Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) (3 page)

Chapter
5

Allen
Green’s story appeared in
The New Yorker
magazine three weeks after his
“interview” with Colonel Russ Jernigan at the loud Leatherneck bar.

His
article read:

JACKSONVILLE,
N.C. -- During the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, America has long admitted to
supplying weapons to the Afghan resistance fighters, or Mujahideen, including
cutting-edge technology such as Stinger anti-air missiles. But, an in-depth
investigation has revealed that American intervention was actually far more
direct.

Several
sources have confirmed that American snipers were sent into the southeastern
parts of Afghanistan to engage Soviet Special Forces, or Spetsnaz, after Afghan
resistance was nearly extinguished in the province in late 1987.

Incredibly,
after the operation, American military leaders purposefully leaked information
of the two snipers, which achieved two goals.

First,
it tied up loose ends by having the men who were involved in the operation
killed.

Second,
the leaked information was used to ferret out a Soviet mole buried within the
U.S. intelligence community. This mole had been leaking and hindering
Mujahideen operations for years.

Both
snipers were killed because of these leaks, and the mole, once identified, was
used by U.S. counterintelligence to leak false information to the Soviets.

Two
brilliant Afghan victories actually resulted because of the false information
fed to the mole. These battles were later called the Battle of Al Mosud and
Taranka.

This
mole was later arrested and remains in U.S. custody.

The
victories of Al Mosud and Taranka helped stabilize the final years of the war
in Afghanistan. . .

Allen’s
article went on, but the details were nothing compared to the bomb-shell
revelation in the top of the article that stated American troops had killed
Soviet Spetsnaz in Afghanistan.

The
story made nearly every respectable news outlet within minutes of the issue
hitting newsstands. CNN, MSNBC, Fox News, ABC, CBS, and NBC, as well as every
national newspaper the following day.

The
government denied the story, which even Allen admitted wasn’t bulletproof.

Nonetheless,
Allen did have military records showing a Nick Woods, whose name had been used
by Colonel Russ Jernigan, had gone to sniper school in 1985. Records also
showed that Nick Woods left his Marine unit in 1987 for reasons no one in his
unit seemed to know.

That
was odd. Furthermore, there was no record of Nick Woods anywhere in the country
now; twenty of the nation’s top reporters couldn’t find him.

Finally,
Allen had found two Pakistani embassy employees -- one former and one current
-- who stated off the record that eight American soldiers had been at the
embassy during 1987.

And
these weren’t your normal, embassy Marines with dress uniforms and perfect
teeth, they’d said. These men had brought military gear with them and had departed
after a short time, but with two fewer men, according to the two embassy
employees.

The
two Pakistani embassy employees had heard rumors that the American troops had
pushed into Afghanistan and conducted operations. Both had heard that at least
one of the members had been killed.

Allen
hadn’t mentioned the sniper’s name -- Nick Woods -- because he knew that it
would likely affect the insurance money Woods’ family received after Nick died
in a “training accident” in 1987.

He
also didn’t want to put Woods’ family through any more grief.

Of
course, Allen couldn’t confirm the insurance money because the military had
“misplaced” his records. (“It happens all the time,” he had been told by a
bored clerk named Sergeant Janet Lonnely, who had no clue why some reporter
from
The New Yorker
was even asking about a Marine from so long ago.)

Worse,
Woods’ family down in Georgia had practically thrown him off the porch when
Allen showed up for “just a few questions” about the subject of the training
accident.

What
Allen didn’t know, nor had Colonel Jernigan, was that both snipers were not
killed. It was one of two facts in the article that were wrong.

Chapter
6

Allen
Green sat at his desk, checking his e-mail the day after the story broke. There
were messages on his voice mail for television bookings and interviews for
print media.

It
was a media firestorm, and he basked in the attention, thinking of whom he’d
call first. He imagined the money that would be headed his way. Oh, the money.

His
phone gave the in-house ring, breaking his thoughts.

He
picked it up.

“Yeah?”
he asked.

“Allen,”
said the front-desk receptionist, “there’s a guy here to see you. Says he has
an appointment.”

