Phoenix: Operation parrot

By Francesca rossini

Book description:

Europe 1983 - At the heart of the cold war, love, jealousy and murder set the stage for Operation: PARROT - a deadly plot to trigger World War Three. The enigmatic CIA agent Clay Nathan Hobbs operates on the fringes of the European intelligence community, known only by his code name: Blue Shadow. Hobbs stumbles across a beautiful nurse who holds the key to a terrifying new Soviet intelligence plot masterminded by the KGB master spy Egor Vinogradov. Operation: PARROT is designed to thrust the world to the brink of nuclear war. Can the Blue Shadow untangle a web of lies and murder in time to stop the plot? And what are the motives of the seductive British agent Rebecca Doyle - is she friend, or the deadliest kind of foe?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Feb 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781507116340

Book preview

Francesca Rossini

Phoenix

Operation PARROT

Chapter 1 - An Old Enemy

Sunday, October 30, 1983, 7:00 p.m.

The telephone rang just as he was getting into the shower of his luxurious apartment on Florida Ave. NW, in the Dupont Circle neighborhood of Washington. He had returned home after ten straight days on a mission. The house was empty and cold, with no one waiting for him and nothing in the fridge. He wanted to relax and warm up under the steaming hot water, but evidently someone had other plans for him. On the fourth ring he picked up the phone in frustration:

Hobbs.

It's Lawson. I'm sorry, Blue, it's urgent; you need to come to the office right away.

Dammit Peter, I just walked in the door, I'm exhausted. Can't you contact someone else?

Maybe you didn't understand me correctly. I want you here immediately! With that he hung up.

He cursed while putting clean clothes on his sweaty body. He hated doing that. He was usually known for his impeccable look. Even when dressed casually, nothing was really left to chance.

Grabbing the keys from the knickknack tray he saw that the answering machine was blinking, but he didn't have time to listen to it. Surely he would have heard the anonymous female voice of one of the girls to whom - too drunk to remember - he had given his number.

He had many lovers, even if he didn't consider himself a playboy. He liked beautiful women, that's all there was too it. And they liked him.

He took the dark leather jacket and threw it on, put the gun in the holster and went down to the garage.

He started his black Jaguar XJS Cabriolet and darted out into traffic at lunatic speed, causing the tires to screech on the asphalt. He ignored three red lights and the accompanying explosions of horns from the infuriated drivers who cursed him. He got there in ten minutes. The red-brick front of the building indicated government offices, but no one without A1 authorization really knew what was hidden inside, especially on the phantom sixth floor that didn't register on the elevator.

He took the little key and inserted it. A metallic voice repeated, as usual: "Insert recognition card. The agent took his card and inserted that too in the appropriate space, hidden under the elevator alarm switch. The metallic voice announced: Agent 2009 Blue Shadow, welcome", as the elevator began to rise.

Once on the floor Clay realized that everyone was in a state of agitation and that there were more agents around than necessary at that hour, but by now they were practically at war with the Russians: a silent war, furtive, without tanks or marching soldiers, but a war nonetheless. President Reagan had ordered an increase in military forces and atomic weaponry. There were no longer any normal working hours. The offices of the CIA and NATO, both secretive and non-secretive branches, worked more by night than by day.

He looked around, many had turned to look at him: there he is, the dark and handsome one, the invincible agent, thirty-five years old, broad shoulders and elegant gait, thick, wavy brown hair, and a smile that stole hearts. He slalomed between computer stations, stopped in front of one belonging to one of his colleagues, a low-level, non-operative agent, and winked at her.

Hello Shadow, she greeted him. She was a brunette of about thirty, ordinary looking, with a V-neck sweater and a cotton skirt below the knee, but she had a nice smile and nice cleavage.

Hello, Carla, you look beautiful today. He smiled and sat on the edge of the desk.

I bet. After a sixteen hour shift I can imagine my beauty, she answered, automatically straightening her crumpled skirt. It was glaringly obvious that she appreciated the compliment.

He drew in close to her, took a lock of her wavy hair in his hands and looked into her eyes. She blushed slightly.

Are we having dinner this Friday? he asked.

I have to think about it, answered Carla with a smile.

Hobbs! he heard himself being called from the Chief’s office. The woman flinched guiltily. Clay remained unperturbed.

I have to go, he announced with a disappointed look dramatically painted on his face.

Clay! Carla called him again when he was already halfway there. Yes for Friday.

