Judgement Call

By Tom Reilly

Once again, Reilly has penned a fast-moving nail-biting thriller. The storyline takes place in modern-day Kabul, the capital of Afghanistan, during the occupation of the US and coalition forces amidst of the Trump peace negotiations with the Taliban and the Ashraf Ghani Government, for the planned withdrawal of all US forces by the end of 2021.

Jacky Evans, an up-and-coming CIA agent at the age of twenty-six, had not gone unnoticed by her superiors at Langley and when a vacancy arose as the result of the mysterious disappearance of Meg Rennie, the Deputy Director of the CIA in Afghanistan, she was the perfect candidate. Having gone through a difficult relationship, it was the ideal career change and an exciting new challenge in a foreign country, and Jacky eagerly accepted the promotion.

Was Rennie still alive or in captivity? No terrorist organization had claimed responsibility as yet, and the CIA was at a loss. The advent of the FBI at the direction of the President to bring the case to an early close, only added fuel to the fire with the CIA Director Jack Ross, and the worst was yet to come for Evans, caught in a web of illegal gunrunning, the opium drug cartel, the Mafia, death, destruction, and murder commonplace.

The unexpected twists and turns will keep the reader hypnotized in search of the answers, and what happens in the next chapter.

An exciting thriller not to be missed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669807087

Tom Reilly

TOM REILLY is a member of the Directors Guild of America and has worked in the motion picture industry for the past thirty years. Veteran of more than forty films, Reilly worked with Woody Allen on classics such as Crimes and Misdemeanors, Husbands and Wives, Manhattan Murder Mystery, Bullets Over Broadway, Hannah and Her Sisters, Purple Rose of Cairo, and Zelig. He has also been assistant director on other major motion pictures such as Big, The Prince of Tides, Glengarry Glen Ross, The Pick-up Artist, Sabrina, and Great Expectations. He is married, has three children, and lives in Westchester County, New York.

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Copyright © 2022 by Tom Reilly.

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 Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 01/12/2022

Xlibris

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Contents

Preface

Chapter 1     Judgment Call

Chapter 2     The Meeting

Chapter 3     The Dinner

Chapter 4     The Flight

Chapter 5     CIA Headquarters Kabul The Ultimatum

Chapter 6     First Stop Ramstein Air Base

Chapter 7     The Plot

Chapter 8     Ramstein Air Base

Chapter 9     The Dilemma

Chapter 10   The Landing

Chapter 11   The Driver’s Late

Chapter 12   R&R Ramstein Air Base

Chapter 13   Kabul

Chapter 14   The Deed Is Done

Chapter 15   Day One Kabul

Chapter 16   The Unexpected

Chapter 17   A New Day, a New Challenge

Chapter 18   Hide-and-Seek

Chapter 19   The FBI Arrives

Chapter 20   It’s a Cold One

Chapter 21   The Meeting

Chapter 22   The Firm

Chapter 23   Operation Sochi

Chapter 24   High Noon

Chapter 25   What Comes Around?

Chapter 26   Code Red Camp Eggers

Chapter 27   D Day Kabul,

Chapter 28   The Great Escape

Chapter 29   House of Cards

Chapter 30   The Long Wait

Chapter 31   The Morning After

Chapter 32   The Expendables

Chapter 33   Sadly, the Innocent

Chapter 34   Bad News Travels Fast

Chapter 35   No one is Above the Law

Chapter 36   Parting is such Sweet Sorrow

PREFACE

There is no traffic behind us, and the oncoming lane is deserted. It doesn’t pass the smell test. Dempster speedily glanced at the screen on the sat nav.

"That street about a hundred yards behind to my right will loop us onto the Wazar Akbar Khan Road . . . Hang on to your britches, I’m gonna swing this baby around."

Taylor slammed the Hummer into reverse, the big V8 growling like a mountain cat, its thirty-inch run-flat tires kicking up a dust storm as he reversed before a U turn, throwing the crew from side to side.

Hang on everyone because I’m not gonna stop for anything.

CHAPTER 1

Judgment Call

Washington DC

Monday, February 14, 2020

Jacky Evans was patiently waiting in the foyer of Bentley Apartments for the elusive Yellow Cab, now ten minutes late. The bleak winter morning in Washington DC only added to her woes. As for the torrential rain? No more said. At seven thirty in the morning, no one is in the best of moods, the hurried slice of half-burned toast and stale coffee now behind her. As for Marco, what’s new? Still in slumberland with not even a kiss or a goodbye or Let me take your bag and I’ll accompany you to the foyer.

Selfish bastard! Jacky frowned, muttering under her breath. Maybe just as well this assignment came up, and ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’ whoever that joker was, certainly got that wrong!

Suddenly, the double flash of the cab’s headlights grayed by the heavy rain brought Jacky down to earth as it stopped in front of the large glass doors to the apartment entrance. The obnoxious screech of tired brakes only added to her doom and gloom, and the nightshift concierge quickly bloomed the large black umbrella upon seeing the cab arrive.

Let me take your suitcase. George volunteered.

"Thanks, George, at least someone cares!"

No sweat, Ms. Evans, my privilege. George frowned, confusion crossing his face. Maybe she got up on the wrong side, but the golden rule is, Hear no evil, speak no evil.

The cabdriver had already operated the trunk release, the rear door open, content on watching his fare rushing through the rainstorm. Cabdrivers!

Thanks, George, I owe you. Jacky gave a sad departing smile as the trunk closed and she slipped into the backseat, brushing the few raindrops from her Burberry that had escaped the umbrella hurriedly slamming the door. The trunk shut, George didn’t hang around, the torrential rain getting angrier; and as the cab pulled away, Jacky glanced at her watch. It had just turned seven fifty.

Cabby?

Yes, ma’am.

The Indian driver with the accent and the mobile neck didn’t seem perturbed at being late.

"Complain . . . what’s the use? I guess it’s the norm in New Delhi." Jacky shook her head, but then again, she was more interested in catching that nine-thirty flight!

Cabby, how long to Bolling Air Force Base?

