We’ll Meet Again

By Paul Sinor

Iran is very close to having a workable atomic bomb and that's not good for most of the world. With limited options to stop them from putting all the pieces of the puzzle together, Max Maxwell is once again pressed into service by his old army boss, Bill Hart. Max, along with a French intelligence agent he once shared a mission and a bed with head to Tehran. An elaborate ruse, several dead Iranians, a destroyed warehouse, Max in an Iranian prison, and a professor who holds the last piece of the puzzle are all that stands between Max and completing the mission...until his French companion turns the tables. It almost cost Max his life before the true reason for his being sent to Iran is revealed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Opal Books
• Release date: Dec 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781953434500

Paul Sinor

Paul Sinor is a retired US Army Lieutenant Colonel. He had two combat command tours during the Viet Nam War. His other positions in his diverse career ranged from company commander to being on the staff of the Secretary of Defense. His final military assignment was the Army Liaison to the Television and Film Industry in Los Angeles. He is an award-winning screenwriter with eight feature films made from scripts he wrote. In addition, he has been the Technical Advisor for numerous feature films, including Transformers 1-3, GI Joe, The Messenger, I Am Legend, The Objective, and The Invasion.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The walls around the room were filled with large screen monitors. Each showing a different view of the same place. It was a town seen from space. One screen showed the town as if the camera slowly began to do a close up. It picked up a single automobile traveling down a road. As it traveled, the car approached what appeared to be a seaside resort city.

Another screen was filled with shots of families on a beach. The sand was littered with beach chairs, umbrellas, and the other things one finds at any resort in the world. The screen showing the automobile follows it as it pulls into a parking lot. As it does, another vehicle, this one a large black van, quickly follows it in.

The car stops and the van blocks its exit. The van doors slide open and men in black clothes jump out, grab the auto’s male driver, a woman in the passenger’s seat, and two children from the back seat. Their heads are covered with black hoods and all four of them are shoved into the van which speeds away. As soon as it leaves the parking lot, the screen goes black.

Sitting throughout the room at computer consoles are the technicians who manipulate the images. Immediately upon their individual screens going black, the technician leaves the room. All that is left is a long heavy wood table with eight chairs. Each chair is filled with a man who has been watching the monitors with great interest. All are silent and one-by-one, they turn to the man at the head of the table. He is the first to speak.

I want to see Bill Hart within the hour. The nameplate in front of him identifies him as the Director of National Intelligence.

*****

The last few weeks have been some of the longest of my life in a non-combat environment. Since I retired from the army and used my military police background to obtain a Private Investigator’s License and open my own place in a little city just north of Seattle, I had had an interesting existence. My wife informed me one day she did not like me anymore and had not liked me in a long time and filed for divorce. One of my daughters went away to college and the other is married. My old army boss has called me to assist him in a couple of projects that have almost gotten me killed, and I have become much too emotionally involved with a beautiful woman I met while SCUBA diving. That emotional entanglement is further comp-licated by the fact that she is married. Not happily married, but married, nonetheless.

She has been with me on some of the projects I have been involved with, and during each one, someone has been killed. She recognized, although she did not have anything to do with it, that each one was justified. Several months ago, we were together in New Orleans and after another too-close call, we returned to our respective homes. Mine to an apartment in Edmonds, Washington and she to a multi-million-dollar home overlooking the Puget Sound on Whidbey Island.

Soon after that, she called and informed me she was going back to her home in Georgia to visit family and friends and would let me know when she returned. I took that as a not-too subtle hint not to try to contact her until she returned and then it was her call if we were to speak or see each other again.

Since that time, I have worked from my office. I get my daily visit from my friend George, a Vietnam veteran whom many people in town think is residentially and financially challenged and usually refer to him as Crazy George. Those descriptions are as far from the truth as can be. He bought a little house thirty years ago and paid cash for it. He lives on his VA pension and does occasional day work in town if they pay him in cash. His house overlooks the Sound and, according to a real estate website where I looked it up one day, is worth a million and a half.

George is always a good companion for a conversation on topics he selects. It may be the weather, the Seahawks, Super Sonics, or what he did the previous day to earn twenty dollars. He knows I have a well-used coffee maker in a small hallway in my two-room office. If he follows me into the office in the morning and coffee is not ready, he knows I’ll buy if he’ll fly. He’ll go across the street to one of the many latte stands that are as common as street lights in the area and buy two cups and keep the change from any bill I give him.

