The Beginning: A John O’Bryan Novel

By Fiona Donovan

John OBryan returns in this second novel. This time, the young American contract assassin working for the CIA takes us through his initial journey into the secretive and corrupt world of intelligence. He takes us through his grueling training at the infamous Farmthe official CIA training camp. Here, he learns just what it takes to make it as an agent of the CIA.
His first assignment comes early on in his career, and we learn what its like to go from a rookie outsider to being accepted into not one but two of the most honorable brotherhood organizations in the world. His world is rocked hard by this very challenging assignment, both emotionally and psychologically as he faces the unpleasant task placed before him.
He is then drawn into the true core of evil as he and his team members attempt to take out one of the worlds most evil terrorist groups before they can rain down destruction and devastation on an unimaginable vast international scale.
Johns journey, through this assignment, once again confronts him with light and darkness, good versus evil in the situations, and challenges that are thrown before him. We follow John in his every step as he grows and develops from a cocksure rookie who knows it all to a more mature and confident agent.
This book gives us a glimpse through the looking glass of the secrets, lies, and betrayals that occur within the CIA.
Contains strong language and gruesome details.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499079296

Fiona Donovan

I was born and raised in England where I went through nursing school to become a psychiatric RN. Moving to the United States over twenty years ago, I continued my career in the mental health arena. From nursing, I went into the marketing side of mental health. I have been an avid reader since early childhood, enjoying a wide range of genres. Now I enjoy being an author. I have a great love of animals and worked with veterinarians for the last five years of my working life. I enjoy target shooting and own a collection of various firearms. I live in Northeast Alabama with my wonderful, supportive husband and our four-legged children.

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Copyright © 2014 by Fiona Donovan.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 10/02/2014

Xlibris LLC

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Contents

Note To Readers

Prologue

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

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Epilogue

Note To Readers

You have to remember that back in the 1970s, there weren’t the high tech gadgetry that the agents of today have. Everything was done the old-fashioned way. There were no cell phones, iPhones, fax machines, computers, satellite imagery, or sophisticated electronic gadgetry. We did have some basic bugging devices and phone-tapping equipment but nothing like the sophisticated stuff that is available to today’s modern agent. We could hear more by holding a glass to the wall than through the listening devices! They were crap.

The Cold War was just about over, leaving the United States reeling and trying to recover from the effects caused by activities within the world of intelligence. Many secrets and misinformation had been passed between the United States, Germany, and Russia.

The various Secret Services around the world realized that there was a huge deficiency in that they lacked the means to obtain intelligence from each other. Technical and scientific initiatives were needed to fill the gap. Scientists were immediately recruited and put into service to help in the research and development of finding better ways of obtaining intelligence. A full-scale technical review of intelligence services soon made it clear that new techniques in eavesdropping, without the need of agents entering the target buildings, were badly needed.

As technology was developed, the United States and Russia played a game of back and forth trying to outdo the other in the advancements of listening devices, each side taking turns in secreting their various devices into the walls of new embassies as they were being built.

Britain’s MI5 and MI6 recruited a British naval scientist, Peter Wright, and along with Marconi and G.M., they started to develop better listening devices. Wright later went on to become the assistant director of MI5. After retiring, he wrote his controversial book exposing the shortcomings and mistakes of the British Secret Services.

With the development of cameras, the most popular among the intelligence network was a small micro Minolta/Minox 16mm model. The compact camera used microfilm which the agencies quickly developed many clever methods of concealing and transporting it to its intended destinations.

It wasn’t until the 1980s that more sophisticated cameras and video equipment were developed. With these technological advances, the bureaucrats, the satellites, and the computers took over, erasing the drama and excitement out of it all. Gone were the old spies who did everything by hand the hard way; here were the new age spies who had half of their job done for them by the latest technology. Pampered bastards!

Prologue

It was one of those perfect days that just made you feel good. The sky mirrored the clear azure blue of the water, not a cloud in sight. A gentle breeze kept the temperature at a comfortable 74 degrees. The sun shone down on the water, making it all sparkly as if covered with millions of diamonds. The beach was pretty full of families all doing the same thing—having a good time. The children splashing in the water were oblivious to its icy coldness, too busy swimming and running through the waves as they slapped up on the sand. There were various beach games in progress being played by all ages; kites were struggling to stay in flight. The gulls were constantly dipping and gliding on the air currents, scanning below for abandoned picnics and food scraps. Other families were busy making sand castles and forts of varying shapes and sizes, each trying to outdo their neighbor’s. Everyone was enjoying the day.