Allen
thought for a second, then flipped open his planner. Nothing. He remembered
that he wasn’t even supposed to be back in New York yet from Jacksonville,
North Carolina.

“That’s
funny,” he said, “but I don’t have an appointment listed.”

“He
says it’s important, and that if you don’t want to talk to him, he’ll go to
The
New York Times
with the information.”

“Okay,
then,” Allen said reluctantly. “I’ll be down.”

He
stood from his desk and walked toward the door. Then he stopped, remembering he
might need to take notes. He turned around, headed back to his desk, and
grabbed a pen and notepad.

No
reporter ever forgets pen and paper. That’s taught on day one.

So
much for being a pro. The whole thought of finally having some money and winning
the Pulitzer was seriously debilitating his ability to function.

In
the reception area, a man in a suit awaited him, standing and looking about
nervously. Allen smiled. Guy looks like a government agent, he thought.

“I’m
Allen,” he said to the man as he walked up and offered his hand.

The
man stepped closer, shook his hand, and whispered, “Can we talk outside?”

“Uh,
sure,” Allen said, glancing back at the receptionist. Her face said, “Give me a
break. Who does this guy think he is?”

Allen
smiled at her but followed the man toward the elevator. It opened before the suit
could press the button, something that rarely happened since their office was
on the fourteenth floor.

Coincidence,
Allen figured, though his floor was scarcely visited.

Two
other men were in the elevator, and neither moved toward the door. Now that was
odd, Allen thought. Wonder why the elevator stopped if they weren’t getting
off? Especially since neither he nor his source had pressed the button?

A
cursory glance revealed one wore a button-up blue shirt with khakis. He was
smiling at Allen, real eerie like. The other person was hidden behind an
outstretched
New York Times
, only revealing his slacks and shoes.

Allen
hesitated to make sure they weren’t getting off, then stepped forward, entering
the elevator with his visitor. They both turned to face the doors.

The
doors began to close, and Allen felt the hair on his neck stand up. As the
doors were inches apart, he thought of thrusting his hand in between them and
running.

But
by the time that idea had crossed his mind, it was too late. The doors had closed,
and he heard the rustle of a newspaper as it fell.

He
knew he was in deep shit as he tried to turn. His arms were grabbed from behind
by both men, and he struggled to break free. Allen started to yell, and his supposed
source covered his mouth, which he bit for all he was worth. The guy cursed in
pain, but then Allen felt something stab into his back. A knife, he thought.

He
was going to die in this elevator.

But
a burning pain spread in his knew and he realized it had been a needle instead
of a knife. Something had been injected into him.

“Stay
calm,” the source said. “Don’t fight it.”

The
elevator descended the fourteen flights. The doors opened to the lobby, and two
paramedics were waiting with a gurney. Allen felt his knees buckle, and as he
fell, arms propped him up. He tried to yell, but his mouth would not respond.

As
the walls begin to spin and go black, the two medics were the last thing Allen
saw. He heard the source say, “Here he is, help him,” in an urgent voice to
relieve any onlookers.

Allen
heard a woman say, “Oh my God,” but the paramedics were loading and strapping
him down. They had it under control, the bystanders assumed, so no one pulled
out their cell phones.

Allen’s
source and the other two men split up and disappeared in the confusion.

The
paramedics checked his pulse as they rolled him toward the door and told
everyone watching that Allen would be fine.

No
one that saw the incident bothered to call his office, the hospital, or the
police.

Chapter
7

Allen
Green awoke, dizzy and disoriented. His mind was groggy, like a hangover, but
worse. He closed his eyes and tried to focus.

Opening
them again, he realized the room had no windows. As he fully gained
consciousness, Allen realized he was in an empty, concrete cell.

He
was lying on a green, military-issue cot, and the only light in the room came
from a single bulb built into the ceiling and enclosed behind wire.

Belatedly,
he noticed a man built like an NFL linebacker sitting in a metal folding chair
reading a
Muscle and Fitness
magazine. In his blue jeans, the man’s upper
legs had that deformed look only big weightlifters have.

The
man’s face even looked tough. His jaw jutted forward like the front of a train,
blocky and solid. The face was wide and hard as if it had been carved from
granite.