He smiled, pleased. I'll pick you up at six. And with deliberately slow and cadenced steps he reached the office of his Chief who was impatiently waiting for him in the doorway. As soon as he saw him coming, he turned around and preceded him back into the office. Peter was a tall man, around 50 years old, still with a full head of gray hair and a mustache of the same color. He wore his brown velvet suit and green tie. Clay thought, as he did every time he observed him, about how his taste in clothes was truly questionable.

Sit down, Blue Shadow. He had decided not to give him the usual lecture about romantic overtures at work; many other things waited to be discussed. Clay snorted and sat down in an armchair in front of the desk, resting a leg on the armrest with an air of annoyance, his arms folded.

News from Raven? Clay asked.

No, nothing, he skipped his last five reports, I don't know what to think, Lawson answered disconsolately, smoothing out his mustache.

Is that why you need me? Do I have to find him?

I know you'd like to, Blue, but unfortunately I have more imminent matters here. I can't afford to send you to Europe.

Clay stifled a frown, then asked, So what then?

Do you remember Egor Vinogradov? the Chief began without delay. Upon hearing that name, Shadow composed himself and became very serious and attentive. He was irreverent and aloof, but when it came to work he was one of the best agents in the field.

Of course I remember; I still have a scar on my right arm as a personal souvenir. What was it, three years ago? Yeah, it had to be 1980. That bastard!

One of our informants called us from Central Hospital. He’s had a heart attack. Nothing fatal, they'll release him soon. We can't let this opportunity slip away. Clay was nodding his head. The informant recognized him from the slides we showed last month at the refresher course. He looked at him with an air of satisfaction. It wasn't a waste of time after all, despite what someone repeatedly said, he concluded, looking at him sardonically but with the hint of a smile under his mustache. Clay snorted again.

The Chief continued, Room 201 under the name Peter Ferguson, Swiss citizenship.  The room is surely monitored by KGB agents, it won't exactly be a walk in the park, but you'll have to get in and kidnap Vinogradov. I don't need to tell you how valuable it would be to put him through the ringer.

Ok, Peter, give me a couple of men and I'll figure out how to approach.

Not this time, Shadow, you need to act immediately, there's no time to plan. That's why I chose you. And you have to enter alone. We have to attract as little attention as possible. I can give you Nalvano and Wallace, but they'll wait for you outside with a vehicle for a quick getaway.

Clay was thinking. It wasn't going to be easy getting the Russian out of the hospital, especially since he was in poor health. A stretcher would be useful. He instantly started to plan, ignoring the world around him. He always did that: when his mind was on something it was hard to get his attention. At the training center a psychologist had written in the file that at times he exhibited borderline and compulsive behavior, maybe due to what had recently been named Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. In layman's terms, his brain had gone haywire because of the damn Vietnam war, so a periodic psychiatric check-up was recommended in order to keep such problems at bay. Peter had agreed to three appointments per month, but Blue Shadow sometimes went, sometimes didn’t. By now, however, he seemed to have found his equilibrium. Nine years after the diagnosis, his episodes had reduced significantly, to the point of almost being non-existent. These peculiarities were accompanied by a keen intelligence, stunning creativity and an obsession with detail. But to Peter, Clay was just his best agent, with his merits, his defects, and his dark side.

Leila Lane had a headache for the record books that night. On the list of crappy days the current one could earn a nice second place, right behind the one when she discovered that her fiancé, Dylan, was cheating on her, in a manner no less predictable and mundane than with his very blond secretary. After frenzied arguments and promises of renunciation and regret, he had left, also leaving behind his six year-old son. Dylan had been out of their lives for five months, then he had reappeared by telephone and today he had, for the third consecutive time, canceled the weekend that he had promised to spend with his son. Chris had taken it so badly that he spent the morning under the table in the dining room, kicking at whoever approached. As far as she knew, he could still be there. She hoped with all her might that her sister, Sharla, had been able to somehow talk him into coming out and calming down.

Adding to her awful day, work had been a series of emergencies with very acute situations, and then there was a man with cardiac arrest. He was accompanied by two strange men: one was tall and fat like a mountain, who never spoke; the other one was skinny, with a big wart on the end of his hooked nose. They looked like they were straight out of a cartoon. These men had paid a considerable sum for a private room and, she suspected, another equally considerable amount under the table for special treatment. She had recognized one of the men from one of the pictures that government agents had showed her the month before: she couldn't forget those crystal clear, hard eyes. She was so excited. Her task was to notify them immediately if she caught sight of someone who even so much as resembled the people in the photos. The man, surely a big fish, had pressed the buzzer hundreds of times to complain about every little thing. She would have willingly sent him off to you know where, if she wouldn't have to then deal with an epic worsening of her day, which would have ended with her termination. She sighed, then roused herself, someone was asking her for information about a patient. She had to return to the real world, to her actual job as a nurse. Leila looked up and gave a start. It was an incredibly captivating man: tall, beautiful wavy brown hair and penetrating eyes of the same color, framed in a pair of glasses that gave him an intellectual look. Her heart accelerated involuntarily, then she quickly snapped to again. Stupid girl, hasn't life taught you anything, Leila Lane? She assumed a professional demeanor and listened to the man.

