The Black Arts

By E W Farnsworth

The stories in this collection portray dark and exciting clandestine operations in the post-Cold War world.

Although fictitious, the stories are loosely conceived as operations whose details have been re-factored to protect sources and methods. Each portrays the 'look and feel', but not the classified substance, of the clandestine universe from a wide range of perspectives.

E. W. Farnsworth, an Arizona writer, has published over two hundred short stories worldwide in the last two years. Two collections of his stories - “DarkFire at the Edge of Time” concerns a space odyssey and “Nightworld”, about virtual reality - were published by Audio Arcadia in 2016.

"Black Secrets", also published by Audio Arcadia in 2016, contains E.W. Farnsworth's dark stories. These explore a range of disturbing secrets, especially about organizations which have traditions of secrets which often compete with the secrecy of governments.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9780244068356

E W Farnsworth

E. W. Farnsworth lives and writes in Arizona. Over two hundred fifty of his short stories were published at a variety of venues from London to Hong Kong in the period 2014 through 2018. Published in 2015 were his collected Arizona westerns Desert Sun, Red Blood, his thriller about cryptocurrency crimes Bitcoin Fandango, his John Fulghum Mysteries, Volume I, and Engaging Rachel, an Anderson romance/thriller, the latter two by Zimbell House Publishing. Published by Zimbell House in 2016 and 2017 were Farnsworth’s Pirate Tales, John Fulghum Mysteries, Volumes II, III, IV and V, Baro Xaimos: A Novel of the Gypsy Holocaust, The Black Marble Griffon and Other Disturbing Tales, Among Waterfowl and Other Entertainments and Fantasy, Myth and Fairy Tales. Published by Audio Arcadia in 2016 were DarkFire at the Edge of Time, Farnsworth’s collection of visionary science fiction stories, Nightworld, A Novel of Virtual Reality, and two collections of stories, The Black Arts and Black Secrets. Also published by Audio Arcadia in 2017 were Odd Angles on the 1950s, The Otio in Negotio: The Comical Accidence of Business and DarkFire Continuum: Science Fiction Stories of the Apocalypse. In 2018 Audio Arcadia released A Selection of Stories by E. W. Farnsworth. Farnsworth’s Dead Cat Bounce, an Inspector Allhoff novel, appeared in 2016 from Pro Se Productions, which will also publish his Desert Sun, Red Blood, Volume II, The Secret Adventures of Agents Salamander and Crow and a series of three Al Katana superhero novels in 2017 and 2018. E. W. Farnsworth is now working on an epic poem, The Voyage of the Spaceship Arcturus, about the future of humankind when humans, avatars and artificial intelligence must work together to instantiate a second Eden after the Chaos Wars bring an end to life on Earth. For updates, please see www.ewfarnsworth.com.

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The Black Arts

THE BLACK ARTS

Dark Tales of Clandestine Operations

E. W. Farnsworth

Copyright © E.W. Farnsworth 2018

All rights reserved

THE BLACK ARTS

Dark Tales of Clandestine Operations

E. W. Farnsworth

ISBN 978-0-244-06835-6

Published by AudioArcadia.com 2018

Publisher’s Note: This book contains adult themes

DISCLAIMER

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. All characters appearing in this work are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. In the event that real names for contemporary persons, places and things are used within this book, they are nevertheless fictionalized and bear no resemblance to their real life counterparts.

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole

or in part in any form. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the written permission of the publisher. Publisher can be contacted via email at [e-mail]

DEDICATION

To the Memory of

Gareth Williams and Shane Todd

FOREWORD

Before a nation wages war, intelligence preparation of the battle space disposes the country for victory or defeat. In the continual contest among nations in operations short of open conflict, intelligence and counterintelligence operations lie beneath and inform surface events. The secrecy of these operations makes them form a parallel universe with its own laws and separate rules of engagement from the norms. Clandestine operations are sometimes called black for their secrecy and ambiguity. Here they are called noir and some are wet, connoting, respectively, their savagery and lethality.

Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr wrote, ‘The more things change, the more they remain the same’. Yet sometimes, in the wake of large, systemic changes, it takes a leap of imagination to understand the sameness.