I was wrapping up some paperwork on an insurance scam case I had investigated when my phone rang. For a long time I was still in the dark ages when it came to phones. I had an answering machine that blinked every time I had a message. Recently I was convinced to have voicemail put on my landline for office business and get rid of the antiquated machine. I couldn’t bring myself to just toss it in the trash, so it’s in the upstairs part of my office gathering dust and awaiting the day when it will be an antique, if that day is not already upon us.

The call came in on my cell phone and the screen indicated it was an unknown number. Normally, I’d just ignore it as those calls usually were computer generated female voices telling me up front that there was no problem with my credit, but she had a great offer on a charge card, or a way to borrow money, or finance my car or house at a discount rate. Since I had no one in the office to overhear me talk back to the robo voice, I took a chance and answered it.

Max Maxwell here. I learned in the army to always identify myself and I expected the other person to do the same.

Hi. Was all I heard and that was enough. I could picture Anna on the other end of the call. She was about five feet, five inches tall, had light brown, almost blonde hair that came to just below her collar. Her eyes were hazel and when she smiled they picked up the light like a disco ball. She still had the softest of southern accents of one who had tried to lose it. When we first met, she informed me her name was Anna and it was to be pronounced like Madonna and not like banana. She had the pleasant habit of saying only one word when I answered the phone. That one word boiled up from some secret place to explode over the phone and destroy me.

It took longer than I wanted for me to even respond. What a pleasant surprise, I managed to say. The last time I saw her was when we got back from New Orleans and I took her to the Mukilteo Ferry to take it to Whidbey Island. We had been…what…lovers…friends with benefits…or whatever the term would be for us making love at every opportunity since we met, but at the ferry dock, she kissed me like she would a neighbor who gave her a ride to the dock.

Where…where are you? Are you back home?

No, not yet. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m in Atlanta about to catch a flight to Seattle. Would you like to meet me at the airport?

Would a man crawling across the Sahara want a cold beer? Of course, I’ll pick you up. Give me your flight information and I’ll meet you. Was my hand shaking as I wrote down the information?

I’m leaving here at 2 P.M. and with the time change, I’ll get into Seattle at half past four. She hesitated. Are you sure it’s not an inconvenience…I can get a shuttle to the island if it is.

I couldn’t tell her how much of an inconvenience it wasn’t and how I wanted to see her again, so I reassured her I could do it with no problem. We talked a minute about the weather here in Seattle and that it would have no effect on her flight. Sometimes Seattle is as bad as San Francisco with fog, but it was a clear day and there should be no problem at the time she was expected to arrive.

She ended the call with a promise to see me in five hours.

Chapter 2

Bill Hart was a retired army major general. After retiring, he took a job as a contractor or beltway bandit in the Washington, DC area. His expertise was intelligence and he had made a good living and an even better reputation in that community in Washington. He headed an organization that did what many of the other agencies could not do. He was expendable, as were his operatives and all of them knew it. If a mission they were on went south, they had no safety net. They were on their own and they knew it. Bill protected them to the extent he could but even he had his limits. When he was called and told the DNI wanted to see him and a car was being sent to pick him up, he knew he was about to get another mission that fell in the government’s plausible deniability arena if it came to light.

Two men came into the building that housed the offices where Bill and his staff worked. Bill was the kind of leader who, once he gave one of his operatives a mission, he let them determine the best way to accomplish it. All he required was regular briefings. He and his executive officer were the only ones who had an absolute need to know for every operation conducted by his people. The two men spoke to Gerald Warren, his executive officer who led them to Bill’ office. He knew someone would be coming so he closed his normally open door and put several folders on his desk.

Bill, these two gentlemen want to see you. Warren knocked on Bill’s door and opened it a few inches so that he could see in and they could not.

Have them wait in your office. I’ll be with them in a minute.

Before Warren could relay the message, one of the men stepped forward. I’m sorry, sir, but we can’t wait. Our orders are to bring him back with no delay. You can tell him, or I’ll go inside and do it myself. He reached for the door.

If you value that hand, I suggest you take it off the door and step back. I’ll relay your message. Warren had his hand covering the handle on the door. He was as large as the other man and it was a classic standoff.

All right, but I’m not taking no for an answer.

The only thing you have to take is a step backward and your hand off the door. I’ll take care of everything else. Warren stepped around him and opened the door to Bill’s office and stepped inside.

