An American Tune

By Scot & Elaine Cameron

During World War II, two Soviet illegals hike into snowy Montana, and, posing as Americans, they sign up to serve in the military and disappear into the chaos of war. Nearly fifty years later, it's the Cold War and a new, burn-before-reading initiative is underway to remake CIA into a hard-hitting organization. It's slow but promising, albeit mu

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: May 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685156053

Scot & Elaine Cameron

Scot and Elaine Cameron first met in their twenties as career trainees at CIA's hallowed Spy School...unless one counts their singular, very strange-and so far unexplained-encounter at the Koshari Indian Kiva, La Junta, Colorado, that July day when they were in their mid-teens. As spy classmates-classes were quite small back then-they learned their tradecraft according to Cold War precepts, and, in the process, they eventually became close friends. As case officers, both served variously at overseas locations, honed their skills, married a few times, raised wonderful children, and finally circled back around to each other. They currently live in Colorado. While daily writing is fundamental to every case officers' toolkit, this is their first novel.

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BILLINGS, MONTANA: FEBRUARY 1942

CHAPTER ONE

ANI AND MOE

I wasn’t born yet. But I’m told, on good authority, the cold, that early February morning of 1942, was impervious to the bright sunshine splashing the snow clogged prairie of south-central Montana. A serious blizzard had roared in two days before, followed by tailing Chinook winds warming the top cap of snow, and then a Blue Norther finished things by bringing arctic cold. If anyone had cared to brave it, there were two spectacular nights of Aurora Borealis—the northern lights. Two young men did.

The near blinding snow-refracted sun notwithstanding, the temperature remained easily six or perhaps eight degrees below zero, and this fact convinced local ranchers—a hardy bunch—to rationalize harnesses needed mending. Also, over near the glowing hot woodstove in the kitchen, the light was best for cleaning and greasing the Winchester Repeater rifle which, sure enough, was showing a faint dusting of rust along the barrel—the crevice where the metal met the wooden stock and moisture tended to condense.

None of these tasks and hundreds more were particularly pressing. Facts conveniently ignored by every rancher thereabouts. If however, the explanation of arctic weather was offered up, all would have variously refuted the notion—some spewing tobacco juice in disdain, some shrugging their shoulders in denial, and perhaps one or two dignifying the occasion with a taciturn, Seen worse. Yet, these stalwart sons of pioneers sensibly stayed sheltered. It was damn cold.

The phenomenon of the two young men struggling south through the snow was noteworthy. And judging from their intermittent craters stretching north, they’d been busting trail long before sunrise when they’d emerged from their snow-cave. Intermittent—because the intense cold had frozen the top layer of snow sufficiently for them to walk on it leaving no trace. Craters—because the snow crust betrayed them at intervals. One, then the other, in no particular order, plunged waist deep in snow. In these spots their tracks left gaping holes of ruin in an otherwise pristine winter-scape. Eventually they nudged back up onto the crusty surface layer where the going was easy and their tracks left off again.

Each time the snow's icy shell gave way, the young men's breathless, almost whispered exclamations confirmed their jubilation. They laughed in turn at the misstep of the other then lent a hand only, as often as not, to break through as well. One couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, and anyway no one was there to overhear them. In fact, the two were speaking Russian.

Originating from the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR)'s snowbound region they were accustomed to harsh conditions. During training, they had thrived in much worse circumstances in Siberia's frozen tundra and earlier, the Georgian steppes back home. I’m more persuaded their natural youthful exuberance was in play. Others might have perceived their situation as dire or at least serious, but not them.

There was a road running north-south, but it was unplowed, and, in any event, nowhere in evidence. It didn’t matter because, pre-dawn, they’d shot the stars and, at moonrise, took their final compass bearing ensuring they’d not lose their way in what, for them, was a foreign land. Their last calculation proved they were less than ten miles from their destination.

The night before, the deep drift they’d fashioned into a snow cave had, in the carving out process, revealed a frozen stiff calf of middling size. The bovine had apparently sought refuge from the storm by leaning close to the leeside of a rock ledge, flopped over from exposure, then succumbed, and was buried in the drift formed when the winds picked up. Leaving the calf undisturbed, and by slightly angling their digging above it, the boys eventually complimented their shelter with what amounted to a cowhide floor. As a final touch, the young men bent the calf's rigid tail sideways so it protruded like a furry flag through the wall of snow. By jiggling the tail periodically during the night, they had maintained a source of fresh, albeit pungent, oxygen finding its way along the tail and into their makeshift igloo. Two candles provided surprising warmth inside—the snow insulated well and, all things considered, it was most cozy.

Continuing a bit deeper beyond the calf, they had excavated to the rock ledge and, by shifting some skull-sized basalt around, they hollowed out a small hidey-hole—a cache site. Their miniature brass compass and sextant, along with several currencies, and most of the bulkier gear which might have betrayed something of the true extent of their journey—these were placed in the cache before they departed. More rocks were used to close off the hoard.

The calf's tail, still forlornly sticking out of the snow drift, cleverly marked the cache site for easy retrieval in case something went wrong, and they were forced to fall back on their escape plan. Otherwise, left alone and come spring, the snow cave would collapse, the snow would melt, the cow would thaw and rot, and the cache site would blend in with the rest of the loose stone ledge. By then, in the unlikely event their gear was ever found, nothing could tie the young men to it.

Well below zero, albeit sunny, they’d already made steady progress and toiled the ten miles—for them a romp—which ended when they tumbled over a snow bank, not far removed from the deserted town proper of Billings, Montana. Well cloaked against the cold, both were of sturdy build, five and a half feet tall—medium height for mid-century Europeans—dark haired, a few days of downy whiskers, in their early twenties, and, under all the layers, strikingly handsome. The general impression was they resembled fraternal twins, but weren’t.

Ever dismissive of the severe conditions, they reclined against the piled snow without removing their packs, basked in the weak sunshine, caught their breath, and finally looked around furtively, thereby orienting themselves to Billing's geography. A short discussion developed between them, this time spoken in unmistakably Americanized, if oddly unaccented, English.

Well little brother, playtime is over, let's start earning our keep, said the elder. His dark curly bangs showing under his wool watch-cap were slightly tinged with auburn in delicate contrast to his brother's almost jet-black hair.

Looking fondly at his brother, the younger, Moe, smiled whimsically and answered, Yup, Ani, our Mother Russia expects a return on her investment of the people's treasure.