His
eyes, small and intense, appeared cruel. He looked up, bored.

His
eyes narrowed, seeming to imply how ridiculous it was he had to stand guard
over a person as pathetic as Allen.

“Glad
to see you’re up,” he grunted. “I’ll get Whitaker.”

He
walked over to an iron, windowless door, knocked three times, and exited once a
series of locks snapped open. The door slammed, thick and heavy, like a vault.

Allen
tried to remember how he got here. It was hazy. He was pretty sure he’d left
Jacksonville, North Carolina, for New York, but wasn’t certain. He also thought
he’d published the story about American snipers killing Soviet soldiers, but he
was not sure now.

He
sat up and rubbed his eyes, which strangely had no sleep in them.

The
door opened, and the muscle man that had been reading the magazine walked in.
Another tall man followed him.

This
man wore business attire: khakis, long-sleeved button up shirt, and brown dress
shows. The tall man took a seat in the metal chair previously used by the
linebacker. Allen took the well-dressed man to be Whitaker.

Whitaker
crossed his right leg over his left leg, looking like a CEO ready for a good
game of chess. He stared at Allen, mute.

Allen
took advantage of the time. As a reporter, he was used to noticing small
details, and he had a feeling if he lived to see the outside world again, he
might want to remember the face.

Whitaker,
in a single word, was ugly. He was tall and built, but had more of a runner’s
body than a lifter. He looked like he could run back-to-back marathons.

But
despite a tall, in-shape body, his face looked out-of-proportion. The nose was
too big, the eyes too far apart. He was, in a word, ugly.

After
what felt like at least thirty seconds, Whitaker rubbed his jaw and spoke.

“Allen,”
Whitaker said, “you have no idea what you’ve done, do you?”

Allen
could tell he was definitely Ivy League educated.

Allen
was still groggy but wasn’t in the mood to argue.

“Where
am I?” he asked.

“Allen,
I’ll be directing this conversation,” the man said calmly.

“Who
are you?” Allen asked, anger in his voice.

Allen
never saw it coming, as Mr. NFL linebacker stepped forward and threw an
uppercut into his solar plexus. He fell backward, and his weight flipped the
cot. His back slammed into the concrete, and his head followed, knocking
against the floor. Stunned, he tried to shake it off, but before he could clear
his thoughts, the man yanked him to his feet and sat him back on the now
up-righted cot.

Allen
gasped for breath, unable to breathe. Tears fell from his eyes, without him
willing it. He’d never been punched before, having lived a guarded,
sophisticated life in the New England area. Hell, he had been an only child who
had always attended the best private schools.

He
whimpered as he tried to breathe.

Mr.
Linebacker, maple-legs, sneered in contempt at his weakness.

“Allen,
now you need to calm down,” Whitaker said in the same sophisticated voice. He talked
as if they were chatting and sharing drinks at a wedding reception.

“As
I was saying,” he continued, “You have no idea what you’ve done or the world of
shit you’ve created with that little article of yours.”

Allen
sat mute and wiped the tears from his eyes, suddenly embarrassed by his
inability to handle pain.

“With
just one article, at that,” Whitaker said. “Thanks to your work, we have
confirmed that a double agent in Moscow has been abducted, and we’ve lost
contact with five other agents inside Russia. Six CIA field agents, Allen. Do
you know how large a chunk of national security that is?”

Allen’s
brain was clearing up, and he was beginning to catch his breath. The article and
the way he had been snatched from his office were coming back to him. He
remembered the article, but could not figure out how it translated into six field
agents being nabbed.

Not
being one who was afraid to ask a question, he asked, “What do you mean?”

“You
moron,” Whitaker said. “The double agent you said was arrested was never
actually arrested. You had your facts wrong. And that man was our most
important double agent inside Russia. And now he’s gone, as are five others.”

“Oh,”
Allen said.

“Allen,
we need you to think, and play this smart,” Whitaker replied. “We need you to
work with us, starting right now.”

Whitaker
grinned, a slight and controlled smile that was a bit awkward, if not creepy.