Just a sec, ma’am. Mahatma entered the address into the GPS. "Let me see . . . hmmm, in this rain, eighteen miles. Around forty-five minutes if I stick to the freeways and Interstate 295."

If you get me there by eight forty-five, there’s another ten in it.

I’ll do my best, ma’am, without breaking the law.

The GPS suddenly burst into life. Depart Logan Circle toward Blair Street NW, exit roundabout at fourth exit onto . . .

Jacky turned and gave one last sad departing look through the hazed back window, a sad look, a look of disbandment and disenchantment of what could have been. But life was never meant to be easy.

The constant swish-swash hypnotic movement of the wipers could easily send a lesser mortal to sleep, but Jacky had a lot on her mind, and sleep wasn’t one of them. The boring drive would take forty to forty-five minutes, and inadvertently, one reflects on the past and what might have been and Jacky was no different.

***

When she first met Marco Borgetti almost two years ago at a friend’s birthday occasion; it was an attraction made in heaven. The tall, dark handsome lawyer was standing out from the crowd dressed in an immaculate dinner suit, his muscular frame and charm crying out for female attention, not in short demand. His shade-less black hair swept straight back had a shine to it, resembling the style of the Capone era of the nineteen thirties, Marco’s olive skin a giveaway, as with the Italian surname. The narrow jawline, dark brown eyes, and white bleached regular teeth had that certain smile; and Jacky was soon under his spell. That evening, the attraction was inevitable with Marco escorting her back to her apartment; and consequently, the love affair blossomed. From thereon, it was only a matter of time before they moved in together, in today’s promiscuous society an everyday nonevent.

***

Jacky, at twenty-six, was a proud member of the CIA, just like her father before her, whose life, unfortunately, was cut short at fifty-five, killed in the line of duty.

***

The CIA memorial wall in Langley Headquarters, Virginia, honored agents who died in the line of duty. When new names were added, Tim Johnson of the carving and restoration team in Manassas, Virginia, cut a new star into the polished white Alabama marble, with precise measurements, two and a half inches tall by two and a half inches wide. There are now one hundred and twenty-five stars. The plaque bears the inscription, IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES IN THE SERVICE OF THEIR COUNTRY.

The memorial wall was created in 1974, with 2017 sadly being the worst year ever with six agents losing their lives.

***

At twenty-one, having graduated from Cornell University’s bachelor of science in forensic science, Jacky couldn’t wait to apply to the Central Intelligence Agency for their annual intake. Once a year, the agency recruits new trainees to compensate for retirees and natural attrition.

***

The Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) serves the nation’s interests by collecting and analyzing foreign intelligence related to national security threats, foreign governments and industries, as well as terrorist cells both in and outside of war zones. Intelligence obtained by the CIA is then disseminated to heads of state, including the President and his cabinet and is used to help make key military decisions, as well as decisions concerning foreign policy.

At the request and direction of the President, the CIA operates in a converse manner, ensuring the actions, activities, and whereabouts of agents and operatives are never compromised. It is not a secret that the CIA employs only a select group of the most qualified agents to perform undercover operations that contribute to the intelligence cycle. Careers with the prestigious Federal Agency are reserved for only the most qualified, competent, and suitable candidates.

Individuals applying to join the Central Intelligence Agency must meet the requirements of the Clandestine Service and Professional Trainee Programs, a no mean task! A Bachelor’s degree in specific fields is essential as with the completion of a fifty-six-day Criminal Investigation Training program through the Federal Law Enforcement, as a condition of employment. The program is eighteen months in duration at its headquarters based in Langley, Virginia, and Jacky Evans was the perfect candidate.

At five nine, with a figure a personal trainer would die for, to say she was in big demand from the wolves of Langley would be an understatement. Her shoulder-length blond hair and blue eyes, a catalyst, as was her pale blemish less complexion, full lips, and straight white teeth, cocktailing her narrow face line—a signature piece with natural blonde and the Elisa Cuthbert girl-next-door look.

***

"God, this rain! Someone up there hates me."

Jacky was cursing beneath her breath. The annoying female voice with the phony accent was streaming over the cab’s GPS, interrupting her train of thought, and she nervously glanced at her watch.

"Fifteen minutes into the journey and this goddamn rain still won’t let up!"

The constant noise of the rain and the drum of the cab’s tires on wet bitumen was taking its toll. At seven fifty in the morning and after a restless night, the inevitable, and Jacky’s eyes could fight sleep no longer, her mind drifting back to forty-eight hours before, two days that now seemed like two minutes.

***

The alarm buzzed in Jacky’s ear, startling her.

"Seven already! I can’t believe it. Jacky wearily sighed before stretching over to silence the culprit. She always set the alarm thirty minutes earlier than needed, just to enter the twilight zone" and relax before rising to the challenge of another day as a CIA agent.

***

Jacky turned to face the lifeless Marco, who as usual had arrived home so late she couldn’t even remember him arriving in bed. A lost cause. It was the usual working late with a client over dinner, not to mention his new Coco Chanel cologne and the old lyric by Connie Francis, lipstick on your collar. Feeble excuse. It was all becoming too much. Ambition is not a crime, and Marco desperately wanted a partnership with Burton & Burton, Attorneys-at-Law, the second-largest legal firm in Washington DC. The daughter of Rodger Burton, the senior partner, was more than attractive, and office gossip was rife that she and Marco had a thing. Maybe he was screwing his way to the top. Whatever, Jacky was now past it, and she lay for a moment like many other mornings thinking that this relationship was down the toilet and irrevocable. Marco will never change, and happiness was just an illusion. Maybe this was the first day of her new life.

Jacky pulled the bedclothes aside and swung her feet to the floor, slipping into her moccasins before switching on the bedside lamp, Marco reacting with a disgruntled groan, turning his back to the glare.

Can’t you switch off that fucking light?

Go fuck yourself.

And a good morning to you!

Jacky shook her head in disgust as she walked toward the kitchen. There was no point going down that road again, and she gave a slight shiver before slipping into her housecoat. The morning temperature is around twenty-five in February in DC, and the heating had yet to kick in. Priority—the coffee percolator and a slice of whole meal in the toaster.