A frown played across Ani's brow while his gentle smile remained, No more of that; we’re long past voicing such things, my brother. His eyebrows arched, Rather, our western prairie upbringing has led us here to do our patriotic duty as true Americans.

Moe nodded, understanding the message as well as the mild rebuke. Wonder how Granny is doing without us…

Yes, exactly. That's the spirit.

Ani stood and pulled Moe to his feet. I’ll bet we can get a hot cup of black tea somewhere before the recruiting office opens, then caught himself, I mean coffee.

"Yeah, you mean black coffee, dipshit."

Playfully, Moe punched Ani's arm as they walked over the dirty gray, hard packed snow of Main Street towards the stand of commercial buildings huddled up ahead, shy of the Rimrock sweeping up like a frozen wave and then plunged over into the iced-up Yellowstone River.

Ani raised his left arm, fingers and thumb bunched, in reaction to the blow he’d received, prepared to return it in kind, and then thought better. Instead, Ani gazed at his brother, trying to burn the moment into his memory, opened his fist, and hugged Moe to him. Together, an arm on each other's shoulders, they walked into downtown. The larger silence of the hungry, deep winter did not quite swallow the sound of two young men walking along singing, Home On The Range." Knowing by heart such American folk classics had been included at the finishing school for Soviet spies.

Pleased to sign up two more volunteers to fight without delay, the military recruiter, late morning, asked a few questions of the two young men. He expressed mild surprise when each chose a different service, supposing the brothers would want to stick together—look out for each other—as if it was possible in Uncle Sam's armed forces now at war for ten weeks after the sneak attack at Pearl Harbor in early December of 1941. Yet, the sergeant soon shrugged off their divergence, got on with written formalities, and an hour later, rousted out the town doctor to do his patriotic bit.

Old-timer Doc Hatcher did his duty, inspecting, listening, tapping and probing them as prescribed by induction regulations. Ani and Moe—not the names they used—were both fine specimens. In Doc Hatcher's experience, they were much better conditioned and muscled than many of the young Americans he had certified for service. Many were still gaunt and spindly framed—a lingering effect of the Great Depression. While he couldn’t exactly swear he remembered the two brothers, Doc persuaded himself that he knew something of their kin—he supposed their grandparents—whom he half remembered had moved to the southern parts of the state long ago.

Yes, near on 1915, if I’m recollecting rightly, Hatcher muttered. Lord knows the country's big and it can eat you up, never leaving a bone.

The boys’ father, the old sawbones imagined, probably rode out with his folks to homestead, only to circle back two years later, in 1917, to answer the call. He likely went off to fight in the Great War, and when he came back, ever after filled his sons’ heads with his glorious adventure in France. Doc Hatcher shared his conjecture, and the young men readily agreed with him.

The doctor looked out at the prairie through a small oval of clear window glass framed by concentric layers of ice and frost. For a moment he was lost remembering the Great War. In 1917, he’d been a confirmed, shiftless fellow piddling around, helping out the original medical pioneer, Doc Carter, in return for room and board. Hatcher's apprenticeship to Doc Carter—a loose term for mostly cleaning up and other scut work—had nothing to do with a commitment to heal folks. His early introduction to the healing art was entirely explained as an attempt to find an acceptable way out from under his family's dry goods business. Almost put on the uniform myself to make my getaway.

The two brothers smiled respectfully. Doc Hatcher hadn’t signed up for some hazy reason, overlaid with what came next. The medical profession, such as it had existed there in rural Montana—back circa 1917—mostly consisted of a demonstrated willingness to help your fellowman. Formalized medical training was almost non-existent in those parts.

Until the awful events of the world-wide flu epidemic of 1918 and 1919, medicine, as a calling, had not seized Hatcher. First off, when the Spanish Flu pounced upon them, he buried his patron, Doc Carter, then two sisters, a number of cousins, and the list went on, reaching 349 in Billings. Except for old Doc Carter, the dead comprised mostly young people.

Townies thereafter claimed Doc Hatcher possessed a healing aura dating back to their time of trouble. The disease consumed him too in one way he guessed, but it never physically touched him as he went about ministering to the sick and dying. The Spanish Flu epidemic tested him and confirmed him as a healer.

Then, one wintry morning in early 1920, the Spanish Flu vanished and had never yet returned. Fifty million—some said a hundred million—died worldwide. Who knew? Who could reliably keep count when bodies needed quick burial or were layered upon a funeral pyre and burned? Those who lived in the remote areas were sometimes spared the contagion, but as often rural folk took sick and died in complete isolation. Entire pioneer families were wiped out across Montana.

Even now, in 1942, no one knew precisely who had died during the 1919 Flu Epidemic. Doc Hatcher certainly didn’t make the connection, but the Soviet Union's decision to seed sleeper agents into America counted heavily on taking advantage of the holes the flu had punched in the U.S. census of 1920. Two prime examples of the Soviet's intention to infiltrate America were Ani and Moe.

Unsuspecting of their true origin, the doctor instead felt grateful the Spanish Flu had evidently not taken their parents and these two strapping boys had subsequently been delivered up to serve in this Second World War. Doc Hatcher stuck his old-fashioned pince-nez reading glasses down onto his ample nose and filled out his portions of the physical examination forms which would commend and seal them to the care of America's military.

The thought occurred to Hatcher—being as how he was a prominent member of the local draft board—the two men's voluntary enlistment would count nicely towards filling their total levy. Although they were from the outer reaches of the county—he inclined towards a liberal interpretation of where the county line extended—their induction meant two fewer of his fellow townsmen would be called up to serve.

Ani's and Moe's joining up in Billings would buy two local men—maybe ones with children—a short reprieve from immediate service. As Hatcher saw things, it was better to enter a war as close to the end as possible since, by his simple calculation, there would be less fighting left to do. Obviously, these two boys didn’t know that, and the Doc allowed how he’d keep his observation to himself.

