The Nashville Connection

By Jeffrey M. Freeman

The Peoples Republic of China intends to dominate the world, economically and militarily, by 2049, the one-hundred-year anniversary of communist rule in China.  The FBI estimates that there are 25,000 Chinese spies in the US.

As part of its espionage campaign, China uses coercion against its own citizens living in the United States.  Sandra Lee Delveccio, half Taiwanese, half American, is a model and actress now living in Nashville.  She is being coerced into servicing a Chinese spy.  Her son, Bruce, and husband, Tommy, are being held in China to ensure her full cooperation.

When Jack Rutledge and Donna Esposito, daughter of the White House Chief of Staff and Sandra's college roommate, move to Nashville, they become entangled in a CIA counter-operation against a Chinese computer hacking scheme to destroy US defense systems.

Tommy is the one person who can disable the Chinese virus but can he and Bruce be rescued in time?

Murder, double-crosses, true love, and lust in this action-packed adventure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffrey Freeman
• Release date: Sep 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9780985658175

Jeffrey M. Freeman

Colonel Jeffrey M. Freeman, United States Army Retired, began his thirty-three year career as a draftee in 1966. He grew up in Vermont. He graduated from the University of Vermont with a major in Mass Communications and a minor in theatre. He is a graduate of the Army War College. He spent nearly half his military career assigned inside the Washington, DC beltway. In 2003-2005, he was recalled from retirement to work on The Joint Staff classified history of Operation IRAQI FREEDOM.           Jeff is a five-time awards recipient from Freedoms Foundation at Valley Forge for essays on the American way of life. His article, Perseverance Pays Off, was published in Dr. Robert Schuller’s Possibilities magazine. In the past, he contributed numerous essays and book reviews for an online blogger. He has published one children’s book to date. The Nashville Connection is his tenth adult novel.          He got his start in acting following high school at Melodyland Theatre in Anaheim, CA. Jeff returned to acting in 1995 at age fifty and has appeared in numerous stage productions, films, commercials, and television shows.          He currently resides in Northeast Tennessee.

Book preview

Jeffrey M. Freeman

Other books by Jeffrey M. Freeman

The Chief of Staff’s Daughter

Who Killed the Guru of Bays Mountain?

Duty and Character

Wrong Enemy, Wrong War

We Were Warriors Once, Revised Edition

Hannah’s Ghost

Mid-Life Friends and Illusions

Online Dating and Dying in Pinnacle Point

Too Many Coincidences at Pinnacle Point

Henry’s Adventures on Not-So-Good Island

The Nashville Connection

Distributed by Draft 2 Digital

Copyright © 2023 by Jeffrey M. Freeman

ISBN:  978-0-9856581-7-5  ebook edition.

––––––––

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

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 written permission from the copyright owner.

Cover design by Cam Freeman.

Camfreeman.com

Acknowledgements.

I cannot thank Mary Shaw Van enough for the grueling hours proofreading draft after draft.

Once again, Dr. Dale J. Litney, Ph.D. has contributed immensely to improving my writing by his skill and many hours of free labor. It is an honor to have such a professional and friend on my side.

This book is dedicated to my friend and mentor,

Ross G. Pickus, Major General, US Army Retired.

Chapter One.

November 15, 2019, Friday.

Washington, DC.

Jack Rutledge shivered in the cold, damp air.  Only four days ago, the temperature had been in the pleasant sixties.  Tonight, it wouldn’t get out of the upper thirties.  He stood waiting impatiently next to his black, beat-up, ten-year-old, four-door pickup.  Finally, Donna Esposito, dragging two heavy suitcases, emerged from the old Georgetown townhouse.  Even in the fading light, Jack thought that she looked like a fiery angel.  Her mother stood in the doorway anxiously watching them.  Jack hurried to help Donna.

You’re sure? Jack asked Donna as he lifted the second suitcase into the backseat of the pickup.

Shut up and drive, she responded.  She yanked open the front passenger door and climbed in.  She rubbed the left side of her chest to relieve an ache.  The pain from being shot less than two months ago was mostly gone.  Tugging on the suitcases had revived it.

It was a fairly easy drive between Deming’s Ford in Northeast Tennessee and Washington, DC.  Donna had initially left Washington with Jack, thinking of spending some time at his place before moving on to Nashville.  She could send for more of her clothes at her leisure.  However, two nights in Jack’s tiny house gave her the creeps.  She had made it clear that she was more than ready for Nashville.  But for Music City she definitely needed a larger and more sophisticated wardrobe.

Jack got in and started the engine.