Hmmm. Jacky was enjoying the dark brew and the buttered crisp toast as she glanced at the headlines in the pulp rag, the Washington Times, slid below the apartment door by the Concierge.

"Trump bashing again! When are they gonna let up on this guy? And as for Comey? He’s yesterday’s man, testifying in front of the Senate because he was wrongly fired by Rosenstein for the Clinton e-mail fiasco and the Loretta Lynch matter. It just gets worse." Evans was talking to herself as normal over breakfast, enjoying her own company.

Now we have a new brush, Gina Haspel, the first female director, previously the assistant director to Mike Pompeo who is now moving on to become the Secretary of State. This is like a fucking Chess game without checkmate. The first female director, huh?

Jacky swallowed another mouthful of the brew, deep in thought.

"This is different. Well, she’s gotta be better than that old fart Clapper!"

Just then, Marco, bare chested, brushed past in his loud checkered boxers and perched on the bar stool next to her.

At last, the heating’s on, Marco cautiously commented, already sensing the elephant in the room. Aren’t you gonna pour me a coffee?

Are you fucking paralyzed or something? Jacky barked.

"Boy, aren’t you in a good mood this morning."

Marco rose and poured himself a mug from the perc, the silence deafening, before Jacky finally broke the ice.

So, when did you come home last night?

You mean, you didn’t feel me coming to bed?

"You gotta be kiddin’ me! I switched off the bedside lamp at two."

"Eh, err, I had a few drinks over a business dinner, and I decided to phone a cab, and after midnight—you know how difficult it is—but better than risking a DUI. I left my car in the office car park, and I was hoping you could drop me off this morning on your way to work."

"You’ve got some gall, I gotta hand it to you. Jacky glanced at the wall clock. I’m running late as it is. I have a meeting at nine thirty, and it’s now eight fifteen and with the morning traffic I’ll be lucky to make it in time."

So?

"Do I have to spell it out!"

Jacky rose to her feet, drinking the last of her coffee and banging the mug angrily on the breakfast bar, making Marco jump.

I gotta go shower.

"Fucking broads!"

I heard that.

Marco just shrugged in nonchalance; he’d been down that road before.

At least I’ll get peace to read the paper now.

The warm shower was invigorating, but time was running away with itself, and Jacky had to cut the romance short. A quick towel and into her bathrobe and a tugged brush of her entangled hair, she stepped it out to the bedroom to dress.

"Hmmm, now what shall I wear this morning?" Jacky spoke aloud, hands on her hips, staring into the unruly walk-in wardrobe.

Something sensible for this cold weather. The dark-blue tailored trouser suit and simple white open-neck silk blouse and medium-heeled dark-blue patent leather shoes. Not too flashy, huh? I have enough google-eyed males in the office without encouraging them.

Finally dressed, Evans took a moment to study the finished product in the full-length wardrobe mirror.

"Not bad! Even though I say so myself. But my neck is so bare. Hmmm." Jacky searched in her jewelry box.

"That fine gold chain with the delicate cross is made to order. That’s better. Now a final brush of the hair and a smidgen of lipstick, and I’m outta here."

You’re going then, Marco commented as Jacky grabbed her keys.

"Unless you’re blind!"

I see you have a new lady boss.

"Not me, Thomson!"

Changing the subject, are you going to be late tonight?

Look who’s asking! No later than normal, around seven . . . seven thirty. Why the sudden interest?

Things have been a bit rocky between us these last few months and I thought—

"And who’s fault is that?"

Let me fucking finish.

Jacky shrugged a silent pause.

Now, can I?

Make it short, I’m running late.

I thought about dinner at our favorite restaurant Gatsby’s over some excellent Italian.

"What’s this, a peace offering?" Jacky retaliated.

Just say yes or no, I’m not gonna eat crow.

Eight then, and don’t be late.

The door slammed behind her, shaking the pictures on the wall.

"Fucking broads!"

Jacky’s heels clicked eerily on the concrete of the underground car park, echoing a distinct click, clack. Scary, Evans thought with the lack of cars around, but midweek was always a busy workday with most owners or tenants on their way to the office by seven to beat the Washington early morning traffic.

Jacky’s silver BMW 318i coupe was parked next to Marco’s black Mercedes C220, and Jacky studied her pride and joy for a moment then smiled. A perfect lady’s car, and she could remember with pride when she made the last payment only a week previous. She and Marco were both professionals with a joint income of six figures and the world at their feet, a situation most couples would die for. But time was of the essence, and with no further ado, she pressed the unlock button on her fob ring, the car giving a duck-like squawk and a loud click as the door-lock rods popped up and the courtesy lights activated. Jacky nimbly opened the driver’s door and slid into the black leather, making herself comfortable before pressing the door lock. One can never tell. The turn of the key brought the German mark to life with a low growl, and Jacky quickly activated the automatic temperature control to a comfortable twenty-three C.

I should have risen earlier, Jacky commented, glancing at the digital clock.

Now the GPS to enlighten me the quickest route to avoid the jams and the estimated time for the journey. This is the part I hate, entering the address. Let me see . . . Evans touched the eight-inch screen.

History. Ah, here we are . . . 1000 Colonial Farm Road, Virginia 2201.

There was a moment’s pause before a woman’s voice broke the silence. "Depart Logan Circle toward Pea Street NW, exit roundabout at fourth exit to Connecticut Avenue, then the Whitehurst Freeway Northwest, then left at Virginia Avenue onto the East Street Expressway. Estimated time, thirty-five minutes."

"Hmmm, if all goes well, I can just about make it."

Jacky slipped the car into gear and hit the gas, the tires protesting on the glazed concrete.

CHAPTER 2

The Meeting

"At last Virginia Avenue and not before time, bloody traffic! Now a left onto George Washington Memorial and finally Colonial Farm Road. Thank God." Jacky glanced anxiously at the digital clock.

"Nine fifteen, it’s gonna be tight!"