He removed his tie, his V-neck sweater and leather jacket. He unbuttoned the top button of his blue shirt, and put on his fake glasses with the square frames, which he always kept in the glove box along with his brown contact lenses. He used them when he wanted to hide his actual eye color. He bought a bouquet of flowers and went in. He immediately picked out the first enemy agent, surely a novice: he was theatrically reading a newspaper on a folding chair in the waiting room in front of the reception desk. He waited for a group of people to exit the elevator and he jumped in without being noticed. He arrived at the second floor. Everything seemed calm, visiting hours had just ended and the visitors were exiting the rooms. He saw a nurse, his heart-breaker radar started beeping. She was very attractive, her long brown hair was tied in a low pony tail; her eyes were chestnut, a little Asian or Middle-Eastern; her dark, slightly arched eyebrows and long eyelashes highlighted her gaze. She was thin, but everything was in its right place, and she had a beautiful pair of legs which were noticeable despite the chaste knee-length skirt that was part of the uniform. No ring on her finger. He smiled within himself, pleased with the attentive observation. She was standing by the door of 210, the tag's lower right corner was bent, as had been arranged. She was his contact. He approached her. Excuse me, Miss.. he read the name on her ID tag, Lane. Clay said the pre-established phrase: Can you show me to room 213? I'm from Garden Rose's"

She hardly looked at him and gave the pre-established response with competent kindness: I'm sorry, sir, you can leave them with me, I can't let you in, especially if you're not a relative.

Out of the corner of his eye Clay saw two people, each one apparently lost in his own affairs. He had identified the other agents: one was dressed like a cleaning person, and the other wore pajamas as though he were a patient. Both had looked up at him, listening to the conversation. He had to retreat, at least for now. But at least he had contacted the resource inside.

He looked at the nurse again and said, You haven't been very kind to me, Leila. What would you say to making up for it with a coffee? He looked at her intensely, hoping she would understand and accept.

I'm sorry, I'm working.

He made a disappointed face and insisted: Oh c’mon, not even a five minute break?

She smiled. I punch out in twenty minutes. If you have the patience to wait we can get that coffee.

I could wait here twenty hours he answered, flashing a dazzling smile. She rolled her eyes but smiled just the same, a splendid dimple appeared on her left cheek. She had played her part well. He liked her. And she was really cute.

She walked out with a cream-colored coat, leather boots, her dark hair down to the middle of her back, tousled by the cold wind. Clay looked at her shamelessly. They went to the cafeteria in front. During that half-hour wait he had planned everything. He needed her. If she trusted him, everything would go smoothly. The first approach was crucial. He had to be very careful. The coffee was good and very hot. For October it was freezing out. Snow would arrive early that year. The two of them made small talk. She, while being very beautiful, certainly did not live a life that was interesting in the eyes of the handsome agent: apparently, besides being a nurse, which he already knew about, she also had a little boy. Clay forced himself to not physically back away at that news. The presence of a little kid cooled his jets. She lived in Anacostia, a diverse neighborhood, not exactly among the most recommendable, which made him curious. The rest of her life seemed like a veritable and utter yawn, and he didn't care to learn more. He only wondered how she ended up being an informant for the CIA, but it wasn't the right time to ask.

He removed the annoying brown contact lenses.

I don't need these anymore.

She looked at him with her mouth wide open: two marvelous green eyes were looking at her. He knew how to make an impression at the right moment.

That's the real color of your eyes? she asked, instantly regretting the stupid question.

Yes, unfortunately it's not very inconspicuous, he smiled, displaying perfect white teeth. She smiled back, hypnotized. Clay kept looking at the dimple on her left cheek.

The woman seemed at ease. He needed to begin his attack.

Leila, I know this is unexpected, and I know I'm asking a lot. I wouldn't do it if it wasn't absolutely necessary, but you have to help me. I have to take that man with me.