Today was Abdul Naser Hemmati’s fortieth birthday; the last thing that he was expecting on this beautiful, clear sunny day was that he was going to die.

As Abdul sat in his beach chair watching the scene before him, he smiled as he reflected upon his life so far. He had come a long way from his poor and humble beginnings.

At the age of forty, he had become highly successful in his career, owning his own company. He had three nice homes, a beautiful wife, and two wonderful children. Allah had rewarded him well so far for his devotion and dedication. He had started at the very bottom and had painfully climbed the ladder of success to become where he was today. It had taken a great deal of effort and hard work on his part. He had scraped and fought all the way until now. Now he was reaping the benefits. He felt immense pride at his position in life, making him think how perfect his world was right now.

His two children sat digging and chattering like little birds in the sand at his feet, while his wife sat on a blanket five feet away reading one of those romance books that she so loved. Shoes, items of clothing, and toys lay strewn around her. She too was happy with her life.

As he sat there relaxing and drinking in the pleasant surroundings and sounds, his head suddenly snapped back and then flopped forward so that his chin rested on his chest. The perfectly round, quarter-sized dark hole in the center of his forehead starting to drip a steady trickle of dark blood. The back of his head had disintegrated, splattering gray brain tissue, splintered bone and blood on the sand behind him.

The sound of the rifle shot had been muffled by the lapping of the surf, the screech of gulls, and the noise of excited children playing and having fun.

Time briefly stood still before continuing in slow motion as the scene slowly played out around the now very dead Abdul. Nasreen looked up startled as blood had spattered across the page of her book. Her piercing scream instantly caught the attention of the families around them. Other women and children joined in with Nasreen’s screaming as they saw the bloody mess still sitting in the beach chair. Her children, not noticing their father but hearing her scream, ran to her in confusion and began to cry. Nasreen was frozen in place, not able to comfort them.

Chaos erupted in a wave over the beach—the ripplelike effect of a stone being thrown into a pond—as realization took a hold of people as to what had just happened. A couple of fathers went over to Abdul to see if anything could be done, while the mothers attempted to round up their broods like mother hens and stood in little huddled groups obviously shocked, horrified, and attempting to comfort each other. The frantic cry of the gulls was now replaced with the crescendo of people screaming as they attempted to flee the beach. Some people had thrown up in a violent reaction to the grizzly scene before them, leaving small pools of half-digested beach food in the sand.

From a distance, the people looked like fire ants scrambling and stumbling around after having their anthill trodden on.

Confused and dazed, people were scattering in all directions, shouting, and shrieking, not knowing what to do.

One quick-thinking father had the sense to cover Abdul with a blanket. The gulls, now in a frenzied state, were already trying to claim the pulpy mush as theirs. He stood guard over the body, waving them away in utter disgust.

Whoa dude, that’s seriously gross. This some kinda horror movie set? asked a drunken teenager as he stumbled upon the scene. He stood transfixed, not fully comprehending what he was seeing.

Get out of here! mumbled the man covering Abdul.

Among the sudden mass exodus men were attempting to herd the women and children back to the parking lot.

Nasreen wouldn’t let anyone touch her; she remained on the blanket unmoving, screaming uncontrollably, her children wide-eyed, clinging and wrapping themselves around her legs unable to move out of sheer fright. Why was Mommy screaming? Why was Daddy covered with a blanket? Why were all the people running and shouting?

The beach began to empty of families leaving behind the remnants of their day—untouched picnics, overturned beach chairs, discarded towels and umbrellas, crumpled blankets and forgotten toys, shoes, and other items of clothing. The detritus of what had once been a beautiful, sunny day at the beach lay scattered all around, abandoned, begging to be picked over by the ever-present gulls and other scavengers that didn’t care what had just occurred.

Groups of nervous adults huddled together in an attempt at comforting one another while reliving the scene, wondering why such a thing had happened in this wonderful, tranquil setting. Some were angry that their day had prematurely ended; the majority was dazed, scared, and still trying to figure it all out in their heads, trying to absorb the incident, trying desperately to make some sense out of it all. Some sat alone in dazed silence, wishing themselves somewhere other than here.