There are two boom gates at the main entrance to the car park, and Evans slowed to decide which one to take.

"Hmmm . . . The one on the right is the real deal. There’s a holdup on the other one, most likely some bimbo forgetting their security pass. Besides, George is the guard today, and he knows me."

Good morning, George. Jacky smiled, working her charm.

Jacky, your ID. The middle-aged guard returned the smile, holding a small handheld gadget similar to that of a credit card mobile payment terminal.

George, if you don’t mind, I’m in a terrible hurry. I’m running late for a meeting.

Just bear with me, this won’t take a moment. George tapped the small screen, and the boom gate opened.

Without thinking, Jacky hit the gas pedal then suddenly braked with a loud screech.

"Hell, my card!" Evans quickly reversed the car; luckily, the boom was still airborne.

"You are in a hurry. George shook his head as he passed Jacky the card. That was a near one. My advice, drive carefully, huh."

Jacky didn’t hang around to reply and pressed the pedal, her next challenge to find a parking slot in section A.

The car park at Langley could accommodate enough slots for a major league game with different sections for different buildings. For reasons of National Security, the CIA’s number of employs and budget are not available to the public.

"I take it back, I gotta have some fucking luck, Jacky commented upon noticing just to her left, the bright red stop and reversing lights of an SUV about to leave, and she stomped the brakes and hit the indicator stock switch. Like, don’t even think about it, this is my patch."

Security cleared, Evans stepped it out to the elevator.

"Come on, come on!" She glanced impatiently at her watch.

"I can still make it . . . nine thirty-five."

The elevator chimed, and Jacky pressed five, the top floor of section A where it all happened and, needless to say, the Director’s Office.

Morning, Hanna.

Jacky didn’t wait for a reply and made a beeline to her desk to collect her papers, but suddenly, something seemed out of place—it was too quiet, and she turned to face the glass-encased conference room. It was empty!

"Hanna, either I’m early or I’m too late. Where’s everyone?"

I was waiting till you caught your breath. John cancelled the meeting. He wants to see you in his office whenever you’re free.

Jacky froze for a moment.

"Cancelled the meeting?" Her mind was racing.

"Yep, that’s what he said." Hanna was unperturbed and just carried on typing.

"Can you . . .?"

Jacky, you should know better. My suggestion, grab a coffee, relax, and let me know when you’re ready.

The coffee from the machine was badass and did nothing to calm Jacky’s nerves. Of course, she had met with her boss on numerous occasions in her role as senior investigator, but this morning was different. I mean, canceling the meeting that she and her team had been investigating for nearly two months, regarding a potential terrorist cell, was more than concerning. It was time, and Jacky crumpled the paper cup and chucked it in the trash can.

At least that hit its mark. Jacky spoke under her breath, and Hanna couldn’t help noticing the basketball throw.

"Nice, I guess that means you’re free. I’ll call John now. Hanna lifted the phone. Hmm . . . hmm . . . I’ll send her in . . . John will see you now."

Wish me luck.

Hanna just shook her head; in her job, she’s seen it all.

Thomson looked up from the report he was digesting when he heard the knock on the door and placed the pen and paper aside.

"Jacky . . . Good morning, take a seat. Don’t look so worried, I’m not gonna bite your head off. In fact, the opposite. I want to congratulate you and your team on the fine investigative work you are doing."

A look of relief crossed Jacky’s face. But why the meeting?

"Good morning, John, but the meeting?"

I’ll get to that in a moment. I gather you’ve had your coffee, if you can call it that, so I’ll not torture you to join me in a refill. Thomson lifted the secretarial phone. "Hanna, can I possibly trouble you for another coffee from the machine? You know how I like it . . . I promise I’ll square up with you today . . . Ten dollars! I might have to take time out and go to the bank." John was controlling his laughter as he replaced the receiver.

She’s a one-off. Thomson smiled. Now, where was I? Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. That was quick . . . Come in, Hanna, just place it on my desk. John pointed to the vacant spot. Thanks, and I promise you no more this morning.

Hanna turned and smiled. "Yeah, yeah."

And if Jenny phones, don’t tell her I’m back on the coffee wagon.

Hanna didn’t answer and closed the door, and Thomson just laughed before taking a sip of the counterfeit, Jacky now looking even more confused.

"Digressing, at my last physical, the doc told me that I must cut back on caffeine to control my blood pressure. Now isn’t that a joke? I mean, who wouldn’t have high blood pressure as the Director of Counterintelligence?"

It was John’s tactic making a subordinate relax.

Jacky acknowledged, a nervous smile crossing her face, like for Christ’s sake, get to why I’m here.

"Afghanistan . . . How many times have we heard that name? The truth is, the Middle East is a mess with no real solution in sight, and now another fancy name that means nothing to the ordinary Afghan who’s more interested in his family’s next meal—Operation Resolute Support, I ask you. I don’t know who dreams that stuff up, and I’m not getting into that, or I’ll be here all day. The bottom line . . ."

Thomson sat back in his chair and stared Jacky straight in the eyes.

There’s a vacancy for an Assistant Director in Kabul, Afghanistan, and I put your name forward, and it has been accepted.

For a moment, there was an uncanny silence as the penny dropped, Jacky struggling for words.

"I . . . err . . . don’t know what to say."

"Let me fill in the blanks. Kabul is a pretty dangerous posting, but then that’s not front-page news. But the kidnapping and disappearance of Margaret Rennie, the current AD, is! This happened over three weeks ago and has purposely been suppressed from the press until Jack Ross, the Director, and his team, have something to hang their hats on. As yet, no terrorist groups have claimed responsibility. I don’t know enough about it, and it’s not my bag, I have enough here on my plate at Langley without getting involved. The ‘red alert’ came down from our new boss, Gina Haspel, need I say more?"

"Wow, now I am in a spin. I’m still trying to unscramble my thoughts."

"And I don’t blame you! Look at it this way. It’s a chance to emblazon your name on the CIA landscape. Besides, it’s a promotion with all the perks that go with it, including a new grading and a salary increase. My advice, jump at it, and don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. At your age and service with the agency, it’s an opportunity that only comes once in a lifetime and a few less rungs from the top of the elusive ladder."