In the wake of the Cold War, more, not fewer, intelligence operations have been fielded to deal with the dynamics of a New World Order accommodating rampant Islamism, a resurgent Russia and a cash-rich China with global ambitions. Advanced technology has transformed the worldwide battle space into a noosphere or cyber space wherein information warfare is waged continuously by armies of trolls who never sleep. Still, the trades of spying and counter-spying are timeless and enduring.

The stories in this collection portray clandestine operations in the post-Cold War world. Although fictitious, the stories are loosely conceived as operations whose details have been re-factored to protect sources and methods. In each, I have attempted to portray the look and feel, but not the classified substance, of the clandestine universe from a wide range of perspectives.

In the opening novella, ‘Contagion’, troll operations shape public perceptions of biological warfare waged by a superannuated General of the Russian Federation. ‘The Trash Pickers’ examines the Agency’s scramble to locate and destroy highly classified hard drives, told from the point of view of the finders, who for a meager living scour a trash mountain in Malaysia for e-waste. ‘The Protector’ is the first-person account of a very special asset’s worldwide investigation to discover the truth about the brutal, bloody assassination of the CIA Director’s daughter. ‘The Interview’ is another first-person account of a contractor working for the Intelligence Community whose activities go far beyond those discernible in the ordinary re-vetting process, which, of course, cannot include any references to black operations for reasons of security. In the novella, ‘Miranda, the Seer’, a female CIA remote viewer joins a black wet ops team incapacitating a Chinese monitoring station in the Andaman Islands. Incidentally, remote viewing was long funded as a CIA black program. This story postulates the funding paid off.

These stories try to convey a sense of the levels of vision necessary for both conducting and interpreting successful black operations. A few details in the stories are ripped right out of the headlines. Others are taken from intelligent lateral searches of open sources on the Internet. The glue that makes the stories hang together (or not) is this writer’s imagination. Any congruency of these works with actual past or current clandestine operations is entirely coincidental. I will categorically deny any allegation of such equivalency. After all, as fiction, the events in these stories never happened, and I was never there.

E. W. Farnsworth

Gilbert, Arizona, USA

CONTAGION – A NOVELLA

Chapter 1. The Intern

On a dark and snowy night, the huge man pulled the brim of his broad hat down over his eyes and pushed his boots through the snow. He had an iron bar in his gloved hand. Dmitri Progoff was on a mission. He never failed on a mission. That was good because Russian Federation state security depended on him and a few others like him. There was so much to do and so little time.

He arrived at the office complex and through the glass saw the place was empty. With a single blow, he crashed through the door and the alarm system sounded. The man was not perturbed. On a night such as this, it would take the fire department hours to answer the alarm. As for the police, he had no worry. After all, he was a credentialed policeman. He went inside the office complex and began to smash computers one by one with his iron bar. He moved slowly and methodically. It took almost an hour.

When Dmitri had obliterated the computers, he started the fires. At the door where he had entered, he surveyed the wreckage by the light of the fires he had set. He was pleased. Tomorrow the headlines would report the surprising demise of another foreign news agency in Moscow. The message was clear: Russia did not want any external interference with its media. The huge destructor had no concern for policy.

The man in the broad hat was concerned to have his superiors appreciate his work. As he walked away from the burning building, he was sure they would approve. If they did, he would receive another assignment.

He saw Russia was reviving after twenty-five years of torpor and neglect. His iron bar was a tool of state. He clutched it in his muscular right hand and went back into the snowy night. The Russian winter was almost over but the new Cold War had only just begun.

Lisette Grimm watched her landlady wave the hand-held Geiger counter over her granola.

See - no sign of radiation. The landlady scowled.

Lisette did not know why her hostess was always disagreeable.

Thank you for checking. Chernobyl was a horrible disaster. Who knows what might be contaminated?

Eat. When you’ve finished, place your bowl and spoon in the sink. Can I expect you for dinner tonight?

No. I will be working late again. I’ll have something to eat at the cafeteria. I expect to be back by ten o’clock.

You have the key. Don’t forget to lock the door after you enter.

Her landlady was a holdover from Soviet times. She trusted no one. Lisette looked at the woman’s blue-rinsed hair and her threadbare clothing, whose dyes had been washed out by innumerable cleanings. Lisette’s bargain included meals, but she never felt welcome eating here. She would rather eat alone than under the fierce gaze of this termagant.