Just then in Billings, voluntary enlistment came with a free, quilts-piled-high, warm night's stay at Brigg's Boarding House and man-sized, range-fed beefsteaks topped off with imported Idaho potatoes. Food rationing would end this practice soon enough. Checked in, the brothers laid down on real bedding for the first time since debarking the Soviet icebreaker—if the burlap straw ticks laid on wire racks in the ship's hold counted as a mattress. Appreciative of the hospitality, they decamped the next day, one traveling eastbound and the other on the westbound train. Though the recruiting Sergeant and Doc Hatcher, appeared at the train station to wish them safe travel, there was nothing of special note about the two brothers’ induction process. Excepting the sumptuous fare and luxurious accommodations unique to Billings, the same scene was played out ten thousand times that week by genuinely patriotic American citizens. There would be millions of such farewells in the months to come. Tens of millions in the coming four years.

So then, Ani's train went east to Chicago towards the Great Lakes Naval Base and Moe's train west to California and Army Camp Roberts. Basic training soon followed. The boys’ career as Russian sleeper agents— moles—in America began, as had been planned and set in motion by Soviet Intelligence.

Looking back on it more than fifty years later, I marvel anyone in the CIA ever found out those two. That I was the one who discovered them ought to have been enough to give me religion.

MEXICO CITY, MEXICO: DECEMBER 1994

INTERLUDE

The world changed. World War II was history. That colossal war, which had eased the way for the two brothers, Ani and Moe—Russian moles—into America in 1942, had been superseded by other, smaller wars: Korea and Vietnam mostly, but also a host of other crises across the globe. Some were wars of independence and others were wars of attrition.

I mean the killing went on and, of course, in a few countries like the United States, the arsenals for killing included nuclear weapons. America had not been a sleeping giant leading up to WWII, as some said, but by the end she sure woke up to realize she’d become a world power—the only country to ever use a nuclear bomb…twice. Though it's nothing to be proud of, let's hope we hold on to the record.

Now, in the 1990's looking back, it's hard to imagine the Germans, Japanese, Italians, British, and French were ever the movers and shakers of the world. It's not within the memory of all but the most aged among us. Besides America, the more backward places had included Russia and China too. What a difference forty laps around the sun makes. If we don’t annihilate ourselves, who knows what another forty will bring? For a while now, there's a lot of pushing and shoving going on everywhere—the nature of mankind is playing out as a function of God's overarching story. Mostly, we’re up to no good, but I wonder what He's up to?

More specifically, let me catch you up on the doings at the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), because it may surprise you. Over in the clandestine wing of CIA, there is one cherished term, Covert Action (CA), and it bursts with the promise of secretly hitting back hard at some deserving enemy. CA, however, had been redefined at CIA. By the late 1970's, CA had mainly devolved into the practice of sneaking an editorial favorable to America into some foreign journal. I know, pansy stuff, right? Long gone were the days of CIA's predecessor, the Office of Strategic Services (OSS), taking direct action—derailing trains, blowing up bridges, assassinations, etc.—during World War II.

To be sure, CIA activities in Korea and Vietnam included some mayhem. Then the killing type of CA ended. One exception: in the 1980s, our remaining handful of CIA Paramilitary Officers operated in Pakistan and Honduras—two sides of the same coin—but hadn’t accomplished much. Sure, they’d made friends and had politely suggested violent courses of action to the Mujahidin and the Contras respectively, but little else. It wasn’t their fault. There were strict limits, and worse, Congressmen began sticking their noses into the covert programs. A lot of old spies turned over in their graves.

Still, the Paramilitary Officers’ skin was in the game. While these few willingly risked life and limb, I think it's fair to say CIA's fighting spirit, overall, had waned. It was true CIA people went around armed in more than a dozen countries, but it meant certain termination to even propose a course of action wherein an officer deliberately pulled a trigger. If an officer shot somebody it had better be a clear, life-and-death case of self-defense or the guy or gal would be yanked back home and might face federal criminal charges. A few stalwarts stuck their necks out resulting in careers cut short. A few did some prison time for their sins. Although strictly limited to operating in clandestine advisory roles with the Muj and the Contras, even these supposed cutting-edge active measures programs had ended by 1990.

I know this is hard to believe. Hollywood's notions of action-guy-secret-agent daring-do to the contrary, post-Vietnam, real CIA spooks mostly acted as covert cub reporters who fought the Cold War by faithfully typing up the latest insider information and political gossip from capitals around the world. On the other hand, some information was political dynamite—extremely valuable to America's senior policy makers. Our motto, purloined from the Bible, You shall know the truth and the truth will set you free applied nicely in terms of collecting Foreign Intelligence (FI). Timely FI justified and, in effect, kept the lights on at the Agency. A lot of FI is good stuff.

I’m pointing out CIA had opted to withdraw from the seamier and violent side of espionage. Wise? There were deep disagreements inside CIA regarding active measures. Those in charge, at the time, said CIA had no business doing any of that stuff, and they rationalized we weren’t any good at it. Others seethed in silence.

Then, in a murky initiative—totally against all standing orders and therefore cloaked in thick secrecy—CIA's Chihuahua dog-sized CA program began to grow teeth—baby teeth, but sharp ones. It was codenamed Abaddon, a name derived from an Old Testament avenging angel. The name was as Top Secret as the compartmented operations carried out within its purview. Had more Agency officers heard tell of Abaddon, it would have served notice this was no nipping lap dog.

The accompanying Bigot List, the most restrictive limit placed on dissemination (only those named officers who possessed a need-to-know got access) was short to the point of suspicious. A bare handful of officers were listed as bigots. As Abaddon's lethal version of CA evolved, these few received notice via a hand delivered, sealed and numbered copy detailing specifics. No Abaddon message ever left the main CIA Headquarters buildings—not even inside an attaché case as a shortcut across the compound in good weather. Abaddon operatives were briefed in person and trained at remote safe sites.

The pervasive, highly encrypted, CIA cable system was entirely by-passed. A search of cable records would give no hint Abaddon existed. A solitary, highly vetted courier carried the handwritten messages to each addressee, waited at a respectable distance while it was unsealed, read, responded to in longhand, signed, and resealed in its envelope two ways with a numbered, tamperproof tape. Thus secured, the package was immediately handed back.

The courier returned each signed copy to one officer known to him as the Cut-Out. She was located on the seventh, senior executive, floor of the Original Headquarters Building (OHB). Thereafter, the Cut-Out verified the bigot signatures with the corresponding signature cards, cut and pasted any written answers onto a compiled copy, and sealed it. The remaining copies were first shredded, and then the resulting flake-sized paper was disintegrated. The Cut-Out had a dedicated shredder and disintegrator right in her office—the shredder was quiet enough but the disintegrator had to be sound proofed. Even so, the pounding vibration could be felt by neighbors as well as the office directly below.

