Dark Protocol: Checkmate

By E Lucas-Taylor

In the old quarter of Venice, Italy, a derelict mansion has been purchased by a well known Russian nuclear physicist, a self-styled Trumpian warlord, Vladimir Alexei Shuvensko. A cadre of armed guards surrounds the property, and at night, huge wooden crates are moved into the mansion. In whatever part of the world, Shuvensko, directs his attention, there is chaos, barbarity, and assassinations. Earlier in the year, U.S. Intel uncovered evidence, Shuvensko, planned a large scale assassination on visiting world leaders. Checkmated from completing his diabolical scheme, in retaliation, he openly embraced Middle East terrorist factions by selling them nuclear capability. Internet chatter suggests Shuvensko’s chessboard for revenge is a nuclear winter for the entire world. Will covert agents be able to stop an erratic, mentally unstable madman who has no moral code or conscience—in time?

• Language: English
• Publisher: E Lucas-Taylor
• Release date: Sep 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463467602

E Lucas-Taylor

E. Lucas-Taylor has written for the Arizona Republic op-ed column, Austin Woman Magazine, and The Austin Networker. She is the author of ten books and compiled the award winning freelance marketing blog called: Snips & Tips & Keyboard Bits (on hiatus). Now in print: DARK PROTOCOL: Checkmate; Deadly Business; Lies, Spies & Unfinished Business; Lost Legacy; Dangerous Conspiracy; Soul’s Music: Thoughts & Reflections (available for all readers). She has contributed content to books/publications: When Diabetes Complicates Your Life; You the Healer; Sales Power; and The Silva Method For Business Managers.

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Dark Protocol

Checkmate

by E. Lucas-Taylor

Copyright © 2019 E. Lucas-Taylor

All rights reserved.

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Author Bio

Chapter 1

The heavy door of the airplane gave a loud hiss when it sealed against thick rubber gaskets as the last passenger boarded the flight. The hair on Max Goodfellow’s neck prickled and stood on end. His eyes and ears honed in on the new arrival. Flushed of face to rival a macaque monkey, the fellow brandished a mouthful of bad teeth and a prissy temperament to shame. The clumsy oaf followed him for too many miles not to notice his intrusion again. Today his stalker wore a pair of rimless glasses giving the appearance of soda-bottle bottoms. His hair was slicked back with some greasy pomade. The imposter seized one of the last available seats and settled in a bit awkwardly, much like the nervous monkey he resembled. He last heard the upstart’s squeaky, whiny voice in the States at a ticket booth, and here the fool landed again, complaining to the flight steward about his need to change his seat to one closer to the exit. The idiot couldn’t hide his disappointment when the steward said no.

A surge of relief washed over, Max. A change of seats would have put the fellow much too close to him. He continued to watch as the monkey finally settled in. The monkey looked too obvious to be what he pretended, and too alert to be ordinary. Too many encounters with such an individual would always be one too many in a normal day of business for, Dr. Maxwell Goodfellow. He planned for some counter-moves to shake him once the plane disembarked at the Rome airport, because the idiot wouldn’t let go otherwise—short of killing him.

The London flight to Italy carried mostly youthful college students on campus break, each resolute to climb Vesuvius, and with successive plans to plant themselves on the top rows of the Coliseum for selfies. They all looked determined to make their way further in their travels, and get drunk in the cafés of Venice while they played tourist. Venice had happy hour too, and it would be a great place to take selfies.

A low hum of conversation filled the cabin once the plane went airborne. Those steering clear of conversation with strangers were occupied with their morning newspapers. The rest of the passengers were lone-travelers like himself. A few couples had honeymoon written all over their appreciative gazes of each other, and they still wore their sappy smiles from their wedding pictures. Their shiny new rings sent bands of light flashing off every surface—positioned on fingers to blind the unwary. These were the reasons why the man with the red face and bad teeth stood out from his fellow travelers. He didn’t belong—and remained clueless how to work it out.

Max knew clandestine agents like the monkey, so inept, it mortified the countries they worked for. There weren’t enough desk jobs to hustle them off to, when they humiliated themselves for the final time. Only an amateur functioned this way, or else felt incredibly confident he wouldn’t be noticed as being too ordinary.