I’ll do it.

See that you do.

The landlady hobbled over to her ancient wooden roll-top desk across the room from the kitchen area. From the kitchen table, Lisette watched the crone sitting at her desk while she examined one scrap of paper after another. Apparently finding what she was looking for, the landlady pushed back, stood and gathered her empty shopping bags. Without a word to Lisette, she departed to spend the rest of her day shopping and visiting friends in Moscow. Lisette knew her landlady would return at four o’clock sharp to prepare dinner. By eight o’clock she would be in her bed, fast asleep. Her routine was invariable.

Lisette finished her cereal and tea, rinsed out her bowl, spoon, teacup and saucer in the sink. She dried the dishes and put them in the cupboard. Then she fetched her backpack from beside her bed and stopped for a moment to assess whether she had what she needed to make it through the working day.

She visited the tiny restroom to relieve herself one more time and to retrieve a wad of cotton balls in case of accidents. She carefully locked the door when she left the apartment and emerged on the street level to walk to her internship workplace.

The spring air was cool and clear. Lisette knew the clarity was deceptive since, by the end of the day, her nostrils would be clotted with black soot. Her fingers extracted the soot balls whenever she picked her nose.

If the apparent clarity of the air was an illusion, the apparent sluggishness of the Moscow River was a harsh slice of life. Lisette read how bodies were dredged from that black river’s depths. She shivered whenever she considered the Russian Mob never slept. The veneer of civilization was maintained by the instruments of state security and the Mob. It had always been so, she was told. She defined ‘hopeful’ by the aged fisherman whose line extended out into the black water. Perhaps he was fishing for men.

How could it be otherwise? her landlady had informed her repeatedly.

The old woman and her fellow crones hated change. They hated what Moscow had become since the fall of the Berlin Wall. They criticized everything. For them the greatest days came before Khrushchev. Stalin was a god, or at least a man of steel, and Beria was his high priest. Lisette could envision them snickering when the huge black cars pulled in front of apartments in the middle of the night to take troublemakers on their final, inglorious and always fatal rides.

Lisette enjoyed walking. Today she was followed by the familiar young man in the gray coat and hat. He lumbered in pursuit, not really trying to avoid being detected. Quite the opposite, in fact, since he looked straight at her, unabashed when she glanced back at him. For the last five months he had wanted to be seen shadowing her wherever she went. Lisette did not mind. She knew what she was getting into by coming to study in Russia. She felt secure on account of the watchman’s constant attendance. So much so that she did not know how she would feel if one day he were suddenly gone.

At eight o’clock on the dot she punched the clock at her workplace, the foreign news organization Islip, run out of the Netherlands. She went directly to her desk, booted up her computer and read through her emails. She found nothing new or interesting in her email queue. Now it was time for tea from the samovar.

Egon and Maria, two Russian reporters, were drinking tea and chatting excitedly as usual. Lisette nodded hello. They nodded back at her perfunctorily without bothering to include her in their conversation. Though she could converse in Russian, she was still considered an outsider after five months on the job. The regulars knew she would pass through her internship and then return to where she came from. They, on the other hand, would remain and suffer the system’s draconian legislature.

Lisette was happy to have found work. She was in Moscow on a student visa to study the Russian language at MGU, but the provisions of her visa also allowed her to participate in a university-approved internship. She had always been associated with media organizations back home in America. She therefore had the résumé - and the luck - to snag her internship in Moscow.

In a time when no one in Moscow could find a good job, foreign interns were resented by native Russians but prized by their international employers. An intern did not count as a direct hire. Employers could only make direct hire offers to native Russians. For a modicum of wages, therefore, interns were cost effective and safe.

Employers never knew when a native Russian hire would turn out to be an informer for state security. It was always a good idea to have one or two Russian natives on staff, but bosses knew the state could close down a business - particularly a news business - at any time, without a minute’s notice. A foreign business was therefore risky in the new Russia, particularly when the rules of good conduct were capricious and constantly changing.