Complaints about the vibration poured in, but in most cases withdrawn after a visit by a burly, one-eyed, scar-faced, security goon—his glass eye featured skull and crossbones in place of an iris. Some complaining neighbors, however, were senior CIA officers and hence, not easily cowed. From their perspective, the goon might be an attempt at gallows humor, like someone sent down from central casting for a pirate movie—except there was something deadly serious about the fellow. Senior officers backed off. After the goon made the rounds, the vibration was henceforth ignored. Sure, some coffee was spilled, but afterwards, everyone made sure not to place their coffee cups too near the edge of their desks.

Once fed into the disintegrator, the bits of paper were transformed into dusty particles resembling fine Paper Mache, and the Cut-Out signed her destruction logbook accordingly. The courier countersigned as witness and departed. Only then did the Cut-Out walk a circuitous route inside the building complex before personally delivering the single—now annotated—original and logbook to her boss, the shadowy Chief of Abaddon. He, in turn, examined the logbook, returned it and handed back any additional traffic for distribution—with copies already in their separate, sealed pouches. In this way, the process was reversed.

What the Chief of Abaddon did with the annotated copy was a mystery to the Cut-Out. Had anyone observed the process, they would have concluded Abaddon operations proceeded slowly in the extreme, but securely in the extreme as well. Also, the Cut-Out noted, funding was not a problem as it was elsewhere in CIA during the tight budget cycles of the early 1990's.

Katarina and Jillian—not their real names—were painstakingly selected for Abaddon while still new officers undergoing spy training. After graduating, they later received special skills training. There were others too, though, if the truth be known, not one selected was an older, experienced, journeymen Operations Officer. That should have been telling. Some of these young recruits served inside CIA but others became outside officers—without any apparent connection to the U.S. government. There were advantages to having both kinds of assassins. When possible, Abaddon Officers carried out their missions alone.

As an experienced Ops Officer who had opted into the Officer of Security, I was never considered to participate in Abaddon. I failed to qualify in every respect and, of course, I didn’t possess a need-to-know. I’m not remotely the kind of guy they wanted. I’m saying I didn’t know squat about Abaddon until it was almost too late.

ROME, ITALY: JULY 1990

CHAPTER TWO

KATARINA AND JILLIAN

However compelling the covert operation, I wouldn’t trust any organization requiring me to use up my hard-earned vacation time in order to do their bidding. I’d happily tell them, Hell no! I don’t care what excuse some secret little clan came up with, I’d quit it right there. The better their rationalization for stealing my annual leave, the quicker I’d resign. Of course, that's just me. I draw the line on wasting vacation. Others might stridently object, on moral grounds, to this sort of high speed/low drag operation.

In July 1990, Katarina and Jillian willingly took their vacation in order to cover the time away from their regular assignments. They didn’t give the matter any thought at all, and accepted losing their vacation. Both women probably thought, at this juncture, during CIA's reincarnation as a deadly-effective spy organization, it had to be done. To them, it was axiomatic the bureaucrats, finance officers, and the other thumb suckers were firmly in charge at CIA and, thereby, had put America at risk.

If the average citizen thought highly of CIA capabilities, America's enemies understood what namby-pambies ran it. Katarina and Jillian expected to help change things. The faint-hearted bureaucrats would be dealt with later.

In July 1990, however, the circumstances of Katarina's and Jillian's Abaddon mission—their initiation operation—required them to work as a team. It was designed as a quick in-and-out job. By then, Katarina was an inside officer serving at a U.S. Embassy, and Jillian an outside one doing God knows what. When the two linked up in Rome, it was hot and humid. Tourist hordes had overrun the city to such an extent even the pigeon legion was outnumbered. Most Italians, not directly supporting the tourism industry, fled to the hills or else to the beach if they could afford it.

Antonio Dichosi had worked his way up to become an august and widely known, if not exactly revered, columnist syndicated across Europe. He made a point, year after year, to remember his roots and honor them. He could easily have opted to write his weekly pieces from his villa in Sicily, and yet, he stayed in Rome. Even in the summer when staffing levels were reduced, Italian newspapers and magazines had to publish or perish. Antonio was loyal to the owners and editors who had given him his chance almost thirty years before. He kept the presses running by providing adult supervision while the owners and editors vacationed. Besides the admiration of his colleagues for his summer sacrifice on their behalf, there were other more direct compensations as well.

On this particular late afternoon, with the sun well hidden behind the buildings, he sat at the small, round wooden table upon which perched an espresso and a few sheets of his half-written column. Antonio embodied a vigorous, if aging, lust for life. Wavy, thick, steel gray hair feathered down his magnificent, patrician head nearly obscuring matching, unruly eyebrows. These, in turn, led to a resolute jaw, thick neck, and, unfortunately, a thickening torso. Even in the heat, he was given to wearing black with a slash of vermillion. Except for his blossoming handkerchief, his attire might have qualified as a tribute to the American, Johnny Cash. From a targeting perspective, his outfit made him hard to miss.

Looking up from his scrawl and gazing out from the open-air café and across the plaza fronting it, Antonio Dichosi's expression seemed reflective as he momentarily watched the street life. Though deeply shaded and beginning to drift into evening gloom, the broad cobblestone Centro still crawled with an international mix of picture-taking tourists. Their distracted antics and exclamations plainly amused him and, if summers past held true, then more than a few of his observations would distill. Subsequently, these would find their way into this year's summer column.

Antonio exchanged meaningful looks with two, shapely young women, nearly identical, short blonde hair, arm-in-arm, and carrying oversize, shopping bags emblazoned with COIN in white letters, all lower-case. They had laughed seductively before hurrying off. Antonio operated predictably but not precipitously. Like a pachyderm-sized black spider, he waited patiently on his web; they’d be back.

In past columns, he had praised free and easy American women, and thereby heightened the contrast to his real target: their bombastic, imperialist government. The United States’ international meddling—an arrogant, imposed morality in his view—pretending to be God's sacred gift to the world. Antonio despised the United States Government and especially its foreign policy.

Antonio's latest screed would deliver more of the same, this time scolding America for their latest, crude oil hijinks which, as he saw it, needlessly baited Iraq and might well lead to war in the Middle East. If war came, he wrote, it would serve the Yankees right for sticking their nasty hands—with their disgusting, chipped, dirty fingernails—into the communal bowl of petrol. He laughed at what he’d penned, again raised to his lips the oily espresso dusted with rust colored foam and waited, among other things, for his next words to bubble up.