I think I’ll have that cup of coffee after all.

John, what’s the time frame? Jacky was back in it.

So you’re going to take it?

"Remember that gift horse!"

Thomson smiled. Good decision. Now, the time frame. Let me see. Thomson glanced at what looked like a classified document, moving his forefinger down each line.

"Ah, here we are! You depart for Kabul on Thursday, the morning of the fourteenth, from Bolling Air Force Base."

"Thursday!" Jacky’s complexion changed a pale shade of gray.

I’m afraid so, as the next flight is two weeks from now.

"Bolling Air Force Base?" Jacky queried.

Commercial jets to Kabul are too risky so I’m afraid you’ll be afforded the luxury of an Air Force Hercules and the company of one hundred and fifty army Rangers.

Jacky smiled. "That’s certainly different!"

"I believe the flight duration is around sixteen hours with a time difference of eight hours ahead. Hanna will provide you with your itinerary before you leave. Oh, one other thing. Your passport?"

No worries, John, it’s current.

"That’s a relief. My suggestion, clean up your desk and hand over your case files and instructions to your next in command. Now, I think you had better get to it as I’m sure you have a lot of stuff to cover. Oh . . . err, Jacky, a personal question, which you don’t have to answer. Are you in a relationship?"

I was, but he doesn’t know it yet.

Thomson laughed. "I get it, it’s always easier when parting is ‘not sweet sorrow.’ I won’t see you before you go, but keep in touch, and if you ever need any advice, I’m only a phone call away. Well, what are you waiting for, young lady?"

Thomson rose and offered his hand.

As the French say, ‘Bon voyage.’

Thanks, John, it’s been a pleasure. I’ll take you up on that.

Hanna looked up and ceased typing, stretching to pick up the large envelope as Jacky approached her desk, telepathy you could say.

I gather you accepted, and I have to say, I’ll be sorry to see you go. Then Hanna abruptly paused for a moment. I can’t help thinking these were the last words I said to Steve Nelson and Gregg Jonson before leaving on their assignment to Israel. Hanna’s eyes glazed over.

"They were a pair. The office will never be the same . . . Ah . . . hmmm." Hanna quickly composed herself, her voice now a distinct crackle.

I never had the pleasure, Hanna, but I can understand the sentiment. Losing one of our own is like a death in the family.

There was a death-knell pause before Hanna broke her painful silence.

You’ll find everything you need in the envelope—instructions, cash, and so on. Now, you had better go before I ruin my mascara.

Thanks, Hanna, I won’t forget you. Jacky picked up the envelope and headed for her desk.

Now where’s that Rodgers? I need to hand over the reins.

CHAPTER 3

The Dinner

Jacky turned the key to cut the engine. The drive to Bentley Apartments had taken less time than she had expected, most likely because it was only eleven in the morning, a time new to her.

"God, I’ve so much to do, I don’t know where to start!" Jacky pressed the lock button on the car key. An ugly squeal and clunk followed as the doors locked, the noise echoing loudly in the empty car park. Within minutes, she was in the elevator then with a slight jolt as the doors opened at 6. The plush dark-blue carpeted hallway brought back memories when she and Marco first viewed the apartment, memories now sadly in oblivion.

Now where’s that fucking key of mine? Jacky’s anxiety was fetching out the worst of her English.

"This bag! . . . At last!" Evans finally slipped the key into the Yale and opened the door, quickly stepping out of her heels before throwing her Burberry on the back of the sofa.

"Just like that lazy slob, he can’t even place the dirty dishes into the washer, of course leaving them for his unpaid servant! Man, will I be glad of the change." Then Jacky pondered for a moment in thought.

I’ll stack the washer then relax over a glass of chilled Riesling. Evans was conversing with herself. "That’s if there is any left!"

The washer stacked, Jacky stood on her tiptoes to reach the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet to ease down a white wineglass.

"Got yah! Now let’s see. Jacky opened the refrigerator. I’m surprised that inconsiderate bastard has left half a bottle and am I looking forward to that!"

Evans removed the cork and poured a glass of Besserman German Riesling.

"At least he’s good for something when it comes to choosing wines. Hmmm, that hit the spot. Jacky placed the half-filled glass on the breakfast bar before walking to her briefcase to retrieve her laptop and returning to the barstool and the yellow pleasure."

First things first, I had better make a list of to-dos. Jacky opened her laptop then took another sip of the Riesling.

"Let me see. The apartment . . . I’ll need to make an appointment with the lawyer regarding the Title Deeds, then there’s the bank, and of course my car and lastly my clothes . . . So much to do . . ." Jacky opened her cell.

"Can I speak to Mr. Wilson please? Eh . . . ah, Jacky Evans."

Good morning, Jacky, how can I help you?

Frank, I’m being posted overseas, and Marco and I have decided to go our different ways, so I need to change the Title Deed for the apartment as it is in both names.

It happens to the best. Departing?

On Thursday morning. I’m leaving my share to Marco . . . The furniture and stuff? I’m happy to walk the walk, the last thing I need is a costly legal battle.

Then Marco will have to be in attendance to sign in your presence.

I was hoping to avoid that. I’m pushed for time, but I understand . . . And ten thirty tomorrow morning is the best you can do? I guess so, the legal cost goes to Marco . . . Thanks, Frank, tomorrow then.

Where too? Frank couldn’t help popping the question.

"Sorry, Frank, it’s confidential . . . in my job? You should know better. Thanks again . . . Bye. God, I need another drink after that." Jacky wet her lips and took a long one.

Now the BMW Franchise and then the Bank.

"God, the time!" Jacky glanced at the wall clock.

Six thirty already, and I haven’t even finished sorting my wardrobe and out with the ‘don’t wants.’

Jacky planked on the side of the bed, resting her chin on her hand and staring at the heaped pile of clothing bundled on the floor.