Her mother put an anxious hand over her mouth as the couple drove off.  Donna did not turn to look back.

Go past the office, Donna instructed.

Less than twenty minutes later, the pickup turned off Pennsylvania Avenue NW onto 17th Street NW.  Donna stared out at the lights in the West Wing of the White House.

Do you want to stop? Jack asked.

Donna’s jaw tightened.  No.

Your dad’s probably expecting you to say goodbye, Jack ventured.

She shot Jack a dirty look.  What did I say?  You need to listen to me when my lips are moving.  Keep driving.

Silence, except for the strain of the engine and road noise.

Jack broke the silence as they drove out of the District.  I’m not a fan of I-81, especially at night.  I booked a room in Front Royal.

Two beds, I hope, Donna responded sharply.

More silence followed.

* * *

Across town, the ground-level lights glowed, illuminating the semi-circular drive in front of the People’s Republic of China’s embassy.  Guo Fang stopped the black, opulent Mercedes S-Class sedan with its distinctive red and blue diplomatic license plate in the center of the drive.  Ambassador Liu Chen had not been clear whether he was going to the West Wing or the East Wing of the Chancery Building.  After a late afternoon nine-holes with President Aragon at the members-only National Golf Club in Potomac Falls, Virginia, Guo Fang thought that the ambassador might want some time in the embassy’s garden behind the Entrance Hall to reflect and restore.  Stopping in the center of the drive was the safe move; it was equidistant to all three potential destinations.

Guo Fang opened the right rear door.  The ambassador stepped out, head down, seemingly engaged in deep thought.  Then he turned abruptly to Guo Fang.

You are going to the Education Office? Liu Chen asked.

Yes, Excellency.

Report back every word.

Yes, Excellency.

Guo Fang did not wait to see which path the ambassador chose.  As soon as the principal diplomat had cleared the car door, Guo Fang shut it.

Guo Fang got back in the driver’s seat and exited the driveway before the ambassador reached the building.

It was a three-minute drive to the Education Office at 2600 and 2608 Tilden Street, NW.  One of the missions of the Education Office was to keep tabs on all Chinese people in the United States, even if they were multi-generational American citizens, and, just as in Taiwan and Hong Kong, to turn them into super patriots for China and the Communist Party.

Guo Fang parked in front of the white, three-story Colonial Revival house.  A young man in a dark suit and white shirt descended the porch steps before Guo Fang was out of the car.  Guo Fang headed up the front walk, handing the man the car keys without breaking stride.

Inside the house, Guo Fang went straight to a second-floor windowless office in the back of the building.  The Director of the Education Center, Zhang Wei, and a woman in a pants suit whom Guo Fang did not know were sitting at a small conference table when Guo Fang walked in.  They rose quickly.  Guo Fang sat at the head of the table.

In China’s surveillance state, everyone was expected to observe everyone else and to report misdeeds to the authorities; even something as minor as jaywalking, although the millions of cameras took care of that.  There were checks and balances built in at every level of government.  One could never be certain of who was watching.  Not reporting an act against society could be viewed as bad as committing the act.  While personal loyalties were valued, it was only prudent to ensure no deviations.

As chauffeur to Ambassador Liu Chen, Guo Fang was expected to report on his boss.  They both knew and understood this.  What had surprised Liu Chen was Guo Fang’s additional appointment as the deputy to the Chief Education Officer in America.  It was an awkward appointment for Zhang Wei as well since Guo Fang was in a position to report in detail on him to the ambassador.  Zhang Wei gave recognition to Guo Fang’s dual allegiance by often deferring to him in private meetings such as this one.  All things considered, being a member of the Chinese Communist Party required the ability to juggle multiple relationships deftly.

Where are we with Sloan? Guo Fang asked.

His work is progressing, Zhang Wei replied.

Guo Fang waited for more of an explanation.  He was a patient man but Sloan had been on the job for more than two years.  Over Guo Fang’s modest objection, Sloan had been given an additional incentive after the first year.  It was past time for an assessment of Sloan’s progress.

The unfamiliar woman answered, His technical skills exceed the requirements.  He worked ten years for the communications company.  His time in Hainan was well spent.  He will be able to infiltrate their system.

Frustrated though he was by her vague answer, Guo Fang knew better than to inquire about this woman.  If Zhang Wei wanted him to know, her name and relationship would be made known.  Still, there was something about her that made Guo Fang uneasy.

I am aware of his credentials, Guo Fang replied sharply.  What I wish to know is, how soon?

He must pick the exact right moment so that his work will remain undetected, Zhang Wei responded.

The look on Guo Fang’s face conveyed his annoyance at not getting a specific timeframe.  And the cameras?