The afternoon was fading into evening, but Antonio was in no hurry—no Roman ever is. His friends and colleagues had all heard his boasts of young women regularly picking him up while under the erotic influence of their long-awaited Roman holiday. He always tempered his tales of prowess by admitting the women came after him precisely when they’d run low on money. Such a woman typically needed a place to stay and one more fling wouldn’t hurt either, before flying home where—Antonio had pulled a sour face in the telling—she would resume her puritanical, American fate. With his wife gone to her sisters for the summer and the children grown, it was their tacit agreement this was Antonio's time to play each year. As long as he didn’t give his wife a disease, he was free to roam.

Well into twilight, the clicking of heels on cobbles receded, more distinct but somehow muted and the few voices sounded like whispers. Italians, like most Europeans, eat late and the restaurants around the plaza had begun their quiet preparations for getting underway. Wafts of newly baked bread and simmering, garlicky, red sauces easily displaced the usual sultry plaza aroma of dusty, late flowers and pigeon droppings.

By the light from the café, Antonio continued his composition, using an oversized and rare, 1924 Montblanc Meisterstuck 149—his signature fountain pen. Sure enough, looking up from his third espresso and the draft of his next piece, both the American women had returned. They stood nervously in front of him. He smiled avuncularly, capped the razor-like tip of his expensive pen, pocketed it, and motioned for them to join him. The women giggled, introductions were made, and, when they sat neither was mindful to keep their knees together as their short skirts rode up. Also, the two couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

It was known a ménage-a-trois was not Antonio's preference, but the Abaddon targeteers had hoped he might be persuaded. During the planning phase the assessment emerged that an overt display of affection between Katarina and Jillian might suffice to convince Antonio his own level of participation would fall within his capability. As it turned out, he didn’t give it much thought at all. Not put off in the least, he began his usual preliminary—he would pony up with wine, then dinner, and finish with a strong brandy.

Katarina and Jillian soon made it plain, however, they were ready for the main event right then, and they all but dragged him away from the table. Antonio frowned briefly—it's my speculation after the fact—but he may have noticed the two were not nearly so young as their scanty clothes suggested. A beat and then he smiled resignedly. It was going to be a long night, but Antonio was evidently eager to do his best. He signaled the waiter, paid, and off they went together.

In the past, most women had assumed Antonio lived in view of the plaza, and a few begged off when they realized a car was part of the adventure. Approaching his BMW sedan on a side street around the corner from the cafe, perhaps he worried that the car might give Katarina and Jillian second thoughts. Heedless, they hopped right in. Antonio shrugged happily, humming an odd tune, never, afterwards, identified.

Arriving at his baroque, hillside villa in full darkness, Katarina and Jillian expressed interest in a tour. Antonio obliged and the two women commented favorably on his 1930's art collection. Some were framed, tattered posters calling for strikes, but many were the original art from the Social Realists political movement.

I think I’ve seen murals like this one…workers and farmers, maybe in a train station back home? commented Katarina.

Antonio laughed, Oh yes, I’m sure you have. This is by William Gropper. Over there is one by Raphael Soyer. Both, I believe, were active in your Works Projects Administration and painted such scenes all over America. Kept artists from starving.

The Great Depression, right? Jillian had also seen the distinctive style of art.

Yes, the good old days, Antonio corrected her, when laborers of every sort were shown off as the heroes they were. Maybe inspired by the Spaniard, Francisco Goya, Gropper, all three Soyers, Weber, and Ben Shahn formed the John Reed Club. You know the expression, ‘Workers of the World Unite!’ That was the basic idea.

Speaking of workers, where does your housekeeper live?

Indiscreetly asked, but Katarina needed to move things along and had risked his ire by changing the subject. Misunderstanding, Antonio teased the two over Americans’ cleanliness fetish. They took it in good humor but when pressed, he explained maids were an encumbrance and therefore employed a daytime housecleaner every other day. But, he insisted, he kept things hygienic even if he didn’t use a live-in. The girls visibly relaxed.

Upon ending the tour where they’d initially dropped their shopping bags—at his expansive and expensive living room, under the sparkling chandelier, damask curtains drawn—almost without preamble and in unison, both blondes started their striptease by kicking off their Nikes and then dropping their skirts. They had first, however, turned the lights off to the chagrin of Antonio.

It led to a small disagreement since, at his age, Antonio's eyes were not keen in the dark, and he made no secret of wanting the visual to go with the tactile. He complained he could not see them clearly. Both laughed and Jillian admonished Antonio to show some patience—like he had done earlier waiting for them to return to his table. Antonio laughed at being found out. Their smiles visible in the dark, the women stood naked facing him, wearing only anklet style, white sweat socks.

Really, you two, my floors are clean. I promise you that, Antonio whined.

Ah, you like bare feet? Is that it? asked Jillian.

Antonio fumbled for English words to form into an answer and Katarina changed the subject by drastically changing her position. Antonio strained his eyes.

Apparently, they were not the least bit shy, and then, like two game show models, they opened the curtains covering the ornate, leaded glass, picture window. The reflected aura of the city lights below would amply illumine what was taking place. As they twirled for his inspection, Antonio had to agree he could now see perfectly.

The softened, indirect light lent enticing shadows to their startlingly beautiful bodies. For all his worldly wisdom, Antonio gasped with shock to observe both women were shaved of all body hair. It came out like a murmured prayer from Antonio. Nothing.

He waved an arm their way. I’ve heard of this practice, but not before have I seen it…

In the flesh? Jillian suggested and Antonio swallowed nodding. He immediately began to undress himself, while probably hoping his own hairy and paunchy condition would not prove too much of a turn-off. He needn’t have worried because, on cue, as planned, both women stepped forward to undress him.

Giddy, Antonio backed up to the Moroccan leather couch partially draped with a multi-color, grandmotherly, crocheted throw. Seeing it, he self-consciously popped the lid on a hollowed out, leather covered, footstool and crammed the throw inside. As if nothing had happened, Antonio turned back to the women with outstretched arms and smiled lamely. In his blissful state, tantalized by lips and breasts whispering by just out of reach, Antonio was slow to recognize the danger.