“The
choices you make from this point forward,” Whitaker said, “matter very much now.
You see, we have lots of collateral damage to clean up. Your choice is either a
life of cooperation and silence or a string of bad coincidences.”

Allen
roared at Whitaker: “You ever heard of protected sources or the First
Amendment, asshole? Journalists never give out their sources. You should know
that --”

The
linebacker stepped forward and cocked his fist before Whitaker grabbed his arm.
Whitaker smiled as the linebacker stepped back.

Allen
expected Whitaker to say, “There’s no need for that,” or, “We don’t want to
have to hurt you.” That’s always what happened in Hollywood.

Instead,
Whitaker pulled out a small cell phone from his pants pocket. As he punched in
some numbers, he nodded to the linebacker, who left the room.

Allen
heard a voice on the phone answer and say, “Yes?”

“Do
it,” Whitaker commanded before hanging up.

Mr.
NFL Linebacker returned to the room, carrying a hand-held police scanner. He
turned it on, and it took several minutes of routine chatter before it became
clear how the phone call and police radio were related.

A
dispatcher reported a fire had been called in, and read off an address.

It
was Allen’s apartment address.

“You
mother-fucker,” Allen said.

Mr.
Linebacker stepped forward and repeated his earlier punch, but harder. As Allen
fell back again, he felt rather sure his sternum might have cracked this time.
Again, he was hauled back onto the cot far before he was ready. And again he cried
though he tried to hold back the tears.

He
managed to say between gasps, “You know,” deep breath, “nearly a hundred
people,” deep breath, “live in that apartment complex.”

“Allen,
two-hundred and eighty million people live in the United States. You still
aren’t following that whole national security theme I mentioned earlier. More
than likely, your most secret notes, e-mails, encrypted data on your hard
drive, etc., was in your apartment, not at the office.”

Whitaker
reveled in Allen’s gaping mouth.

“And
don’t worry about the fire safe, you can be confident we have a firefighter
looking for it. Oh, and by the way, at your office right now, a warrant has
been handed to your editor and we are seizing your computer, files, desk and
contents of your locker. We’re also starting interviews with your fellow
employees.”

Whitaker
chuckled. “You know, Allen, you really shouldn’t store pornography of little
girls on your hard drive.”

“You
know damn well I’m not a pedophile,” Allen yelled as he jumped from the cot. He
never even got to his feet. A flurry of punches, elbows, and knees from the
Linebacker left him in a heap on the floor, blood flowing from his nose, mouth,
and a cut on the right side of his face.

On
the scanner, frantic voices screamed for ambulances. Firefighters were trying
to rescue people from the second floor, where they were trapped. The fire
continued to grow in intensity, and desperate calls to other fire stations were
being made.

“Now,
Allen, you being a divorced man with no kids, it’d seem we wouldn’t have much
leverage on you. But, we know you are kind of fond of Jennifer, right?”

Allen
flinched and immediately regretted it.

“I’m
sure you know she’s off today, but did you know she’s shopping right this
minute on Sixth Avenue? Let’s get down to business before another accident
happens and she gets hurt. First, where’d you get your information?”

Allen
gritted his teeth. He debated holding out.

You
were taught from day one in journalism school to never give out your sources.
They were your leverage, your hidden weapons.

“Allen,”
Whitaker said, “this involves more than you and Jennifer. Those who stand up
for you -- your friends, your editor, and whoever else may be out there --
their lives are going to get uncomfortable, too. You have to help. Only you can
stop this right now.”

It
felt like a nightmare. Allen had never believed in conspiracies. Yet now it
seemed he was caught up in one.

They
indoctrinated you in college about a free press and the fact that these things
didn’t happen. But, the prick Whitaker sat there smiling, his hands clasped
together on his knee. A real pompous ass.

“While
you’re thinking,” Whitaker said as he dialed a number into the phone, “let’s
check on Jennifer.”

“No!”
Allen screamed, not even meaning to.

He
was amazed at how easily he broke. He despised their strength.

In
a low voice, his head bowed down and tears still streaming from his eyes, Allen
Green told them Colonel Russ Jernigan’s name. He explained how he had managed
to scoop the story. And he listened to their instructions for damage control.