Sirens could be heard approaching in the distance.

Nobody noticed the little red fishing boat, and its three occupants suddenly reel in their lines, pull up the anchor, and pull quickly away from the area.

Chapter 1

Sometime in 1974 …

It all started when I answered an ad that I had seen in the New York Times.

Now Accepting Applications.

Exciting new job opportunities now being offered

in various Government positions.

Call: 1 800 246 2467 for information.

There it was, teasing me, wanting me to call the number.

I dialed the number, my curiosity getting the better of me. I had absolutely nothing to lose by calling. What the hell.

A female voice came on the line. I explained that I was calling about the advertisement in the paper about government jobs.

What kind of job are you looking for? Shit, I don’t know.

Well, I’ve just finished two years of college straight out of high school. I can do anything really.

She gave me an office building address in the city with a time and was told to ask for a Mr. Breeze tomorrow morning.

I was pretty surprised and pleased at how easily I’d gotten myself an actual interview. This job hunting thing was a piece of cake really. I had no clue as to what sorts of jobs were being offered, but like I had told the woman, I can do anything when I put my mind to it. As I was sorting through my clothes to find suitable interview attire, I was fantasizing in my head of what kind of job I would get.

I did my best Clint Eastwood impression in my head, Dick Tracy facial expressions and my James Bond stance, and various other facial expressions and voices of TV and movie characters as I watched myself in the mirror that I felt were appropriate for bad guys. I didn’t think that I was going to be an actual bad guy, but I was happy to let my imagination run loose and amuse me. It passed the evening away nicely.

I hunted out my one loud brown checkered sports jacket from the recesses of my closet, brushing the dust and lint bunnies off of it, rooted out my one and only shit brown kipper tie, and set about assembling my interview outfit. I didn’t possess a great deal of clothes, so I didn’t have to hunt too hard. I ironed my tan pants and my off-white shirt and shined my only pair of dress shoes. First impressions were important, so my mother always said anyway. I didn’t think that it would hurt to make the effort.

Chapter 2

I found the building and address quite easily. It was in the middle of the city in Central Massachusetts in a large office building. I found my way to the appropriate office, went in, gave my name, and then sat to wait for my interview. I made sure that I was early for the appointment as I wanted to give a good first impression. I felt pretty confident in myself.

The reception area was the standard nondescript area that could be found in any number of office buildings throughout America. Generic furniture were scattered here and there. A mustard-colored couch accompanied a faux wood coffee table, the rug being the drab green shag that was en vogue at the time. Behind and above the head of the secretary and her desk was a huge round clock with big numbers and a second hand that loudly ticked off each second. The office was deathly quiet you couldn’t hear anything from behind any of the closed doors. This just seemed to amplify the sound of the clock. It became the focal point of the room.

I caught myself glancing at it and checking it against my own Timex every few minutes or so. Since I was being kept waiting, as it was now thirty minutes past my appointment time, I noticed that there was nothing to occupy my time. No magazines, no papers, no signs—nothing. Only that damn clock. Tick tock tick tock tick tock. As the time ticked away, I found it harder to maintain my cheerful smile.

I was becoming mildly irritated at having to wait. I’m not the most patient of people.

It is a known joke that when dealing with the government, you always hurry up and wait. It was proving to be very much the case here. I managed not to fidget or sigh too much as I knew that being kept waiting was often a ploy of the employer as a test of your patience and tolerance level. I kept telling myself that it was okay; I had nowhere else to be today. I’m sure that eventually I will be seen by someone.

It was actually an hour and fifteen minutes after the set time of my appointment before a middle-aged, heavyset man with a graying Friar Tuck do in a navy suit came through one of the doors and quickly ushered me into the inner sanctum of his equally sparse office. He introduced himself as Mr. Breeze.

There’s a little written exam that we like all our applicants to complete so that we can get a better idea as to what positions they are most suitable for.

At that, I was left alone to complete the little exam. There was a smorgasbord of questions about myself, my past, my family, and things that I would do in certain circumstances—how I would react, etc. On and on it went, question after question.

It took me five fucking hours to complete! I don’t want to know about their long exams!

I was told that they would evaluate my exam and that I would hear something from them in about a week. That’s it? I sat here forever, wrote my hand off, and all I get is a We’ll be in touch! Yeah, right. I’ve wasted precious gas driving over here for this shit.