Aside from their beauty, Antonio Dichosi's last impression must have been that Katarina and Jillian were very strong. They worked as a practiced team securing him. They didn’t speak a word as Antonio was gagged and bound to the sturdy, centuries old, oak armrests—all without mishap. When it finally dawned on him he was in serious trouble, he had kicked ineffectually a few times.

The plan was to get it over quickly. No extravagantly choreographed, ritual killing that might create doubt among the professional investigators. Make it believable, but not Hollywood, was the exact order they’d received.

Antonio was strangled with his belt and left sprawled across the couch and tied up, partially nude with his clothes tangled around him. Wearing rubber gloves and their sox, the women thoroughly cleaned up the scene as they’d been taught to do. They worked fast with the cleansers, sponges, cotton swabs and even a battery powered hand-vac they’d brought in their bags. Because there’d been no sex and virtually no struggle, there was little evidence to clean up.

Straddling Antonio's corpse, Jillian left off vacuuming any possible stray hairs—they wore wigs which acted as a net for their true hair—but better to be safe. She stretched across and passed the hand-vac to Katarina standing at the backside of the couch. Leaning far forward, Jillian nodded she was done and began to rise when, like a viper, Katarina struck, jamming Antonio's Montblanc fountain pen so it punctured the right side, carotid artery of Jillian's neck, and penetrated into the trachea where the pen lodged.

The response was instant and violent but without a scream—Katarina having effectively skewered Jillian's vocal cords. Jillian instinctively fell back, then yanked the pen out. Realizing her fatal error, she made futile attempts to apply direct pressure and choke off the spurting blood. She whirled around, both hands constricting her neck and, exactly like clamping down on the end of a hose, it merely changed the flow to a high pressure, far reaching, red mist. In her last-ditch effort, Jillian lost equilibrium, knocked over an armchair, smashed through the glass coffee table, rolled away, and eventually collapsed in a heap against the far wall.

After the fatal plunge, Katarina had released her grip on Antonio's pen, ducked behind the couch in a defensive posture, and mainly tried to avoid the blood. She knew she’d driven the pen home perfectly as she’d practiced many times on the gel-form dummy. Jillian's dramatic reaction was merely the flailing of a lost cause—a career ended.

Notwithstanding the dim light, Jillian's dagger-look of betrayal had caused Katarina a difficult moment of remorse. Jillian died inside of a minute and coincident with the end of her gasping, death rattles, Katarina's steely resolve reasserted itself in the silence that followed. She ignored Jillian thereafter.

The orders had been precise about killing Jillian. In fact, the second murder had gone better than planned because the two women were of near equal ability and both possessed exceptionally quick reflexes. For this second, limited cleanup, Katarina was careful not to disturb the blood spray pattern across the floor, furniture and walls.

Gingerly reaching over the couch, Katarina slightly loosened the silk scarf on Antonio's limp, right hand and arranged it just so. That was all there was to it. Katarina backed away, like she was in a minefield, gathered the cleaning gear, dressed, then similarly cleaned Antonio's car and, an hour later, left on foot, once more a free and easy American woman.

The Rome police investigation determined Antonio had badly misjudged his latest one-night stand. The slack in one of the silk scarves, they judged, had provided him enough range of motion. They agreed, in his dying moments, he’d mortally wounded his deranged killer with, ironically, the only weapon he possessed—his famous fountain pen. She was dead but with the belt still cutting off Antonio's blood and oxygen and no way to loosen it, he had expired as well. All in all, quite a scandal which sold a lot of papers and magazines across Europe during the summer slump. It turned out the young woman, an American, had a record of rough sex-play, and there was some suspicion she might have been a serial murderer back in the States. Her wig, latex gloves, and socks were merely clues indicating she had experience covering up her crimes, but led nowhere.

The observation by a waiter at the café that there had been two women with Antonio was dismissed. Even if true, the detectives figured, the second woman had—fortunate for her—dropped out earlier when Antonio made what had turned out to be his fatal selection. Regardless, the waiter's description of the second woman was poor, mostly resembled the dead one, and, at any rate, the police could find no trace of her.

The rest of Katarina's operation had consisted of successfully exfiltrating Italy. There was one less, vehemently anti-American journalist poisoning the well of world opinion. With the double executions, Katarina had completed her graduation exercise and thereby acquired full credentials in the highly secret and compartmented CIA unit, Abaddon. By way of a circuitous series of stops, changes of identity, and a debriefing at a safe site in Costa Rica, Katarina returned to her true-name, overseas assignment.

The problem child, aka Jillian, who had earlier demonstrated her unfitness to continue with the unit had been neatly disposed of in furtherance of a good cause. Case closed on Antonio Dichosi. Regarding Katarina, I’m glad I didn’t know her back then. Even now, I do my level best not to dwell on what she's told me of the events.

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA: MARCH 1991

CHAPTER THREE

TOMCAT

There's no earning your way into Heaven. Then again, it ain’t exactly like that wonderful call in the favorite game of my childhood, Kick the Can. When a kid streaks out of the darkness, past the jailer, and kicks the bejesus out of the can and hollers, Olly, olly, in come free! a sweet moment descends. Everyone who has played it knows the simple exclamation sets all the prisoners free—a beautiful thing. I’m pointing out that the Olly, olly, in come free of God's Grace is no license for us to keep on with our lying and thieving.

I glanced across the chipped veneer table at Bill Scruggs, a forty-one-year-old, pleasingly plump fellow, who looked back impassively as if he had all the time in the world and nothing of what we were discussing involved him personally at all. But I knew better.

And, let's be candid, Bill was saying in a confidential tone, thank God, someone's finally looking into things around here.

Right then, Bill let out the breath he had been holding for some reason. I guessed he was lost in his script for a moment, but then he remembered, a little late, to smile at me.

There were many things to admire about Bill Scruggs at mid-career: an $80 dollar haircut on a modest Federal salary, tailored, worsted wool Brooks Brothers suit while the rest of the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), in 1991, was shifting towards khakis and sports coats. A crispness and cleanliness tied the whole package together nicely. Bill's face tended towards rosy without crossing over into ruddy. Not a drinker. I could observe no hint of blemish or blackhead.

Even close up, I knew the experience would be the same. His breath would smell of mint—no coffee breath, no dental problems leaking out and flavoring his saliva with decay, and certainly no cigarette pall hanging out there like death. Just has to be, I thought, the whole ample package is overlaid with a pleasant scent. Then I actually had a confirming whiff of it when he exhaled the breath he’d been holding, and I checked another thing off on Bill Scruggs. Yes, his was a prosperous body, not yet indolent. Not too strong a scent.

