The House on Glenheather

By James Fleming

-A Jon London novel –
His mind was running, albeit slowly, trying to sort out events and timelines. A Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) contractor, Jon London was completing an assignment in Nicaragua when he encountered a dark cloud of swarming insects along the San Juan river. That’s when he felt a sharp sting on his neck. A few steps later he felt disoriented and unbalanced. He became dizzy and short of breath; he staggered, lost his balance and fell into the swift river separating Nicaragua and Costa Rica.

Falling from the high riverbank was like a dream: actual time was suspended. Jon realized he was about to die. Perhaps, he though, time had been paused so he could know how his life ended. It never occurred to him he would die in this place.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532088322

James Fleming

James Fleming was born in London in 1944, the fourth in a family of nine children. He read history at Oxford and has been variously an accountant, farmer, forester and bookseller. The author of two previous novels, The Temple of Optimism and Thomas Gage, he lives in Scotland. Visit him online at jamesfleming.co.uk.

Book preview

LIST OF CHARACTERS

CHAPTER 1

The Washington Ledger

EIGHTY-TWO KILLED IN HOTEL BOMBING!

Adrian Soperton arrived early the day the bomb exploded. The Agency security detail dropped him and his personal security officer (bodyguard) at the hotel’s impressive entrance, and illegally parked the black Chevy suburban on a yellow curb 10 yards away.

The security officer accompanying him stopped at the wrought-iron gates leading into the hotel’s renowned restaurant. Only after Soperton was seated did the agent settle into a nearby chair and pretend to read the Wall Street Journal. In her coat pocket was a credit card-sized device to detect any listening gadget within 200 feet and display its exact location on her secure iPhone. Concealed beneath her jacket was the new Army PSD (Personal Security Detail) 9mm machine gun. Small and light, it was specifically designed to safeguard High-Risk Personnel (HRP) in close quarters.

The screen on her iPhone was blank.

~ ~ ~ ~

His mind was running, albeit slowly, trying to sort out events. A Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) contractor, Jon London was completing an assignment in Nicaragua when he encountered a dark cloud of swarming insects along the San Juan river. That’s when he felt a sharp sting on the back of his neck. A few steps later he felt disoriented and unbalanced. He became dizzy and short of breath; he staggered, lost his balance and fell into the swift river separating Nicaragua and Costa Rica.

Falling from the high riverbank was like a dream: actual time was suspended. Jon realized he was about to die. Perhaps, he thought, time had been paused so he could know how his life ended. It never occurred to him he would die in this place.

Actual time returned when he violently hit the water. For short seconds he floated on the surface of the river before darkness enveloped him.

But he didn’t die. He most assuredly was not dead. What he was, was confused. He forced himself to concentrate: What happened? Where am I? How did I get here? What happened to the mission? He found himself unreasonably questioning his situation. And each question only raised his angst.

Slowly he opened his eyes. In his blurred field of vision, he saw shoeless feet, hairless legs and muscular calves. He tried to decide on a course of action. Or inaction. Who are these people? The dim light coming from behind him signaled the last rays of a dying day; that helped orient him to compass points and time of day. For an instant he thought he heard a small plane, but the sound quickly faded. He decided it was only his imagination. Within moments his sensory perception returned enough that he knew his clothes were damp. He perceived he had all his clothes on, including his parka and boots. He wiggled his toes but couldn’t decide if they were wet or dry. In his arms and legs he felt a tingling like low voltage electricity. His throat hurt, and his shoulder hurt, and he had a stinging headache. Gathering his strength, he rose to his knees, befuddled and woozy, and through the haziness looked at the semi-naked men in front of him. They looked back.

The men were impressively muscular with developed chests, shoulders, biceps and legs. Nothing like the pictures in National Geographic of primitive people with skinny arms and legs and extended bellies. They were the opposite of malnourished people. They had tan and smooth hairless bodies. Each man had a symmetrical face - an evolutionary sign of good health and fitness. None had painted or wrinkled or aging faces, or pierced lips, noses or ears. They wore none of the painted or dyed markings of savages, and the sun had not turned their faces into aged leather. In fact, they appeared youthful, strong, and impressively healthy. They watched him silently without facial expressions. None showed any inclination to speak or move.