He glanced at his watch to anticipate his ETA. This was too early in the game to be marked so easily, so perhaps he mistook the situation, although he doubted it. The caution vibes meandered in an aggressive slide up and down his psychic antenna, and warned him something didn’t compute. Since he’d been followed all the way from D.C., he couldn’t help but wonder how compromised his assignment.

He closed his eyes and wanted to roar his frustration. His mind worked to problem-solve because he clearly had a problem. Would his unwanted companion make a scene and try to bluster through customs? Would there be another clumsy imbecile to assist the monkey? The bigger question—would both be armed?

He always carried his Smithsonian identity, and once the plane landed, it would get him through customs on the fast track. The idiot factor loomed large as to whether his unwanted shadow would jump a barricade in an attempt to follow him. He gave the red-faced man a guarded look under his lashes. It could go both ways, he realized. Idiots came in all sizes, shapes, and nationalities. Some were shockingly proud of it.

Sometime later, the drone of the engines slowed and labored in a low, stuttered rumble to signal the plane’s promised landing. His stalker turned around in his seat to stare at him through his thick glasses.

Yes, the idiot factor was strong in this one.

The rest of the passengers shifted in their seats, a prelude to gathering their belongings. Conversation wound down to a hush. Passengers waited for the pilot to give the standard greeting—Benevento in Italia.

Max knew an Embassy car and driver waited for him at the front of the airport terminal, the usual protocol when he visited Rome as, Dr. Maxwell Goodfellow, Smithsonian Director of European Antiquities. He felt for the phone in his pocket, and then decided the alternate plan wouldn’t work. There wouldn’t be time to let his Embassy connection know a problem existed, and the standard pickup needed to be aborted. Besides, he wanted to see how this played out with the idiot factor in proximity.

His eyes never left the red-faced man when he scurried to leave the plane. The usual ploy, a tell to a trained agent—leave before your mark, so he isn’t aware he’s being followed. Always on alert for the unexpected, Max, became more alert. In this business, one had to watch without being obvious, and listen carefully without the appearance of doing so. Those little things could save your life, and at the moment, he wasn’t sure if he was followed as a matter of curiosity, or followed to be eliminated. He didn’t relish a knife at his back, or a gun pressed into his ribs. He stood out on someone’s radar. But whose? He hadn’t been briefed yet. Even he didn’t know for sure what all his assignment entailed.

Ten minutes later, he was the last to reach for his carry-on luggage. A group of passengers sauntered off in a slow line to exit the plane before him. He moved aside when the pilots left the cockpit and shifted their walk towards the plane’s exit. He followed the men at a discrete distance. The passengers who disembarked behind, walked around him with ease. He had no need to hurry. This was one time being a single man and traveling alone had its advantages. Except for the consideration of a spinster sister living in Virginia, he remained free to wander the world and do as he liked. He only presented himself on a relative’s doorstep when it suited him, and in his line of work, it seldom happened. It kept everyone safe.

It was time for a change of identity as soon as he could manage it. The somewhat absentminded, Dr. Goodfellow, needed to disappear on the way to somewhere, or at the Rome Embassy. He still had a distance to go before his assignment was completed.

Once he reached customs, he showed his passport and Smithsonian identity, and was ushered through a special door. The exit would be different for those who had to pass through the regular lines, and his red-faced stalker would be kept knee-deep in custom protocol. He smiled inwardly and imagined the monkey’s frustration.

Once closeted inside the VIP section, a serious looking custom agent looked over his passport and Smithsonian credentials. Anything to declare, Dr. Goodfellow? the uniformed agent asked in accented English, while he searched through the contents of Max’s carry-on.

Nothing coming in, although I may have some artifacts on my return, he answered. Large crates.

Ah, a working trip, sir? The agent closed Max’s suitcase and secured the lock.

Max nodded, and welcomed a chance to chat and kill time. Yes, and I’m often surprised when I do the museum circuit in Rome. There is always something new and exciting to see. I can’t resist a chance to have an exhibition back home.

The agent handed his passport back to him. "Molto bene. Enjoy your stay, Dr. Goodfellow."