He spent two years working for Hikvision in Europe.  He will get the cameras installed on the towers or take control of the ones already there, Zhang Wei assured Guo Fang.  But, again, timing is delicate and critical.

Getting nowhere, Guo Fang abruptly switched topics.  The ambassador wants to know if you are planning a Confucius Institute for Nashville or is the one at Middle State University sufficient? Guo Fang asked.

I will inform the ambassador personally when the Vice Minister makes her decision, Zhang Wei said. 

They both understood that his answer was a deliberate slap in the face.  But Guo Fang had no power to demand a better one.  Instead, he switched back to the primary topic, asking a Mao-like question.  Is Sloan happy in his work?

He is happy so long as his bed is warm, the woman replied.

And is it? Guo Fang asked.

Miss Lee is doing her job, Zhang Wei assured him.

Guo Fang scowled but said nothing.

Work is progressing, Zhang Wei added.  But perhaps a word from her uncle might inspire more enthusiasm on her part, which in turn might accelerate Sloan’s activity, he suggested.

* * *

Nashville was a far cry from all of Sandra Lee Delveccio’s previous experiences with America.  Uncle Guo Fang’s contacts had initially set her up in New York City.  For someone with no professional modeling experience, it was like a steak being dropped on a red-hot grill; it sizzled and crackled and burned.  Still, she was a quick learner.  Her contacts introduced her, even got her an agent and her first modeling gig.  The agent also sent her on auditions for commercials where all she had to do was to smile and look pretty for the camera.  After the third casting director expressed displeasure at meeting an Asian woman rather than an Italian, Sandra conceded that her uncle had been right, even if his reasoning was not.  She dropped her estranged father’s last name,Delveccio from her professional and private life, just as he had dropped her decades earlier.

After nearly three years of trying to compete with professional models, and countless fruitless auditions, Sandra was ready to quit.  She knew she couldn’t do that.  She had to earn a substantial living and save enough money to somehow get Bruce Lee out of China.  Getting Tommy Lee out would require more than money.  Then came the call from Uncle Guo Fang.  She should move to Nashville.  There was an agent there who could get her steady work.

It had taken two years before Sandra was finally ready to feel comfortable in Nashville.  Things were paying off financially.  But there were strings attached.  Dirty strings.  She closed her eyes and began meditating, focusing on a brighter future, before her established Friday night rendezvous.

In her upscale apartment, Sandra Lee finished meditating and sat waiting in the living room staring out the window.  She was squeezing her mobile phone tightly in her lap, as if doing so would cause it to ring.  The soft pale-yellow clouds reflecting the last rays of sunlight had given way to the grayish-blue of twilight.  Tiny points of street lamps began to penetrate the ever-darkening sky.  She barely noticed their multiplying numbers and gradual transformation into stretched circles of harsh, off-white light dotting the two intersecting streets.  Still, she waited without moving.

Finally, the mobile rang.  Sandra’s hand shook as she answered it.  Ni hao. (Hello.)  She listened quietly as the caller spoke.  The tears started slowly.  They mixed with her mascara, forming black streaks from her eyes to her chin.  After several more seconds, she replied with simple, Shrr. (Yes.)

The caller abruptly switched from Mandarin to English.  You should be proud to have been chosen to serve the State, he said.  Are you not grateful?

Sandra responded in a quivering voice, Shieh shieh. (Thank you.)  The mobile phone buzzed in her ear.  The caller hung up before she could add, Jiùjiu. (Uncle.)

It took several minutes for Sandra to compose herself.  She stood up.  Her knees were stiff from sitting so long.  At forty, she was beginning to feel the years in her joints.  Years of fashion modeling in extreme high heels combined with contorting her body in unnatural poses for the camera were exacting a toll.  She tried to keep her six-foot physique limber through a daily yoga practice.  But she knew that the time was not far off when she would have to modify the workout to accommodate her slowly aging body.  She was beginning to appreciate the wisdom of the gentler tai chi.

Normally, Sandra’s makeup was carefully crafted to enhance her eyes, making them seem rounder than they were.  In the worlds of modeling and commercials, looks were everything.

Tonight, Sandra washed all traces of makeup from her face in the bathroom.  She stared at her reflection in the mirror.  She looked different without makeup; less American, older for certain.  With the makeup, casting directors considered her for roles calling for women ages thirty-five to thirty-nine.  There was a sharp divide in roles after forty, especially for women.  She wondered how long she could get away with claiming to be thirty-nine.

Calmer now, she left the apartment and retrieved her car from the basement garage.