Boss, you have two men outside who are ready to burst in here and kidnap you. I think you need to talk to them.

Yeah, I got a call that they were coming over, but I didn’t think it was going to get violent.

You know what it’s about? Warren asked.

Not yet, but they’re from the DNI’s office so you can expect it’s going to involve us. I’m going over there to talk to him now. Bill got up from his desk. While I’m gone, get me a list of everyone we have who is not currently in the field.

Bill left with the two men and they drove him across the 14th Street Bridge and into the District. After moving slowly through the traffic, they arrived at the building where the DNI’s office suite was located. As the head collector of intelligence for the US government, his operation was administrative. The field operatives, spooks and spies for the various agencies answered first to their higher headquarters. Once it filtered through there, it came to him. His purpose was collecting, evaluating, and disseminating as appropriate intelligence to the president and Congress when asked to do so.

Like many of the buildings in the District, what went on inside was done with no indication of it by the way the building was named or identified. The one good thing about this building was an underground parking area. The driver pulled the sedan into a marked parking spot and one of the men opened the rear door for Bill to exit.

The driver pointed to an elevator in the parking lot. Over there, sir. We’ll take the elevator to the Director’s office. He led the way and pushed the button calling the elevator to the garage.

When the doors opened on the Director’s floor, a woman in a dark blue pants suit with a white silk blouse was standing in the hallway waiting for them. Under normal circumstances Bill would have attempted to start a conversation with the very attractive woman, but this was not normal, and Bill knew it.

This way, please. The Director is in the media room. She turned, indicating Bill should follow her.

They walked down the hallway and stopped at a heavy wooden door. The door had a device on the frame where she placed her index finger and waited for the light on the security screener to turn from red to green. When the color changed, Bill heard a solid click as the door’s lock was disengaged. His escort pushed against the door and it opened for them to enter.

The room was a rectangle about thirty feet long and twelve feet wide. In the middle of the room was a large, probably mahogany wood table with ten heavy black chairs, four on each side and one at either end. At the far end of the room was a flat screen monitor at least 72 inches wide and 50 tall. Six of the chairs were occupied, three on each side. Four men and two women sat and turned to face Bill when he entered. All were in bureaucratic upwardly mobile dress. The men in dark suits, light blue shirts, red or blue ties and black wingtip shoes. The women wore conservative skirts and blouses. Their hair was probably longer than it looked based on the styles they were using. They all nodded in his direction when he entered and the man closest to the door on the right side stood and motioned for Bill to take a seat at the open chair across the table from him. The chair to Bill’s left was occupied by the least attractive of the two women. He was running an idea through his mind wondering if he was seated by the less attractive of the two so that he would not be tempted to start a conversation, when the door opened and everyone stood. The Director of National Intelligence came in and took the seat at the head of the table and to Bill’s right. In a town where appearances meant power, everyone recognized that even though they may not know Bill, they knew the DNI did.

Good to see you again, Bill. The DNI extended his hand.

You too, sir. It’s been a while.

It has but I have something I want you to see. He nodded to a man at the end of the table who had an electronic pad on the table in front of him. The man punched several buttons and the lights in the room went dark and the screen became active.

As the same images they watched earlier came on the screen, the DNI narrated. This was taken by satellite over the city of Babolsar on the Caspian Sea. He turned to Bill. Do you know the city?

I recognize the name, and know it’s in Iran, but I have no further knowledge of it.

The DNI nodded and continued to narrate. This was a joint operation between those friendly to us and some within the current regime. The individual you see is Professor Youssef Karemi, one of Iran’s most renowned nuclear scientists.

We kidnapped them? Bill asked.

No, they came over but we had to make it look like a kidnapping. We are just now hearing the fallout at the UN. The Iranians don’t know who did it but they think it was either us or the Israelis. Either way, we will get the blame. He nodded to the man with the pad and the screen went black and the lights came back on.

That was two days ago. We have him and his family in a safe house and he is due here shortly to give us a briefing and I want you to hear it as well.

Bill had no expertise or interest in Iran or nuclear weapons, but he knew that was about to change.