Dirk Burstine, general manager of Islip Publishing, was a Dutchman who was an old Soviet hand. He was known by the Russians as a straight arrow and a savvy businessman. He was also known, he told Lisette, for being able to spot a foreign spy immediately and to fire the menace with extreme prejudice.

Lisette liked Dirk because he hated bullshit and chitchat. He was fiftyish, a Dutch uncle and an effective manager.

Today he called her into his office for a friendly chat. Lisette, you’re now starting your sixth month with Islip. How do you feel about working here? He looked at her over his glasses, which were always sliding down his nose. He sipped his tea and waited for her to reply.

I love my job, Mr. Burstine. I feel privileged to have my internship. Thank you again for hiring me on your team. Unconsciously, Lisette moved her hand to pull her brown hair behind her ears. This, she always thought, gave people the impression that she was uncovering her ears to listen intently.

You’ve had a chance to work with us and to know some of our regular employees. What do you think of them?

Everyone is hard working and honest. Each follows directions and meets his deadlines.

Have the Russians among us made you feel at home?

I am only an intern. They will be here long after I’m gone. They are civil, but they keep their distance. Igor is an exception. I like his enthusiasm.

I’m told you know the Russian language like a native. Your tutor at MGU tells me you are her star pupil.

I work hard at my studies. Yelena is demanding. I had no idea she feels I am her star pupil. Thank you for telling me that.

I’m letting you know because I want you to keep your ears open. Russia is about to crack down on foreign news organizations, including Islip. I want you to tell me the moment you hear anything suspicious.

Our Russians are much too security conscious to reveal their hand. When the Russians want us to understand they are watching, they’ll inform us directly. A security man follows me to work each morning and then to MGU each afternoon. When my work day ends here, he walks behind me all the way home.

I’m watched from so many directions, I’ve stopped worrying about surveillance, Dirk confessed.

I’m not worried. In fact, this morning I wondered what I’d think if the security man just disappeared. She shrugged in resignation.

Fat chance, Lisette. This is Russia. It has always been so.

That’s what my landlady tells me.

"She should know. She was among the nomenclature in Soviet times. She was a powerful woman - she still is powerful in some quarters."

You must mean the four ladies who gather in her apartment on Tuesdays for vodka and black bread.

Those old women stick together. It was the way they survived the Soviet era. What you tell one of them, all will know within a few hours. I’ve got to get back to editing. Keep your eyes peeled and your ears wide open. Tell me if you notice anything that affects Islip. Dirk turned to his computer.

Lisette stood and went back to her workstation. Standing by her computer in her cubicle was Igor.

Hi Lisette. I thought you’d like some news.

What is it this time, Igor?

The Dumas has decided to sweep away the ukase powers of the President.

Tell me another joke, Igor. The Tsars used executive orders for centuries. No one is going to sweep ukases away. They’re too convenient an excuse for legislative inactivity.

I know. News about the legislation might be printworthy anyway.

As a foreign media outlet, it would target Islip either as troublemakers or parrots of the official state media.

Don’t you think the press should be a gadfly for the populace?

Igor, I’m not a philosopher. I’m a lowly student intern. I don’t make the decisions here.

It’s why I love you. Haven’t I ever told you I love you?

Igor, you’ve told me a thousand times, and I’m deeply touched. Each time you say you love me, you tell me you want me to tear off my clothes and dance on a tabletop.

Will you do that for me? Igor stuck his head forward expectantly.

She laughed. Absolutely not, you monster! Now run along and get us some ads. I’ll see you for lunch before I go to class.

Lisette, Lisette, Lisette. I dream of you each night.

Keep dreaming, Igor. It’s all you’ll get from me.

Some days, Lisette, you are cruel. But I am steadfast. I love you. One day I’ll do something to make you love me too. He blew her a kiss, did an about face and marched off to hassle the other employees.

Lisette shook her head at Igor’s incorrigibility. He was a born loser. He would never relent but never succeed. Lisette thought he was the perfect buffoon. Not bad looking, he had coal black hair and ice blue eyes. Smart and agile, Igor could ingratiate himself easily and insinuate without being overly offensive. In other words, Lisette thought, he was the perfect salesman.

She spent two hours writing four small pieces which could be used as filler in the newspaper. She also continued to work on her draft feature on women in the Russian workplace. To flesh out the article, she decided to interview Maria, the reporter down the hall.