Max slipped his travel documents into his inside jacket pocket. His carry-on in hand, he moved through a short hallway, and opened the door to the waiting area. An armed guard stood near the exit door.

When he moved outside, he checked for any cameras. He was far enough away from the regular customs exit to leave unnoticed. A glance back revealed his shadow stood in one of the wide isles and held up a newspaper in front of his face. The monkey’s eyes darted above the pages to watch people enter the terminal. Max just shook his head.

To the casual observer, Dr. Maxwell Goodfellow, appeared to be another American in a well-made dark gray suit, light blue pinstriped shirt and complementary tie. The embellishments of establishment and privilege were written all over his handsome features, in the way he dressed and carried himself. In his thirties, he had a pleasant face many women called ruggedly handsome, and sharp gray eyes with a hint of blue. Those eyes, sometimes warm, sometimes cold as ice, depending on how he assessed you, let you know he missed little in the world he lived in. Endowed with ever so slightly graying hair at the temples to make him look distinguished, his body language gave the impression he was a person of consequence. When he donned a pair of spectacles, he looked like a timid schoolmaster, which in some respects happened to be true. Except for the sharpness of his gaze, one would take him for the mild-mannered professor of antiquities he declared himself to be.

A good cover at times, but not this time if he was followed so early in the espionage game. Someone must have revealed his identity in D.C., perhaps at one of the Washington parties he couldn’t avoid. His best bet would be to by-pass his Embassy ride, find a taxi, and deposit himself in a hotel. From there he could slip into a disguise and make a few phone calls before he went any further. He could then schedule a later orientation with the Rome Ambassador, under more favorable conditions.

He pursed his lips. Alas, there stood, Jim Garrett, an old friend, sporting a VIP Embassy sign with his name emblazoned on it. Jim usually waited outside when on call to pick up visitors.

Why the change in routine, he wondered? All he needed now was a brass band to announce his arrival.

The two men greeted each other, and walked down the ramp to baggage claim.

I guess I don’t need to ask if you’ve been followed, Jim remarked sotto voice. I can always tell when you are attempting to evade someone.

Max gave him a tight smile. I picked him up in Washington, and then he followed me on to London. I feel as though I should get on a plane and head back home.

Perhaps you were followed well before Washington, Jim remarked, not really expecting an answer.

Yes, a woman. She camped outside my house for several days, and looked very cozy in a dark blue rental car.

Jim’s head whirled around in surprise.

Max gave a meaningful look to his friend. I’ve been doing this a long time, Jim. And I never miss a pretty girl. This one was gorgeous.

Jim flushed with embarrassment. Yes, well, the Embassy is abuzz, Jim rebutted, "my reason for tracking you down inside the airport instead of waiting outside, and I’m curious about all the fuss. The Ambassador has been pacing a hole in his carpet, and short tempered as the devil with a burr up his ass. He’s been mum as a mime as to the reasons why. He was briefed by Washington early this morning, the reason I am boldly here to pick up the famous, Dr. Goodfellow, and to make sure he gets safely to the Embassy. Next, you are to have a public day tour around Rome and the museums. Jim glanced sideways at him, a smirk on his face. You may have to dodge a few bullets, but you know how."

As to the rest, Max didn’t have any choice in the matter. To push on would be to invite unwanted problems, scrutiny he didn’t need, and there was always the specter of death to deal with. The people involved in his assignment didn’t fool around with interlopers and they carried all manner of weapons.

Garrett ushered him to a classic red Ferrari, the perfect bachelor transportation, parked next to the terminal in a parcheggio. The diplomatic pass was pulled off the windshield. Max’s luggage was stowed in the tiny boot, and the two men spent little time getting into the vehicle.

Any idea what this is all about, Jim asked?

Not a clue. I’m as much in the dark as you. I’m under the premise it’s antiquities related and involves stolen artifacts. There have been numerous thefts lately of museum collections, and the dollar amounts involved stagger the mind. Major collections are being shifted as we speak. Uncle isn’t happy about the tax loss. And, while I’m here, I’ll schedule some exhibits for back home.

The look on Jim’s face gave evidence he didn’t believe a word.

Max finished the bluff with a smile.