"Someone’s going to have a field day! It breaks my heart, but it’s been a long time coming. The Salvos will be happy tomorrow in their used-clothes store . . . Ah well, it’s going to a good cause. It’s winter at the moment in Afghanistan so I must remember to pack my warm clothing. Now, I had better hit that shower, I don’t want to be late for my swan song."

The warm shower spray was relaxing and could have easily turned into a showerathon, but time was running away with itself, and the drive from Bentley to DuPont at this time in the evening would take at least thirty minutes.

Jacky removed her shower cap and briskly toweled her wet glistening body before slipping into her bathrobe. While sitting in front of the vanity vigorously brushing her natural shoulder-length blonde hair, Jacky inadvertently, like all women, studied her complexion for a moment.

"Hmmm, apart from the early signs of eye bags, mother nature has been kind to me. Jacky smiled, her nose almost touching the mirror. Enough of that, I had better make tracks and decide my wardrobe for this evening. Winter is still with us, as if I had forgotten!"

Barefooted, Jacky swiftly walked to the walk-in.

"The outside temperature is around forty, so something simple, relaxing, and warm . . . Let me see." Jacky studied what was left of the depleted rack, her forefinger tapping her lip.

Gatsby’s isn’t that upmarket, so it’s blue jeans, a white Arron polo neck, and that dark-blue English duffle with the peg buttons and hood. Lastly, ankle-length black suede boots. That should do the trick.

Jacky began to lay out her clothes selection on top of her bed then turned back to the mirror. Makeup time.

Fully dressed, Evans took one last look. Mirror, mirror on the wall. Eat your heart out, Marco. I’ve never felt better.

"Brrrrr . . . It is cold tonight." Jacky gunned the engine, switching on the heater.

Let’s see . . . Evans pressed the switch outside temperature on the screen display.

"Thirty-eight! I knew it was around there. This bloody winter!"

As Evans left the underground car park, she checked the time once more on the dash clock.

"Seven twenty-five. Now the GPS." Jacky entered the name of the restaurant and the post code to check the traffic flow. The last thing she needed now was to get stuck in a jam.

Clear way to Connecticut Avenue toward Dupont Circle then three o’clock onto north Harrington Avenue then first right Seventeenth Street. You should reach your destination in twenty-five minutes.

"That’s encouraging, and I don’t think! Well, if I’m late . . . I mean, why the hell should I care?"

Gatsby’s was a well-known Victorian-style Italian restaurant located in the Dupont Circle neighborhood specializing in authentic Italian handmade pastas and the experience of a most comfortable environment in a historic brick stone rowhouse converted into a cozy restaurant that hasn’t given up the feel of coming over to someone’s home for dinner. It doesn’t get any better, offering a seasonal menu of fresh and local ingredients with a reputation for consistent high-quality feel-good dishes and good value.

The restaurant had a corner location with two floors, its internal ambiance following traditional Italian, with a long dark wooden stooled oak bar and the traditional antique large brass-and-copper coffee machine at one end, complete with the highly polished brass eagle. Red-and-white checkered tablecloths as normal and paintings of Mussolini Square in Roma and a must of the famous Trevi Fountain and Spanish Steps adorned the walls. The pièce de résistance, the log fire on a cold winter’s night and, as they say in Italian, il pesto dove essere, the place to be.

The drive time was spot on at around twenty-five minutes.

"Not bad! Whatever would we do without GPS, I can’t imagine. And am I in luck for a parking slot! Would you believe it! Right behind Marco’s Mercedes and a five-minute walk to the restaurant!"

"Brrrrr . . . Evans shivered as she hit the sidewalk quickly, pulling up the warm hood on her duffle.

"Boy, did I make the right choice!"

The heavy wooden door with the colorful LED light inserts depicting an Italian fishing boat was a challenge, and Jacky had to exert herself, the warm air in the restaurant a pleasant surprise. Within seconds, Tony, the owner, was by her side, helping Jacky to disrobe.

"Bonasera, Jacky, it’s been a while."

Thanks, Tony, maybe too long, huh?

Marco is already here. Let me get your coat then I’ll escort you to your table.

Thanks.

Upon seeing Jacky, Marco gave a warm smile, rising to greet her with a gentle kiss on both cheeks.

Here, let me. Marco pulled Jacky’s chair back.

The gentleman tonight, huh?

Marco just ignored the sarcastic comment, better to say nothing at all.

You’re early, that’s different. Jacky nosed the menu. Must have been a very efficient day?

Let’s not start on the wrong foot and for a change have an enjoyable dinner without any bickering.

Hmmm. Jacky ignored the white flag, still exploring the menu.

Tony Brambilla was a typical Italian, if there is such a thing. In his mid-forties, he had the Mediterranean olive complexion, dark-brown eyes, full jawline, and veneered pearly whites. At five eleven, slim, and immaculately dressed in the most expensive Italian tailoring, he certainly looked the part. The open-necked white shirt added a casual look, distracting from his standout suit. His black curled hair sporting graying sideboards gave him the Dean Martin, and after three broken marriages, maybe he was still throwing three coins in the fountain. Tony had that smile that instantly made the diners like him. Never short of female companions, his fourth wife was mostly likely in the pipeline; but maybe this time he’ll play solitaire, the best game in town.

Jacky, would you wish to start with an aperitif?

"Tony, that would be nice!"

Your usual, Campari soda on ice with a slice of orange.

You remembered!

I always remember when it comes to beautiful ladies. The Italian stallion was at his best.

And Marco?

Your best Grappa straight up.

Bassano?

That’s the one. Marco smiled.

Entrées?

I think I’ll skip the entrée and go straight to the main.

As you wish, Jacky, . . . and?

I’ll have the spicy Penne Carbonara with softshell crab.

Good choice. And you, Marco?

Hmm . . . What’s your special this evening?

My mother’s recipe—Rigatoni Amatriciana with spicy chorizo.

There’s nothing like mother’s cooking. Knock me out.

Thank you. Tony gave that smile. Your aperitifs will be with you in a few minutes.

The formalities over, Jacky was champing at the bit. So why the conscious dinner?