Maria, what’s your opinion about women in the Russian workplace?

Maria looked up from her computer and took a long drag on her cigarette before she answered.

I think we are the ornaments that catch men’s fancy. She laughed in Lisette’s face. To tell the truth, we get the worst jobs and the worst pay. Men are slugs but they get all the breaks. We women have to live on our backs just to break even. Have you slept with Egon yet? He is such a dishy guy. She batted her lashes and smiled innocently. Everyone knew she and Egon were an item. They even shared an apartment.

Maria, please be serious for a moment.

I am being serious, American intern. Name one boss in the media business in this country who is a woman. There’s not one. You understand the Russian language. Every word is male or female. Every female word is passive, supple, yielding and powerless. Every male word is strong, wilful, independent and bold. A woman in a position of power is a contradiction in terms in this country.

What about Catherine the Great?

She’s the exception who proves the rule. Did you know what a midget Admiral Potemkin was when he laid her?

Ignoring the question, Lisette asked, What do you expect to achieve working here at Islip?

I will bed men until I trick one into marrying me. Then I’ll make his life miserable until he dies and I find another.

Is that what you tell Egon?

Do you have an American cigarette for me?

Here, have a Marlboro. I’ll even light it for you. Lisette gave Maria the cigarette and lighted it.

Can I have a second to put behind my ear for later?

On condition you give me one good quote for my feature on women in the Russian workplace.

Okay. Print this: ‘Women are coming of age in the Russian workplace. Because Russian men can no longer find good jobs, women must support themselves. Children are out of the question. Sex is a luxury the people can do without. The future of Russian business lies with women because the men are all drunkards and the bosses want to hire foreign workers.’ How’s that for copy?

Here’s your second cigarette. I can’t use what you’ve given me. Can you think of someone I can interview for my feature? Think. Who would you interview if you were in my shoes?

Maria looked down at Lisette’s Adidas. I like your shoes, Lisette. Look, if you want a good interview, why not talk with Katarina Orlova at the Bolshoi. She’s the grand dame there. She won’t give you bullshit. Dirk has known her a long time. She said this with a suggestive leer.

She must be difficult to schedule.

Not at all. She hangs around the Bolshoi like a ghost. She lives for newshounds to seek her out. Few do so nowadays. She longs for the glory days of the USSR when she was like a queen.

Thanks for the tip, Maria. I’ll be seeing you.

How do you say in America? Not if I see you first. She laughed so loudly at her joke she ended coughing uncontrollably.

Lisette dropped by Dirk’s office to say she was going to interview Katarina Orlova of the Bolshoi for her piece on women in business.

What a great idea, Lisette. Say hello to Madame from me. Tell her I still owe her a bottle of export vodka. By the way, when you visit her, take a present. Make it something to eat. A tin of Beluga caviar and some black bread with whipped butter, perhaps.

Lisette did as she was told. She arrived at the Bolshoi offices with presents for Madame Orlova. As Maria predicted, the grand dame was eager to be interviewed. Two obviously gay male dancers haunted her room. They did ballet and gymnastics and ate Lisette’s presents while she interviewed Madame.

Madame Orlova, what is the woman’s role in Russian business today?

The two male dancers laughed at this idea and frolicked. Orlova ignored them and a stern look appeared on her face.

Women have not achieved their right place in Russian business. I’m not sure they ever will.

You achieved fame and wealth with the Bolshoi.

Yes, I did. I was a dancer and a teacher of ballerinas. I also did choreography. I knew all our composers and directors, most of them intimately.

Here she paused to let the idea settle. When she spoke again, she took another tack.

There was not a single woman in the business I could stand. There was not a single man I could not seduce. Doesn’t that sound wicked?

I’m intrigued. Please go on.

I love sex - with men, exclusively. I love flirting as much as making wild passionate love. I even like men when they are insubstantial fairies like my two cavorting companions here. I must admit, I don’t know what to do with these men except admire them.

What she said must have pleased the two gay men because they bowed to her and Lisette before they continued their feasting.

Tell me, Lisette, have you ever worked with a man without wondering how the two of you would be in bed? Take Dirk, for example. What a marvelous specimen he is. He’s a dream in bed. I love him to death.