Although I felt absolutely drained, I’d never worked so hard before on any exam that I had taken; I felt confident that I had done well on the exam and that I could be matched with some form of employment.

Chapter 3

It had only been three days since the exam when I got a call from the same secretary to tell me that Mr. Breeze wanted to see me again, the following afternoon.

Wearing the same dress pants and loudly checkered sports coat with a terracotta shirt this time, I once again made my way to the same office building in the city in Central Massachusetts.

The same receptionist greets me and asks me to take a seat on the mustard couch.

Again, I spend, well, over an hour sitting, passing the time with the huge loud clock ticking away the endless seconds.

This time, Mr. Breeze has a colleague with him in his office. He is introduced as Mr. Horobin. Both of them have on their serious game faces.

You scored very well in a number of the tests, Mr. Breeze informs me.

I try to stay consistent, although the same question was asked in a number of different ways.

Mr. Breeze merely smirks.

Mr. Horobin asks, Do you have any military training? Do you speak any other language apart from English?

No, none. Coming from Massachusetts, I don’t speak English too well either, I reply, ever the smart-ass.

They are not amused. Kick the smartass remarks.

I’ll do anything. I’m quick to learn, and I’m adaptable.

Your IQ test puts you at 159, the average being 120 with genius being at 180. I think that we can find something for you to do. There are some papers that you need to look over and sign. Here we go again. How long this time?

I wear a smug expression on my face. I know that I’m pretty intelligent, being fortunate in never having to study for tests or exams. I could just remember stuff once I’d read it.

It took me almost two hours to review and sign the papers.

Mr. Breeze tells me to return to the office at 8:00 a.m. sharp the following morning.

The next morning, I am eagerly awaiting ten minutes before eight o’clock. Mr. Breeze, on time for once, leads me through a series of doors before he shows me to a small cubicle that seems like one of a thousand in this vast room. The cubicle was six feet by nine feet. It had no window; it had sterile empty white walls and contained a standard bookcase, chair, and a desk with a phone sitting on it. There was nothing to give me a clue as to what my job was or who my employer was. There was none of the usual generic office clutter lying around or displayed on the walls. Everyone seemed to be engrossed in being busy doing whatever they did.

Mr. Breeze informs me that my job will be to search through phone records to try and find a pattern, the same number called frequently—anything that stands out to me as odd or not quite right. As he is telling me this, ten boxes are delivered by handcart to my cubicle.

How will I know if I’ve found something?

You’ll know.

How do I get in touch with you if and when I find something?

You go through that door and tell the guy at the desk to call me.

With that, he left me to it. I dived right in, getting lost in the endless pages of numbers.

A few hours into it, I had to use the bathroom. None of the other workers seemed particularly sociable or even aware of my presence, so I set out to find it by myself.

Before I knew it, it was 4:30 p.m., and Mr. Breeze returned.

How are you doing?

Okay, I seem to have missed lunch. Nobody has spoken to me or offered to show me around. Actually, I’ve been ignored all day.

I’m sorry that that happened.

I can bring a bagged lunch. That’s no problem. I don’t expect to be babysat.

You can if you feel better about it. Don’t ever leave anything on your desk, even if you’re just going to the bathroom. I see that you managed to go through three boxes. That’s good. When you get here in the morning, don’t clock in. I’ll see you at 8:00 a.m.

As he was talking, the same guy with a handcart came and packed everything up and took the ten boxes away.

Chapter 4

The following morning, I arrived a little before 8:00 a.m. I went to the office of Mr. Breeze. This time, I was dressed a little more casually; I’d ran out of dress shirts but had quite an assortment of Bri-nylon button-down collared shirts to keep me going for the time being. I made a mental note that I’d have to do a little clothes shopping when I got paid.

Again, he took me through a number of doors, but it wasn’t back to my cubby hole. Instead, he led me into a warehouse-type room, again vast in size; but this time, the entire space was filled with hundreds of bags of trash. It smelled and looked like a huge indoor landfill. Mr. Breeze led me over to five tarps laid on the floor. Each tarp had its own bag of trash. Each bag was numbered 1 to 5.

"Go through each bag separately and see if you can find anything abnormal. You’ll know when you do. To get in touch with me, go to the guy in the corner over there at the desk and ask for me. He is your supervisor, so if