Jon craned his head to his left and saw his Boonie hat and the Heckler & Koch MP7 PDW A1 (personal defense weapon with the suppressor attached) and his Walther pistol. He could sense objects in his fatigues and parka tugging at him like metal to a magnet. He struggled to remember what else was in his pockets: ammo clips, an Ultra Violet Light (UVL) pen and his black folding knife with a 420 stainless steel Titanium coated blade. He was sure the GPS on his wrist was history but couldn’t clearly see his watch on the other wrist to know if it survived. The rucksack was nowhere in sight, so he assumed it was not recovered. The night vision goggles were probably ruined by the water anyway. He wondered if the people staring at him knew what the MP7 or pistol were. Probably.

Between him and the men was a large fire pit that glowed with red coals. It was a bizarre scene with dark shadowy figures dimly visible on the cave’s wall. It was obvious he was in the presence of a primitive or hidden tribe, but he didn’t feel threatened. Hopefully it was a friendly tribe and not head-hunters or cannibals. Because of his mission brief he knew isolated Indians still existed in this part of the world. But that was all he knew, and he never anticipated encountering any of them.

Unexpectedly, he heard a low but commanding voice. The words were spoken unintelligibly in a language he didn’t know. Suddenly a youth appeared from behind the men and hurried to stand directly in front of him. At arm’s length the boy held out a wooden cup for Jon to take; then quickly disappeared behind the men. Jon couldn’t tell if the liquid inside the cup was light or dark – not that it mattered. The important thing was not to offend his capturers or, hopefully, hosts. If they wanted to kill him, he reasoned, they could have done so already. There was no need to poison him now and unwise for him to seem ungrateful. He took a deep breath and drained the cup in two gulps. To his surprise the liquid tasted like a strong ginger root beer and was not unpleasant. Minutes after drinking the liquid the fading sun behind him was gone and the cave quickly became darkened except for the hot coals.

Jon put the cup down and settled back on his haunches. Two men appeared out of the darkness and dumped an arm full of dried wood into the pit. It flared momentarily. The flames enlivened the figures on the cave walls and then died down. All the men but one, obviously a guard, then laid down on woven mats and fell asleep. Jon thought briefly about trying to slip away. But to where? Fatigue won the battle and he decided to copy the men, although it couldn’t have been later than six thirty or seven in the evening.

Several hours later Jon woke when more wood was put on the fire. The men sat up and passed food to each other. Jon’s internal clock suggested it was probably midnight. The youth returned – somewhat less timid this time - handed him a wooden bowl and retrieved the wooden cup. The contents smelled like cooked flesh, maybe a piece of river fish. Possibly a rodent, he feared. The thought of eating a rat dampens his appetite. Next to the mystery flesh was something with the consistency of heavy gravy. He decided it was probably some kind of starch - maybe a yam or potato. Whichever, he suspected both came from flowering plants and were editable. He wished he had paid more attention to the briefing lecture about the tribes along the river. At least their diet. With his fingers he picked up a small piece of the mystery meat and took a tentative bite. It had no taste unless bland is a taste. He dipped two fingers into the gravy stuff. It was equally bland. He hadn’t eaten in some hours and he paused only a moment before swallowing the meat and gravy quickly. That helped him avoid thinking about what it was. Only the young boy seemed to have noticed his hesitancy. Or maybe he was just interested in the white-skinned stranger.

After the men finished their meal they returned to their slumbers. That seemed like a good idea to Jon and, again, he copied them. But he slept fitfully and awakened before the others, still thinking about escape.

It was an undetermined time of morning when the men awakened a second time, stretched and moved to the back of the cave. They assembled, and together ascended steps carved in the grayish white limestone walls. Jon’s bodyguard looked at him and motioned with his head for him to follow. The morning sun lighted the steps as they climbed. There were about 40 steps, ascending steeply, wide enough for two people. The stairs led to a large opening inside a large thatched roofed hut filled with women, infants, and elderly men. The women were busy at various tasks such as cooking and mending things. A wide door to the left opened to the outside and Jon could see children running, laughing and playing in the sunshine. Several medium to large-sized dogs were visible walking and running near the children while other dogs layed sleeping in the sun. Nothing - animal or human - paid him the slightest attention.