Marco paused for a moment at the sudden cut to the chase. Jacky was never one to mince her words.

Honey, I know for the last three months things have—

Excuse me, I hope I’m not interrupting . . . Your drinks. Tony placed the Grappa and Campari in front of the diners.

"Eh . . . ah . . . that’s okay, Tony, no damage."

"Your mains will probably take fifteen to twenty minutes, and I do apologize, but as you can see, tonight we have a full house."

Thanks, Tony, I understand. We are in no hurry, Marco replied, locking his eyes on Jacky for a reaction. Now, where was I?

The part where you were telling me what I already know, so carry on. Evans was taking no prisoners.

Let me put it this way. Marco took a sip of the Grappa for fortitude. I love you, and I don’t want to lose you—

Marco, Jacky interrupted. Please spare me. You’re not in the confession box, and I don’t want my tears to dilute my Campari.

"You’re incorrigible. Can’t you be serious for one moment?"

"Get to the point, for Christ’s sakes!"

I think maybe we should take a short break from each other. Like a cooling-off period.

"Are you fucking kidding me!"

Jacky, keep your voice down and don’t make a scene.

"So you move out temporarily and shack up with the senior partner’s daughter, and if you don’t get your elusive partnership, you jump back into bed with me. Nice, as they say, ‘you can have your cake and still eat it.’ Marco, I’m sick of the late nights, the Chanel, the business dinners. Remember, I work for the CIA, and I’m a class A investigator and don’t need ‘Detectives for Dummies’. The part that puzzles me is you are an excellent lawyer and ambition is not a crime but fucking your way to the top is!"

Marco went pale; he didn’t see the big sleep coming.

"The bottom line? Is that your best shot?" Jacky was on a roll.

Can I interrupt? Tony was carrying the mains.

It’s okay, Tony, Jacky shot back.

That’s what Pontius Pilate said to Jesus during the last supper.

Tony, being a staunch Roman Catholic, didn’t think Jacky’s remark was funny; and he just shrugged, none the wiser.

Would you wish wine? Tony asked.

Marco, don’t order something ridiculously expensive. We all know you know your wine. Besides, I’m not in a drinking mood so a simple bottle of Frascati on ice is fine.

You heard the lady, Tony. Marco gave a halfhearted smile, a camouflage for what he was really feeling.

Certainly. Brambilla left for the wine cellar.

Marco was shaking his head. If he interrupts me one more time, so help me, I’ll go ballistic. As for Jacky, she was enjoying the other foot.

Are we going to waste all this delicious food? Marco poured the wine.

I suppose we can call an armistice as you’re paying.

The dinner over, the ongoing tension was making it hard to concentrate on the food.

More wine? Marco offered to refill Jacky’s half-empty glass.

No, I’m good although coffee would be fine.

Latte?

Jacky nodded in silence.

Now where’s that Tony. When you want him, you can’t find him! Marco raised his arm.

I’ll be with you in a second.

No sweat, Tony, just two lattes. Marco turned to Jacky. Shall we commence hostilities?

Well, you know what they say about sarcasm.

Where have we gone wrong? Marco stretched his hand across the table, touching the back of Jacky’s.

It’s too late for that. Jacky quickly resisted the hand contact. If you don’t know by now, then you’ll never. Anyhow, I’ll make it easier for you and Margo Burton. I’ve been offered a posting to Kabul, Afghanistan, as Deputy Director, and the good news is I have accepted.

"Jacky, you’re shittin’ me!"

I leave this coming Thursday, so I really only have one day to get my personal stuff together. Now here’s the deal regarding the apartment.

Ten thirty tomorrow at the lawyer’s?

That’s the deal. Remember, you’re getting everything. I just want to get the hell out and put this bad dream behind me. Look on the positive side, you and the beautiful Margo can just move in, and believe me, I wish her luck!

Marco was lost for words and just sat in silence trying to absorb the ‘Death of Caesar’, only without the daggers.

Jacky . . .

Marco don’t even try. We had something special, but you blew it, and a leopard never changes its spots. Now, be the gentleman and settle the check. Remember, tomorrow ten thirty. Tony, can you fetch my duffle please?

CHAPTER 4

The Flight

"Ma’am . . . ma’am . . . Wake up . . . wake up!"

"Ahh . . . ah . . . hmmm . . . What . . . what . . .? God, I must have fallen asleep. The last two days would fatigue a mortal."

Jacky rubbed her bagged eyes, her vision clearing.

What’s the take, driver?

We’re only five minutes from Bolling Air Force Base.

Evans nervously glanced at her Rolex; she had lost track of the time in her slumber.

That’s a relief, it’s just turned eight thirty-five. Nice job, driver, what’s the tab?

Forty straight.

Jacky peeled a fifty from her billfold.

As promised, keep the change.

The windshield wipers were shot, and between the downpour and the hazed screen, it was difficult to make out the sign on the large granite ornamental wall Bolling Air Force Base, United States Strategic Command.

As the cab approached the entrance to the white security outhouse, it was blocked by a camouflaged Humvee, a marine sergeant meticulously checking the driver’s credentials and entering the details into his iPad, the large Perspex weather canopy in front of the red-and-white boom, protecting him from the elements and the seemingly never-ending rain.

"Come on . . . come on . . . What’s this guy giving, his autobiography?"

Sorry, ma’am, I can’t stay much longer. I have a living to make, and a call is on the line.

I understand, driver. Just pull over in front of the guardhouse to escape the rain and open the trunk.

Mahatma nodded and swung the cab to the left then braked before pressing the trunk release. Whatever, he wasn’t going to challenge the elements; maybe he was protecting his coconut-glazed hair.

Evans didn’t hesitate to grab the Samsonite and hit the road Jack, the cabbie leaving a tire spray in his wake as he pressed the pedal to the metal for his next take.

Thank God for baggage wheels, Jacky groaned as she struggled to reach the weather canopy.

Just hold it there, ma’am. The holstered sergeant in his winter greatcoat raised his arm. I’ll be with you in a moment.