Garrett aimed the Ferrari towards the American Embassy situated in the Palazzo Margherita, at Via Vittorio Veneto. The trip went without incident along tree-lined streets dotted with masses of ancient buildings. Jim’s frequent glance in the car’s rear view mirrors worried him, and the speed at which he negotiated Rome’s streets? White-knuckle driving at its finest. Max checked his side mirror. A classic Citroen with heavily tinted windows followed them.

You have company.

Yes, blast it, Garrett spit out. Newspapers! Buggers won’t let you alone. They’re on you the minute you leave the Embassy.

Children on the side of the road grew excited as both cars passed by, and yelled, Bella macchina!

Max laughed. Classic cars sat somewhere between the Pope and Leonardo daVinci in Italy, especially one Enzo Ferrari’s chief engineer helped design.

It wasn’t long before the American Embassy came into sight. When the Embassy gates closed behind them, Max breathed a sigh of relief. There’d be a modicum of privacy inside, although his shadow, or a new one, would certainly be ensconced outside the gates at some point in the future. The European de rigor, stalking became an initiation for visitors, and a way to earn money for those inclined to sell information, or the odd bit of gossip. In some respects, it took the place of having your bottom pinched by the over zealous Italians.

Any visitor to any U.S. Embassy across the world, bore scrutiny as a way of existence. It was the way sophisticated spy organizations from every country gathered their Intel of who traveled where, and for whatever reason. It was all speculation to those who used common sense to ferret out information, but it could hit the mark in accuracy on many occasions. Gather enough random pieces of information, a few pictures to imply a story, sell them to newspaper coalitions across the globe, and you could speculate to your heart’s content. The truth, or updated corrections would be buried somewhere in the back pages, or ignored altogether.

As for centuries before, mystery and deception in any political scenario remained the commerce of the twenty-first century. Espionage was honed like an event at the Olympics, and could be played like a game of chess. Chess masters worked the crowds like everyone else. Few remembered chess was an ancient war game. Pawns and Kings shared the same space, each competed for advantage, and were ready to move in for a coveted checkmate or government takeover. If that didn’t work, there was always a way to reach and influence those who had access to the power brokers. Each culture’s politicians knew the pattern of diplomatic language, how to pick it apart for clues on how to approach the next world meet-up, and do so without surprises waiting for them at the other end. Checkmate would always be a governments raison d’être. Most information gathered this way remained fuzzy logic and guesswork, but lauded as a place to start. The fantasy wouldn’t change any time soon.

Garrett deposited Max at the side entrance to the Embassy. You have the same rooms as before, he said in a low voice.

Max nodded and gathered his luggage from the boot. See you inside.

Jim left to park his car in the personnel garage.

Waiting at the side door, an Embassy staff member awaited, reached for his bags, and pointed him in the right direction. He moved through the mansion to the rooms assigned to him whenever he visited Rome. Dust and dirt, uncomfortable accommodations, and more dirt would always be the inevitable circumstance of an archeologist, and covert assignments didn’t allow for many comforts. He learned long ago to appreciate gratuities when they came his way. Embassies had the best food and the best perks.

High ceilings greeted, airy and bright. Walls and antique furnishings gave respite in muted colors. It might be his last chance to enjoy this kind of comfort for some time. His room’s antechamber had a desk, a landline phone, computer, and a small area table for coffee and meals. Off to the right, the bedroom yawned comfortably. Not much of a view out the windows on this side of the Embassy, other than a good swath of manicured lawn, but constrained and pleasant. A narrow side street, now empty of cars, appeared deceptively peaceful. It would take a telephoto lens to gain any useful information from Embassy occupants on this side of the mansion, and the security window screens would leave conversations muffled and sketchy at best.

A newspaper in English lay on a lamp-table, with the Italian Daily folded underneath. Although he was proficient in several languages, both ancient and modern, it was nice to have an English newspaper in a foreign country. A foreign slant on America’s news proved beneficial, and helped to negotiate the politics and upheavals one met, especially when someone like himself, tried to save the world. It also gave insight as to how the news was reported abroad—or cooked and ignored in America. He appreciated the nuances in semantics when Italy’s journalists compared notes with their American counterparts. It was an exercise in the best of media avoidance.