When the noise level outside the hut became loud, everyone interrupted their tasks and looked expectantly toward the hut entrance. Jon followed their gaze. Moments later a tall and slender white woman walked through the hut entrance. She wore tan cargo pants, a short sleeve khaki shirt and carried two Army-type used duffle bags. She was lean and fit, and ruggedly attractive.

~ ~ ~ ~

CHAPTER 2

The posh hotel was less than a mile from The White House. Its flag-adorned beaux arts entrance spoke to its prestigious and historic significance. It was well known for its magnificent breakfasts, served on blue-and-white porcelain china, with polished sterling silverware and sparking crystal stemware. Crisp linen tablecloths and white linen napkins completed the impression of elegance. The hotel’s prime location said it all: near Embassy Row, a short distance from the Johns Hopkins School of Advanced International Studies and the National Geographic Society. Nearby was the National Educational Association. Recently, demonstrations against the NEA by groups opposed to teachers’ unions had turned nasty.

Adrian Soperton thought having breakfast at this hotel was like finding an oasis in a desert: life-saving and wholly refreshing. This morning he was meticulously dressed in a gray Caraceni suit with a Savoy Parliament silk tie. Caraceni was founded in Italy more than a century earlier and was an internationally acclaimed tailor to royalty and celebrities. Fine clothes were one of Soperton’s few indulgences. In a world of business casual dress, Soperton cut a patrician figure. He felt at his best when he was well dressed and tailored suits lifted his spirits and strengthened his confidence. Expensive shoes marked him as a man who appreciated the finer things in life; you could judge a man by his shoes. At least that was what his father told him.

Enjoying a cup of Columbian coffee beneath the 1936 skylight of the hotel’s garden restaurant was in keeping with his gentle and quiet demeanor. He loved coffee from almost every country but preferred Brazilian coffee because of its strength and body; Colombian coffee for its excellent flavor; and Ethiopian coffee for both - if you liked it black and thick. Ethiopia was the birthplace of coffee. It had a rich cultural and religious history mixed with interesting folklore dating from the 9th century. The best Brazilian coffee came from Minas Gerais, an area of high elevations, rich soil, and warm and humid temperatures. Recently, Brazil’s highest quality coffee seemed to have dropped off the planet, he mused, along with their economy and national politics. When Soperton was tired and stressed, a fresh cup of good coffee revived him quickly. The way things had been going at the Agency he needed refreshing - and renewed confidence. He made a deliberate effort to calm his mind.

Most days patrons of the restaurant were business people. Women having breakfast were dressed in conservative attire: mostly fitted suits for fit bodies. And expensive weaponized high heels. Almost everyone had a relationship to a government, a foreign embassy, a multi-lawyered law firm (with lobbyists), a multinational corporation, or a university, perhaps Johns Hopkins. Less likely were tourists, people with the National Geographic Society or the National Education Association (NEA). Soperton guessed men at the tables were in their early forties to mid-fifties. The women looked at least ten years younger. Tables with four or more people appeared to include at least one man in his sixties. Rainmakers, diplomats, lobbyists, influence peddlers, maybe foreign officials or dignitaries visiting Hopkins, Soperton thought. Bigwigs of every stripe at or near their professional peak.

The person Soperton was meeting was habitually late. It wasn’t a source of irritation to him because he was waiting for the admired and highly respected Silverback of the intelligence community: Robert Bob Wells. Besides, Wells was his predecessor and mentor. Soperton needed his counsel, influence and connections at Defense, and in the corridors of power on the Hill.

Twenty minutes later Bob Wells arrived dressed in a dark Brooks Brothers suit, white shirt and a Bush 43 solid blue tie. He blended in well, mimicking an $1,800 an hour law partner of a large Washington law firm. Attorney rates in Washington were second only to New York City, the highest in the country.