Don’t worry, I’ll handle the lady. Suddenly, a female voice rang out, and a uniformed marine sporting Sergeant’s Chevrons appeared from nowhere.

As for Jacky, she was too busy brushing her raincoat and shaking the drops of rain from her bedraggled hair.

Good morning, ma’am. Not the best of weather, huh? the Sergeant commented.

That’s an understatement, eh . . . err . . . Sergeant Mendez! Her surname stood out on her black Bakelite plastic breast tab.

I guess the weather is the one thing we can’t control, but more to the point, I see you have luggage. So you’re either a recruit or you’re moving in. Mendez grinned.

Sorry to disappoint you, Sergeant, but I’m catching a nine-thirty AM flight.

That’s different. Can I see your papers?

The Humvee had just gone through the boom, and Sergeant Brown turned toward his partner.

Can I help you, Sergeant?

Yeah, this is a new one. Can you come and check out this broad?

Thanks for the compliment. The sarcasm was ringing through Jacky’s voice, much to Mendez’s dislike. But who wants to make friends in her line of work?

The female Staff Sergeant in her late twenties at five ten was more than smart in her dark-green uniform, the peaked cover hiding her tucked black hair. Her waist belt carrying the holstered standard Marine issue emphasized her narrow waistline and lean figure. There was a touch of Latino about her complexion—the dark brown eyes and brows to match and the narrow nose and full lips. Void of makeup, she was still attractive. Maybe civilian street wasn’t her bag, or maybe she had jumped the fence. Who knows why females join the military? But she was a looker, and maybe Sergeant Brown had something more on his mind than helping his female counterpart—another Halle Berry by any other name.

I’ll take it from here, Sergeant. Brown gave a sneaky wink and smiled, the body language saying it all.

Papers, ma’am.

Jacky passed the Manila.

"Hmmm . . . CIA . . . We were expecting you. Your papers are in order, but I need to see some ID."

Jacky fumbled in her bag, finally fishing out her CIA gold shield and driver’s license. The Sergeant promptly took pictures on his tablet, the flash making Evans blink.

Just bear with me, ma’am, I need to make a call to Admin. This will only take a few minutes.

Evans gave a strangled grunt in reply. Today had been more than stressful, and now this!

True to form, the sergeant returned as predicted.

Flight Captain Williams will meet you at the administration office. I have requested transport.

Thank you, Sergeant.

If you can excuse me, ma’am.

There was another military vehicle waiting at the boom.

ID, sir.

Within minutes, a dark-green staff car appeared on the other side of the boom, and Sergeant Mendez appeared once again. Maybe she was just for show or on a recruiting campaign, who knows?

Sergeant Brown, I’ll attend to the lady. This way, ma’am, I’ll take your bag.

Thank you, Jacky replied, relieved that at last she could get out of the rain and the biting cold.

Sergeant, place the bag on the backseat. The lady can join me in front for the ten-minute drive.

No sweat, Mendez replied while opening the rear door.

The driver, a young Air Force Corporal, was pleasant and polite in comparison.

Won’t be long, ma’am. If you don’t mind me asking, where are you bound for today? The Corporal began to drive.

Kabul, Afghanistan. CIA.

"Wow, a CIA agent, that’s a first. Not for a holiday, I presume?" The Corporal smiled.

I’m afraid not, Corporal. Jacky returned the smile.

Whom are you reporting to, ma’am?

A Captain Williams.

"Yeah, he is flying out this morning. He’s well respected, and boy, can he handle that Hercules! Besides, he’s a really nice guy, not stuck-up like some of the other officers."

That’s encouraging. Jacky grinned.

Don’t worry, Corporal, I’ll take the Fifth on your comment. Evans laughed in tandem with the Corporal.

And you are? I can’t see your name tag.

Corporal Higgins. Ah, here we are, ma’am. Just you go ahead out of the rain to the front desk, I’ll fetch your bag.

Thank you, the day of chivalry is still alive, huh?

Higgins shrugged, oblivious to Jacky’s comment.

Everything is in order, ma’am.

The female air force receptionist confirmed, upon studying Jacky’s papers and ID.

I’ll call Captain Williams now to see if he is free. The Corporal lifted the phone. "Hmmm . . . Yes, sir. The door straight ahead, ma’am."

Can I . . . eh?

Don’t worry, your bag will be safe here.

As a courtesy, Jacky gently knocked on the door with the bold gold lettering, CAPTAIN J. WILLIAMS.

Come in. The voice was strong and masculine.

Jacky had a slight touch of nerves as she opened the door. Williams looked up then pointed to the empty chair.

Please. Williams smiled, a smile that could be taken as a warm welcome or just formality.

They say there’s a first time for everything, and I’m privileged to have the Assistant Director of Counterintelligence for Afghanistan as a passenger on my watch.

I think that’s a bit over the top, Captain, but it’s also a first for me, Jacky replied.

Touché. Williams smiled again.

"I must apologize, Jacky . . . It is Jacky?"

Yes, Jacky Evans.

Jacky, I’ve been so busy this morning I haven’t had a chance to go through your papers, but I’m sure they’re in order.

Williams was handsome in his own right. Probably around six feet, lean, and air force fit. His tanned muscular face and penetrating blue eyes sent a message of command and in control. A guesstimate of his age, early thirties, and with that black hair neatly parted in a side shade, the narrow lips, tucked-in ears, and straight white teeth painted a picture of ambition and a man on a mission who could easily be a stand-in for the late Gregory Peck.

Jacky was inwardly admiring this adorable creature when suddenly, she crashed to earth noticing the gold band glistening on his wedding finger. Well, a girl can think, can’t she?

Just then, there was a loud knock on the door, bringing Jacky to her senses.

Yes? Williams barked, annoyed at the disruption.

John, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I came straight from maintenance to report that the hydraulic leak on bogie four on the number one left wheel has been repaired, but they request a further thirty minutes to make sure the seal holds under pressure.

What the . . . Williams shook his head then shrugged. That’s the way it is! Thanks, Ron, now is there any more good news?

"In our business, skipper, it’s early