I must be deviant, Madame Orlova. Dirk is my boss. I’d never think of fraternizing with him.

What a strange point of view. At the Bolshoi if a woman isn’t contesting for every man in sight, people think something’s wrong with her.

Madame Orlova, were you ever asked to strip naked and dance on a tabletop?

While the grand dame considered this question, the two dancers stripped naked and danced together on a nearby tabletop. The women coolly watched them gyrating together. Then the men froze in place and laughed until their sides split. They jumped down, clothed themselves, and danced around the room, happy they had expressed themselves in the nude.

I was asked to strip and dance on a tabletop by a man whose name is now a household word. I did what he asked. He sat spellbound watching me. I kept dancing and he kept ogling.

How did it end?

We ended in his bed, but he was drunk and passed out. I had early morning rehearsal, so I left before dawn the next day. He never called afterward. I gave some thought to telling him we had slept together and I carried his child. I could not go through with it because I didn’t want to die.

What?

It’s a dangerous game to mix sex and politics, Lisette. Surely you must know that.

What would you advise a young woman like me to do in the modern workplace?

Get as much safe sex as you can with hygienic men. Try to find ecstasy before it is too late. Claw your way to the top by seducing every man up the chain you are climbing. Regret nothing and disdain everyone who can’t support your rise. Women have a distinct advantage over men.

What is that, Madame Orlova?

We have the gift of stamina in sex. Men cannot compare. If you don’t yield, you’ll always come out the victor in every sexual encounter. Don’t give up the natural advantage we share. Do you know your news commentator, Barbara Walters? Of course, you do. She makes no bones about using her body to gain access to powerful men. She practised often to achieve a mystery worth bragging about. If you want to be a great reporter, study her.

Thank you, Madame Orlova, for a most illuminating interview.

If you print a word of what I said, you’ll never get another interview with me. If you apply what I said as background, you’ll be so successful you won’t be bothering old women for your copy. You’ll be banging the bosses like I did, all the way to the top.

Madame Orlova rose and left the room with her two gentlemen in leotards following her like a mock retinue. Lisette shook her head and went to lunch looking for Igor. She found him looking for her.

Hi Lisette. I got three ads this morning: one half pager from a big golfing company run by the Russian Mob, one quarter pager from a taxi company run by the Mob, and one quarter pager from a restaurant and bar right in the center of Moscow, also run by the Mob. They paid cash in rubles. I’m so happy I’m feeling like buying a couple of bottles of vodka with my commissions to celebrate all afternoon. Will you join me?

Congratulations, Igor. I knew you had it in you to sell ads. Dirk will be pleased but not if you drink your commissions. I’ve been interviewing Madame Orlova.

That old bag? Is she still hanging out with those two flaming queens?

Lisette laughed. Yes, Igor, and they are your type. They stripped and danced on a tabletop while I did my interview.

Igor did not laugh. Did Madame Orlova dance on the tabletop with them?

Lisette laughed heartily. No she didn’t, but she told me in her youth she did dance nude on a tabletop for one of the most powerful men in the state.

No doubt he was a man of culture, taste and refinement, like me.

Actually, Igor, he passed out drunk before he could take advantage of Madame Orlova, or so she claimed. He never called her again. She continued climbing her way to the top in spite of him.

That may be so. I’m trying to imagine what she must have looked like nude on the tabletop, forty years younger and fifty pounds lighter. I can’t do it. I’d break my brain trying. I’d rather envision you. Did I tell you today I love you?

Lisette laughed. Yes, Igor, you did. You’re always so funny.

Igor became serious and leaned forward insinuatingly. I have news for you from the Russian Mob. He hesitated, trying to gauge her reaction.

Are you going to tell me? she asked.

Igor looked around to be sure no one was within hearing distance. He whispered, The Mob is going to trash the Islip offices tomorrow night.

But Igor, they just bought those ads from you. Why would the Mob destroy Islip after that?

They plan to steal the computers, deliver all the data to the FSB and burn out the building as an example to foreigners who want to mess with Russian news.

So their orders are coming from the government?

I’m afraid that’s a distinction without a difference, Lisette.

"I’ve got to be going. I have