Out of habit, he swept the room for electronic devices. A room in any Embassy didn’t necessarily mean security from sneaky spy equipment. The newer spy gear was clever and could walk in the door in someone’s pocket. It could be as simple as a shirt-collar button, or concealed in the frames of a pair of eyeglasses. Computers and cell-phones could be hacked remotely in a nanosecond, and also carry spy equipment at point of purchase. Neighboring countries always found ways to incorporate the latest technology gadgets into Embassies, unbeknown to its legitimate inhabitants. Embassy staff anywhere weren’t immune to being sucked into indiscrete breeches of security.

Fifteen minutes later, Jim, knocked on his door and walked in. He looked apologetic when his cell phone buzzed. He excused himself to take a phone call in the hallway.

Max realized he wouldn’t be going anywhere until morning, or until his shadow or shadows were dispensed with. He unpacked a few items he would need. In the meantime, he could do with a shower, shave, and a change of clothes. He wondered if he had time before he met with the Ambassador.

Before he could ponder the question, a somber Jim opened the door of his suite and interrupted his thoughts again.

You meet with, Ambassador Hannibal, in thirty minutes.

Max glanced at his watch.

Security will brief you on the change of plans, Jim continued.

Max couldn’t hide his surprise. You won’t be there?

I’m being sent on another errand, Jim said annoyed. Paris.

Jim was always included in meetings. They would brainstorm afterwards, and he would translate the latest political-speak, depending on who the latest Embassy visitors were. Then, they’d have a few drinks and chat. Jim knew all the latest street gossip, and would update him. What could be so important to pull him out of rank, and send him off to Paris on an errand? And why would he be so unhappy about it? Jim loved Paris.

Then he recalled the recent terrorist bombings in Paris. Middle East refugees were swarming Europe, bringing with them everything wrong with their culture and beliefs. Europe had accepted too many without being thoroughly vetted, and they were paying the price in dead bodies, and those ‘peaceful’ rapes of anything in a skirt. In Islam, the brain never developed above the crotch, and they liked their girls young. No one remained safe from the barbarism, and the filth continued to spread worldwide wherever they settled.

Paris had been Jim’s old haunt before he accepted assignment to Rome. He should be happy about the trip, no matter the circumstances. The fact he was bummed was noteworthy. A pity they wouldn’t have time to talk before he left for France.

***~~~***

The American Ambassador to Rome, a tall, thin man with a full head of iron-gray hair, had all the accouterments of gentility and private school upbringing. In his late sixties, well educated, along with the usual implied mien of wisdom, he had an intimidating military bearing. The old boy still had plenty of fight left in him, even with the clipped vowels and preppy body language of the U.S. eastern seaboard. He wasn’t a man to be underestimated. An ex-CIA director and operative, before being assigned to Italy, he remained a good friend of the Smithsonian, and was instrumental in helping Max with rare Roman exhibits in the States. They’d been friends for years.

Max closed the door behind him. He turned and shook the Ambassador’s hand. Good to see you again, sir.

Hannibal motioned for him to sit down.

Max found a comfortable chair in front of the Ambassador’s desk.

You are looking well, Max. The Ambassador opened two doors in the room’s paneling to reveal a well stocked bar. Can I get you anything in the alcohol department? he asked. You may need something before we finish here. I fully intend to vent some inconvenient truths.

Max laughed. A cold beer would be nice, sir. And truth never goes amiss when I can find it.

The Ambassador laughed, then handed Max a beer, and made himself comfortable behind his desk. His voice sounded subdued in the paneled room. First, before we begin, recorders are off and this room is shielded. It will keep people in our business more than happy to stay on the QT for any portion of this conversation. It is you and I speaking our thoughts, friend to friend.

Max nodded. Nothing more needed to be said.

I’m glad to see you, and I’m delighted to be your point man. It’s a nasty business we’ve discovered here in Italy. Perhaps I’ve lived too long to grasp the arrogance of such in-your-face corruption and deceit, but life still has a way of surprising the hell out of me.

To settle his agitation, Hannibal, let his fingers run through his thick head of hair. Each hair fell perfectly into place again.

I agree, said Max. "It seems to be getting