Bill's low quarter, Florsheim oxfords were highly shined, yet he showed no vestige of black shoe polish trapped under the nails of either index or middle fingers to attest to his authorship obtaining that luster. Did he visit a shoeshine on his way to work—maybe the one in CIA's basement? His outfit was professional and old school, not oily or ill fitting, but like the third little bowl of porridge, just right. In my business it pays to notice things.

Sure, Bill was the accounts manager for this and a few other classified programs, but according to him, only meant he paid the bills according to the terms of whichever contract applied. His job amounted to a straightforward deal, according to Bill.

Boring, but if you want to talk the real clandestine world of finance, Tomcat, I can tell you some stories to curl your toes, so said Bill.

More than a nickname at CIA, Tomcat amounted to a living, breathing persona I inhabited. Tomcat and me, Thomas Cimplot Downer, often went our separate ways in real life, but Tomcat always showed up at game time. My Tomcat persona took the lead during investigations and particularly during interviews like this one. After almost two decades, I supposed there was nothing to be gained trying to distinguish myself from Tomcat. I’d come to envy Tomcat's clear view of life, especially the way he divided people as either good guys or bad guys. Almost a law enforcement view of things, yet I knew inside me somewhere life wasn’t clear cut.

Well, I didn’t want to get sidetracked with any of Bill Scrugg's blathering about toe curlers and so, in the manner my friends and enemies label my polite, southern way, I cut him off. Bill hushed up, but my tone had left the fraternity-like promise: juicy banter would be resumed soon. So, Bill smiled and obediently held his horses.

I had worked long and hard at putting on a knowing, rueful grin, the sort which naturally put people like Bill at ease. I affected a wizened judge's expression of chagrin—the kind communicating to the accused he has not quite given up on mankind despite all our egregiousness. Another way to think of it: I was serving up my folksy cornpone to Bill in heaping portions to cause his demise.

Bill and I found we shared bafflement at the often-inept ways of the Agency we both served. Good ole’ Tomcat gave every indication I was on Bill's side. Was my support valuable to Bill? I apparently suffered from an inability to understand—common enough in country boys like me—the complexities of almost everything not tractor or pickup truck. This last encouraged Bill to help explain most things to the struggling, almost certainly incompetent Tomcat (me), while at the same time-maintained Bill Scruggs supreme confidence certain other things would never come up. Bill, for all his professed servant-hood, felt himself master of his trade—a fine accounts manager much sought after by senior leadership. He was all that, and a bit more on the side.

Having it out with a crook like Bill resembled nothing so much as playing hide and seek, but with the important distinction that both of us pretended it was another meeting at work, and we were neither hiding nor seeking. Bill kept showing me the bushes and trees but never let on what he’d hidden in there. Minor financial transactions were brought up by me—I made out to him I was doing my job and didn’t mean anything personal—and, in turn, helpful explanations were gladly provided by Bill. Try as I might, I could never quite understand the first or second time around how this or that item came to be paid for. With a willingness above and beyond the call, Bill took on the considerable responsibility of leading me to clarity on each issue. Summing up: the whole confab with Bill was seemingly a collegial discourse reflecting the highest standards of CIA.

It appeared, working together, especially relying on Bill's patient tutelage, I would doubtless at long last, come to the light of understanding. For my part, my dawning appreciation was infectious, inspiring Bill onward. He insisted he would not rest until I truly understood things—a satisfying, if unexpected, morning's work from Bill's perspective.

Well, that wasn’t quite true. As he tutored me, the wisp of exasperation had crept in under the door and filtered down Bill's shirt collar. It flashed like the sunset instant at the beach when the sun drops into the ocean and there's a green afterimage. Bill had to be thinking something along the lines of, This Tomcat's a dullard and a waste of my time.

No matter, Bill must have figured there’d be compensation since—as I knew because I’d set it all up this way—he had suddenly been asked to step in and cover for his boss at this meeting. As Bill had described his boss in a surreptitiously monitored phone call to his wife the night before, the inept fool had tossed him into the meeting at the last minute. I imagined Bill reckoned his boss owed him now for suffering away his morning with me, and he aimed to collect on the debt as soon as he got back to his office.

Sure, commented Bill regretfully while casting a gimlet eye to gauge my reaction, Why, of course there have been complaints against me. The Age of Aquarius is over, you know, all the ‘harmony and understanding’? Out the window. This is spring 1991 after all, I’ve even been slandered. No, no I really have. Baseless slander aimed at me.

Bill bowed his head and gave it one good shake in testimony of the awful injustices done to a loyal—need he have added honest—bureaucrat. My eyebrows raised and my clean-shaven chin pulled back in seeming surprise. Little crow's feet appeared as my prominent, Native American-looking cheeks squinched up—I’ve got a prominent nose to match, but the less said the better.

The sum effect was as if I had exclaimed, NO! The hell you say!

Such was the deep, abiding rapport we two had evidently established that I could transmit my sympathy to Bill with an expression, but without speaking a word. Bill Scruggs had mentioned slander, and I became outraged right along with him. I hoped that was the way Bill took my reaction—that he’d taken my bait. Bill furtively glanced my way again, and I thought it was time to draw in a little slack on the line, but only a little. I didn’t want to shy him away from my hook.

I’d trained myself to speak sparingly during interviews. We all, however, like to hear ourselves speak, and I’m no exception. One way I kept my mouth shut involved running my right thumb, then my left thumb along the base of my pride and joy: my full mustache. I would groom it, neatening and corralling any stray whiskers back into alignment. My Mustachio Grande, was my nod towards my family's cowboy roots as well as my southern upbringing. In early paintings and photographs of the mid to late 1800s period, a common trait was the reckless mustaches men cultivated. A few wore beards, but all wore mustaches—the bigger the better and no apology—and no careful snipping would serve. I fancied the adornment and grew one of my own.

Beginning to fleck with gray in my forty-third year, my brush-like protuberance fully covered my top lip and yet, I thought, nicely framed my otherwise undistinguished chin and bottom lip with a certain prominence harkening back to a simpler time. I liked to think my mustache subliminally communicated something of an impassive cow-town marshal rounding on confronting some ruffian, or maybe a shade of the grim resolution of a returning confederate veteran seeing his looted, then burned out, canebrake cabin for the first time at the end of walking the long dirt road of defeat.