Wells stopped short of the iron gates to the restaurant, easily making Soperton’s security next to the entrance. He casually looked over the diversity of early risers enjoying breakfast. There was a subdued hum of conversations, noticeably absent any loud voices or group laughter. Two men at a nearby table of ten wore traditional Kaffiyeh headdress: the black and white one signified Saudi Arabia; the red and white one most likely the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan. Must be working on a deal with Johns Hopkins, Wells thought. He recognized another man at the table but couldn’t recall his name. He looked like China’s new Ambassador, a veteran diplomat, who held a post-graduate degree from Johns Hopkins, if his memory were correct. He met him years ago at the Fairmont Hotel in Singapore during the Conference on International Peace and Cooperation. At dinner the first evening of the conference, at Iggy’s restaurant, he noticed two things: the restaurants’ founder, Ignatius Chan, spoke to the Ambassador personally, and the wine list was 25 pages long.

Closer to the center of the room sat three middle-aged men in quiet conversation. He knew the identity of one of the men because he had seen his face on the cover of Arbitrators magazine. His firm represented sovereign debtors in a dozen foreign countries, most recently in Iraq and Turkey. The firm’s profit per partner was about $3 million. Impressive but not unusual, he thought. On the opposite side of the restaurant were the less ostentatious. He knew two people by name: Gil Mullins - Associate Director of one of the four Resource Management Offices (RMOs) at OMB (the Office of Management and Budget). The woman with him was a local television personality named Diane Cason. She was a leggy blond with bedroom eyes and a mellow voice. Perhaps she was unaware Mullins was known in Washington as a scoundrel and notorious womanizer. His transgressions were well known by lots of people who didn’t care. Wells went unnoticed by both.

When in Washington Wells usually ate at or near the Pentagon. Or on Capitol Hill at a small family-owned dinner two blocks from the Russell Building. Sometimes he ate alone at a secluded place on F Street. Wherever he ate, he was never out of his comfort zone. After a moment he headed toward Soperton, next to the wall, seven tables distant. As he headed in that direction, his sixth sense kicked in. Something didn’t feel quite right. His uncomfortableness lingered as he neared the table, but he shrugged it off. Gauging by the packed restaurant, the economy was doing well – at least in Washington.

Wells walked with the easy grace and agility of an athlete (which he was as an undergrad in college), and the ease of a person fully15 years younger. He was 6’ 1 and extremely fit. In his left hand, he was carrying a noticeably – almost laughably – tired leather attaché case. Sorry about that, he said, in a deep baritone voice, apologizing to Soperton, who was looking at the attaché case with a curious expression. Wells pushed it under the table with his foot as he sat down and extended his right hand. The traffic on 16th was terrible. I should have called you."

I understand. Traffic never seems to improve in this town. Soperton believed a gentleman never made anyone feel ill at ease. Least of all a former mentor and friend.

Thank you, Wells replied, pulling the chair closer to the table. He placed the linen napkin over his left thigh and picked up the oversized menu. Have you ordered? he asked, without looking up.

Waiting on you.

While Wells considered the menu, Soperton considered him. The guy was a marvel and an intelligence legend at Langley. Soperton, by comparison, lived in relative obscurity far from the limelight. And that suited him just fine. Wells’ undeniable air of mystique didn’t hurt his image one iota. He seemed to have a sixth sense about a lot of things others didn’t. Soperton wondered if it were innate or learned.

Wells’ face was tight and lightly tanned. The pouchy bags under his eyes suggested a lack of sleep rather than age. Soperton thought Wells probably worked out five days a week and could easily pass for an extremely fit man of forty or forty-five. Soperton also knew Wells could be humorous when he wanted, charismatic and charming nearly always, and ruthless when required. In the last few years, he knew, Wells had become wealthy doing business with the U.S. intelligence community.

The server arrived promptly at the table dressed in sharply creased black trousers and a fitted white jacket. Coffee, sir? he politely asked in a high pitched voice. Wells looked up and instinctively thought the young man was probably a Georgetown University student, perhaps a law student trying to make ends meet. Georgetown had the fourth largest law school in the nation in terms of students - 20 more than Harvard Law - and not inexpensive. Wells shuttered to think how many of their law graduates hoped to find work with the federal government or