sagged and he suddenly looked tired, older than when Cal had walked in the door.

Cal waited.

Winfield’s eyes refocused on Cal. “Do you think, if the situation warranted it, do you think that the president would be okay with you helping me with a little…problem?”

“I don’t see why not. I take it that this is something you want to keep out of normal channels?”

“It is.”

“And your staff or the investigative services like NCIS couldn’t help?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Then why me, general? I’m just a dumb grunt with a small team. I’m sure there are a lot of people that are way more qualified to do whatever you need. Besides, you don’t even know me.”

Gen. Winfield sat up, his eyes now boring into Cal’s. “I need a Marine who can get things done. I need a Marine who remembers where we came from. I need a Marine who still believes in honor, courage and commitment. From what Mac tells me,
you’re
that Marine.”

Gen. McMillan nodded and drained the rest of his glass. He rose to refill it. “We’ve been through our options, Cal, and you’re it.”

What the hell were they talking about? Here were the Commandant of the Marine Corps and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and with all their resources they were left with him?

“I’m sorry gentlemen, maybe you can explain the situation,” said Cal.

“Tell him, Scotty,” said McMillan.

Gen. Winfield nodded. “I don’t know how to put this, and you’ll probably think I’m crazy…but I think—”

“We think,” interrupted McMillan.

“We think there’s an ongoing operation to discredit the Marine Corps.”

“For what purpose?” asked Cal.

Another look passed between the two generals. He’d seen that look plenty of times before, two Marines getting ready to take on an overwhelming enemy force, one or both likely to get killed.

Gen. Winfield said, “We believe that come this time next year, there will no longer be a United States Marine Corps.”

+++++

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