Having satisfied myself my mustache was behaving itself; I allowed my Tomcat eyes to remain alert but unfocused. Behind my hazel-brown eyes which inexplicably were tending to rusty grey, I considered the meandering nature of Bill's speech and wondered at the shape of the truth laying behind what Bill determined not to say. My lips pursed as I considered things, and this expression caused the ends of my Mustachio Grande to droop. My black eyebrows knitted into something of a vexed frown as well. It was all an act.

Bill Scruggs apprehended my expression had changed and not for the better. He hastened to smooth the waters, "I know, I know, it's all very sad. My wife has been in tears. The Agency doesn’t hire the same can do people as before."

I nodded sagely, as if Bill was my Sunday preacher having wound up his sermon and then delivered the altar call for redemption. I made out like Bill's pitch had streaked through the strike zone and across the home plate of my soul and caused me, along with various congregants, to whisper, Amen, yes, tell it brother!

I didn’t whisper anything, however, just telegraphed a staccato of almost imperceptible nods of deep affirmation. My reaction bade Bill continue, and he obliged me. The rascal brought out his best trust me smile then, and he tried to bring Tomcat, the sinner, back to his flock, "You know what I mean by ‘can do’ don’t you? Folks like you and me!"

My fifth nod froze on the tip of my chin and was replaced by something of a grimace—a friendly grimace, as one would make when a good buddy has shown forth his asinine tendencies via some inane comment. Bill might easily have gotten by with something less. Later, Bill reflected, no doubt, he probably should have left his inclusion of me unspoken but implied.

I cleared my throat to speak, as if this next topic was the last thing in the world I wanted to mention. Now, come on, Bill, I began in a tone exactly as one would point out some heresy spoken by a friend while sharing chili-cheese-dogs off the grill in the backyard, "the books don’t add up for the Krupp account—no, they most certainly do not—and I’m trying to make sense, as much as I can understand anything in the way of high finance, why that is so."

My comment caused Bill to seize up, as if an oversized bite of the same hotdog with cheese-slathered beans had somehow dried up on the way down and was clogged sideways in his throat. I watched him closely, and it appeared to me Bill wasn’t sure whether to try to attempt a swallow or make a scene and spit the mess out all over our patio. There was no hotdog, of course. It was my words he was choking on.

The reality was we were seated in a shabby little room, buried in a rundown part of the basement of the old Headquarters building where he, Bill Scruggs, had certainly not planned on being my guest. Poor, misled Bill thought he was doing his boss a favor playing nursemaid to me. I was one more hopeless idiot the CIA should fire but kept around out of a misplaced sense of loyalty.

No, Bill had definitely not seen coming my assertion about the Krupp account, and my words were momentarily stuck in Bill's throat. Guilty knowledge works this way; it constricts the throat of those unpracticed at lying. Bill Scruggs could steal with real skill and cover his tracks, but he was inexpert in the necessarily conjoined art of verbal deception. Speaking a lie without a ruffle was not his forte.

We both knew he couldn’t let stand my surprise allegation on Krupp; Bill had to remove the obstruction right then or collapse. Krupp expenditures were at the heart of everything he did not want to talk about. Hell, it involves no great insight to state Bill did not want to even breathe the air tainted with the word Krupp. He stammered, I don’t believe that I can discuss uh, these accounts.

Bill managed this objection after two involuntary swallows. He’d finally dislodged the thing. His voice was even, without inflection, almost steely. The consummate professional thief had taken over from good ‘ole friendly Bill.

My eyebrows arched to their maximum, and my red-rimmed eyes transmitted disappointment and sadness. It was like I was his well-behaved old dog, having followed Bill through the muddy, cattail-laced lakeside, and brought back dead ducks all day long without complaint, I had just peed on the carpet. And Bill had swatted me. I blinked back what might have been tears. ‘Surely,’ my sad expression was meant to suggest, ‘My faithful devotion to you, Bill, does not merit such harsh treatment for a mere soiled carpet?’

And Bill took pity on Tomcat. With Mona Lisa's thin smile born of real knowledge of my foolish nature, Bill kindly deigned to explain, "That's a classified and compartmented thing… the Krupp account."

Then dismissively, as if it was personally distasteful to follow the need-to-know principle Bill added, Like to help you, but rules is rules, compartmented, not-for-your-eyes, bigot list—you understand? All that. Can’t tell you, Tomcat.

I dropped my regretful eyes for a moment, with my eyebrows obediently covering the retreat. I nodded, and considered the litany pouring from Bill when one excuse would have been sufficient. Then I raised my eyes deliberately to meet Bill's and shot him a little jolt of the serial killer. Something sure changed for Bill right then.

Of course, I’d done this stunt with my eyes before, so I knew ever after, Bill would swear he had glimpsed something behind them. He, like the others before him, claim there's something old and knowing—maybe predatory—inside me. In fact, I have no sure idea what they’re imagining, but I know they believe they’ve set eyes on something fierce. I use the look to my advantage.

Calmly, yet emphatically, I responded, "Yes you can tell me, Bill; you must. I thought I made it clear when we first sat down two hours ago. Your boss, Ted, made that clear too, didn’t he?"

I had not previously spoken in this way to Bill. Here's how it goes: In a cascade of racing thoughts and watery, over-spiced emotions turning the contents of his intestines into greasy slush, Bill was thinking of running. He looked frantically for the door. I’ve seen it plenty. Sometimes they do run out and sometimes they freeze where they are.

Yes, the door was there waiting to be flung open. Bill's old-time adding machine of a mind, however, was spinning his mechanical digits around and into a sum. I figured he was coming to grips with what would happen on the other side. It's a guess, but he was probably thinking, But after hitting that door, where to, Bill, my boy?

Where to indeed? Albeit skilled to a point, like most garden variety thieves who don’t think too far ahead and mostly focus on making off with what's laying around unguarded, William Scruggs had no prepared escape plan. He’d thought of no doomsday scenario, no new identity, and could count on no underworld connections to hide him. For Bill, staying in the room with me was his only option.

Professional Bill, however, remembered his heavy linked, gold-plated Gruen watch. He made a show of studying it, and then cleared his throat for the third time.

"Uh, yep, thought so, I’m running out of time here, uh,