So I should risk my job, maybe even my life, to help you kidnap somebody? Excuse me but it doesn't make sense to me. Can't you go in there and simply take him to prison?

Well, you know who I am, right?

A spy? Clay was struck by the woman's candor.

A man from Human Intelligence, of the clandestine branch of the CIA, the DO - Directorship of Operations – just to be clear. I'm part of the covert action: the Special Operations Unit.

Of course, just to be clear, thought Leila, who knew nothing of those initials except that they made her head spin, but she didn't have the courage to ask for explanations. That man made her feel uncomfortable.

You see, sometimes we are forced to act, shall we say, on the edge of legality. Officially speaking, Ferguson is a Swiss citizen on vacation. Before being able to demonstrate otherwise, blowing his cover, there'd be a none-too-pleasant mix-up between nations, to use a euphemism.

Cover?

Yes he answered without adding anything more, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Let's say I help you. What pull do you have with the department?

The question left Clay dumbfounded. What the hell did it matter?

She seemed really embarrassed. She had lost that assured, professional demeanor that she had initially. She looked at her hands and said in a single breath, I inquired about training months ago to... well... to become an agent.

Clay almost choked on his coffee. He coughed violently, looking at her with a mixture of amusement and shock. He looked around to make sure he hadn't attracted too much attention. No one was looking. She continued, more sure of herself, as though his poking fun at her had made her more obstinate rather than more insecure. He liked that.

You see, they never replied to my inquiry, maybe because I live too normal of a life. I have a son. But I want to do it. I want to at least put myself to the test.

He became serious. Unexpectedly he again distanced himself from her, this time verbally.

Listen Miss Lane, first of all it would be very dangerous for you. Secondly, I don't have that kind of pull, and plus why would a woman like you...

What do you mean, 'like me'? The dark gaze didn't bode well.

Well...average, with a kid. Leila seemed like she was about to slap him. Anyway, Clay continued with as much tact as possible. Why do you want to be an agent? You have a lot to lose and I think you're smart enough to know that.

She seemed pensive, she didn't trust him and it was quite obvious.

My reasons are none of your business, she answered abruptly. Clay felt his anxiety rise a little. He had to bring the focus immediately back to his needs before the woman decided to reverse direction and leave him high and dry.

Please, tomorrow Ferguson may be released and we'll lose him. We've been following him for three years, ever since he did this to me.

He pulled up his right sleeve and displayed a thick, long scar.

He's a KGB agent. He pretended for years to be a double agent for us, sending a ton of important missions down the drain. Once we uncovered him we prepared a trap, but he managed to escape, stabbing me during the scuffle. He repatriated, and now if he's back in the U.S. with the huge risk of being captured, there's definitely something big brewing.

She seemed to reflect for a very long moment. She closed her eyes, Clay held his breath. Ok, I'll help you. What do I have to do?

Chapter 2 - The First Assignment

Leila returned to the hospital with her heart in an uproar. She assumed as professional a demeanor as possible, took a deep breath in, let it out, and exited the elevator on the second floor. The hallway seemed empty, there was just one patient at the vending machine. Shouldn’t be drinking coffee at this hour, she told him in a tone of benevolent admonishment. She turned the corner, entered room 200. A woman in a coma lay motionless in her bed. Forgive me, Mrs. Coleman, there's going to be a little disturbance. She quickly unplugged some of the wires, the monitors flashed and an alarm sounded. She waited a moment, then sneaked into room 201. The patient was asleep, she approached him and administered a potent sedative directly into the IV. She waited, put a hand under the sheet and detached a sensor from the man's chest, then also detached a cable from the back of one of the monitors. The machine began to beep loudly. She ran back and flung open the door, pretending to have just rushed in. A doctor arrived: tall, gray hair, mustache. Rose, her colleague, stuck her face in and Leila said, We'll take care of this, you go to room 200.

Leila ran to get the emergency stretcher two doors down in the nurse's room, thankfully empty at that moment. They put the man on it and left. Get out of the way, we have to bring him to the OR! The man in his pajamas leaped forward, a second too late to get in the elevator with them.

Clay pressed all the buttons. No! That way it'll take forever! she exclaimed. He smiled, a charming, childlike smile of someone who had done something mischievous.

Let's get off, he said when they were only one floor below. They'll have to search every floor. He winked at her, she blushed and cursed herself for her body's reaction to the stranger's charm.

They got off the elevator, Clay went into the guest restroom, he picked the man up and said, You go on ahead, call up the small elevator on the left, I'll be right there. With his foot he shoved the stretcher into the bathroom, hiding it.

She