*****

I got to the SeaTac airport an hour before Anna’s flight was due to arrive. The traffic is so bad in Seattle that if one is traveling from one side of the city to the other, you almost need to pack a lunch. This time the traffic flow was reasonable and I found a parking place on the first floor I selected at the airport parking deck, so everything was going in my favor so far. I pulled into the space, noted the floor and space number and walked to the pedestrian bridge that went from the parking lot to the terminal. Since the destruction of the World Trade Center, only passengers are allowed at the gates, so I went to the baggage claim area to wait for her. Prior to leaving Edmonds I stopped by a local flower shop and picked up a single rose which I held in my hand. I selected a small card from a rack when the sales lady suggested I might want to say something when I gave it to her. I wrote the word Because on the card and she pinned it to the ribbon on the stem.

The baggage claim area was filled with those, like me, who were waiting for someone to arrive on a flight. Some flights were delayed, so many of those waiting were not in the best of moods, especially those with small children. I kept checking a monitor mounted overhead to keep up with the status of Anna’s flight. So far it was on time and finally, the monitor indicated it was at the gate. Unlike me, who flew in the back of the plane with the great unwashed masses and had to wait till the giant tube emptied to head for baggage claim, Anna flew first class and beat the crowd. She was one of the first down the escalator dropping passengers into the baggage claim area. I thought about making a sign with her name on it like limo drivers awaiting passengers they did not know, but I thought better of it and held the rose instead.

The smile on her face rolled away all the dark clouds in my life when I saw it. She came directly to me and when I handed her the rose, she embraced me in a hug that felt like old times. I broke the hug and waited to see if she would kiss me or wait for me to kiss her. She took the initiative and kissed me, not so much like long lost lovers, but more than most of the other couples were exchanging.

She looked at the card. Because? Because why or what?

Because you’re back. Because I missed you. And because…I don’t know. Just because.

She took my hand and led me to the carrousel where bags were being spit out and sliding down to waiting travelers who were anxious to grab one and leave.

We found her three bags and I loaded the Four Runner.

As we pulled out of the parking lot and hit interstate 5 heading north, I had no idea where this trip would take us, but I was anxious to find out.

Chapter 3

A cart was wheeled into the briefing room. A variety of soft drinks, water, coffee and hot water for making tea was on it, and without waiting, the DNI stood and went to it and fixed himself a cup of tea. Once he did, the others followed and soon everyone had something to drink in front of them.

Before our guest of honor arrives, I want to give everyone a full briefing on a situation you may not be aware of. He nods to the man with the pad who activates the screen and stands.

Mister Director, gentlemen and ladies, if you will give me your attention for a few minutes. Behind him the screen flashes as scenes come and go. Many were stock shots of middle eastern locations. He talked over the images.

For over ten years, Iran has been the leading sponsor of terrorism, not only in the middle east, but worldwide. They have a state sponsored program of terrorism, purchasing and providing weapons to terrorist groups, and providing the training in weapons, bomb making and now cyber terrorism.

He stopped when the screen filled with the image of a Russian S-300 surface to air missile and a MIG-29.

The S-300 gives them the capability to attack any target as far away as Israel. Iran recently rewarded Moldova with a healthy increase to their national treasury for brokering the deal. Even we couldn't stop a shipment of HXM explosives from Pakistan.

He stopped, looked around and took a drink of water. That brings us to the crux of the problem. The Iranian nuclear program is much closer to having a workable nuclear device than the world realizes. The nuclear deal negotiated by our government did not work and will not keep them from further development. They are very near a point where they are ready to test an actual nuclear warhead and its delivery system, and we cannot allow that to happen.

Before he could continue, the attractive woman spoke up. And how do we stop it from happening short of a first strike of our own?

The DNI motions for the lights and looks at the woman. That’s a very good question and why we are all here today. I want to bring in a person who can answer that question. He stood, went to the door which he opened and ushered in Professor Youssef Karemi.

Karemi came in and after being introduced to everyone stood at the head of the table.

He spoke in only slightly accented English. I don’t have to tell anyone in this room the details of why my family and I are here or what will happen to us if we are located. He looks around. But the lives of my family pale in comparison to the lives of my countrymen who will lose theirs if the current regime is allowed to possess a nuclear weapon. And this will happen if they are allowed to accept delivery of the LOGANA 12 processors scheduled to arrive within the month.

The room was quiet as they listened. The only sounds came from a cup being placed on the table. The DNI was the first to speak. "Professor, we understand and appreciate the situation you are in and we will do everything necessary to protect you and your family, but the people in this room need more details on the program and the shipment of the processor you