Ten minutes later, she made her way slowly down a street of one and two-story small homes that had seen better days.  She stopped at the end of the street.  At one time, this had been a through-street.  Old neighborhoods like this one and their traffic patterns were rapidly being replaced.

Progress in Nashville was bringing the rise of many new houses and apartment buildings.  Nashville was attracting many Californians who were escaping annual forest fires and high taxes.  Lots of Ronald Reagan Republicans were discovering a like-minded populace in Tennessee. They could get almost twice the house at a fraction of the cost of a residence in southern California. President Ronald Aragon was happy to see the migration.  Old, decaying neighborhoods tended to house liberals, who were definitely not part of President Aragon’s base.  Not that the President had a say in the matter, but he was happy when these neighborhoods were demolished in order to build trendier, more upscale housing.

Just for a moment, Sandra considered getting out of the car and walking the cracked cement sidewalk to the one-story house with a light on in the back window.  Instead, she turned the car around and slowly drove back to her apartment garage.

Sloan’s apartment was on the west side of I-40 north of Broadway.  East of I-40, only steps away, was North Gulch; a trendy area undergoing urban renewal.  At some point in the not-too-distance future, this old, two-story red brick building that Sloan lived in would give way to something more fashionable.  Rents a couple blocks away were already two to three times, or more, than the seven hundred dollars Sloan paid.  However, this one suited his purposes.

The night time temperature in Nashville wasn’t much different than Washington, DC.  Sandra had chosen to wear a hooded sweatshirt.  She pulled the hood tight, not because of the dampness but to hide her face and, symbolically, her shame.  She shuddered at the thoughts of what was to come as she climbed the outdoor concrete steps to the second floor.  She had left her silver, eight-year-old Mercedes C300 at her apartment as usual.  In the modeling/acting business, the appearance of wealth was equated with success.  Tonight, however, she didn’t want to bring any undue attention to herself; which a Mercedes in this neighborhood surely would.  The mile and a half walk between apartments was not physically hard for her but it was emotionally difficult.

There was nothing on the outside of Sloan’s apartment building to suggest anything different from the rest of the neighborhood.  She knocked lightly on the outside door, secretly hoping that he wasn’t home.  She knew that wasn’t true.

Sloan opened the door, turned, and walked inside.  The interior was a sharp contrast to the exterior of the building.  Its furnishings were new and modern.  Still, his four-hundred square foot, one-bedroom apartment made Sandra’s dwelling seem opulent by comparison.

He was dressed as usual; faded blue boxers, cheap flipflops, and a stained, white tank top stretched over his protruding belly.  He was shorter than Sandra by nearly a foot.  The same thought unconsciously popped into Sandra’s mind each time she saw him.  Except for the missing warts, he could be a toad.

No words passed between them.  Words were unnecessary.  By now, it was all proforma.

Sandra followed him through to the bedroom.  The room cried nouveau riche.  A large black leather recliner with cup holders in each arm sat in front of a sixty-inch smart TV.  A lamp on a small night stand was draped in red fabric.  A king-size bed with a cushioned headboard dominated the room.  The mattress was adjustable and temperature controlled.  Sloan kept the mattress head raised in order to get a good look at his visitor.  The only thing matching Sloan’s true character were two missing pieces from the cheap, plastic venetian blinds covering the only window.

Sloan’s jeans, dirty white shirt, and black beret were tossed casually in a corner.  The bed was unmade.  The rumpled white sheets stank of human sweat. You can take the pig out of the sty but he’s still a pig, Sandra thought as she wrinkled her nose at the smell.

Sloan sat on the bed.  He stripped off his tank top and shorts.  He laid back and looked up at her expectantly.

Sandra had worn her plainest dress; an old, loose-fitting cotton print that revealed little of her sculptured body.  She pulled off the sweatshirt and dropped it at her feet.  She undid the front buttons and let the dress slide off.  Usually, she wouldn’t wear bra or panties.  What would be the point?  Sloan would not have let them stay on long.  But tonight, she had heeded her uncle’s instructions to intensify Sloan’s interest.  She stepped out of her sneakers and stood waiting in the skimpiest and most provocative black bra and panties she owned.  She forced an enticing smile.

Her ploy worked.  Sloan’s head came off the pillow.  He took his time admiring every inch of her body.  He twirled his right index finger.  She slowly and obediently turned completely around, pausing momentarily to allow him a good look at her backside.

When Sloan stood up, his five-foot two height put his face in perfect alignment with her breasts.  He began his ritual of pleasing himself by groping her.  Then he laid on his back, propped against the angled mattress to watch.

Remembering her uncle’s