Willing Pawn

By Metro Sean Heller

In 1994, the US government sent three volunteers on a secret mission to unearth the truth.

FBI Senior Field Operative Michael Buliva--A man willing to risk his life to please a father figure within the Bureau: Buliva longed to reach out to this "father figure" who knew his heart, his pain, and the struggles he endured. But at the same time, the agent was sickened with the thought that this was just another ploy to use him one last time.

Professor Mark Sterner--A young scientist with such a volatile discovery, he is required to be under twenty-four-hour surveillance, not for his protection but the country's: "As your bodyguard, I need full access into your life. From now on, where you go, I go. You enter your room only after I have surveyed it, is that understood?"

"Isn't this a bit, awkward? Is it normal to have a woman guarding a man?"

Without blinking, she countered, "Everyone believed it would make you feel more comfortable." She lied with her hand still held out for the key.

"No, my room is out of bounds for you, period."

"I will take it from you if I have to, period."

Mark gulped. With her hand still outstretched, her blazer opened just enough for him to notice a shoulder strap, which most likely led to a handgun. He was shocked. His mind quickly tried to come up with other options, but none came to him. He handed her the key.

CEO of Ameri Bank, Stephen Levi--With a photographic memory needed for the mission, this volunteer was so desirable he had to be coerced.

As Robert walked by Levi, who remained seated, the CEO took hold of his wrist as he stated, "Why do I still feel like a little pawn in a big game of chess?"

"A willing pawn, Mr. Levi, I might add!" Robert quickly responded.

"Only if you don't take blackmail into consideration," Stephen fired back.

A story of faith, hope and love, blooming above the lies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798885404167

Book preview

Acknowledgment

I would like to thank my family for supporting me during this long-term endeavor.

1

J. Edgar Hoover Building, Washington, DC, 1994

The agent pushed the button. Immediately, the machine went into motion. With the wheels turning in unison, the machine emitted a background hiss, and then music bolted from the portable radio. Michael Buliva worked out with the same ninety-minute tape, even though the gymnasium of the Federal Bureau of Investigation provided piped-in music.

The gym was split into three sections—an area filled with various forms of body strengthening equipment; a room with treadmills, stationary bikes, ellipticals, and other cardio machines; and finally, the matted pit where Buliva maintained dominance.

The field agents nicknamed the hand-to-hand combat training area the Pit because of the balcony that surrounded the entire room, allowing agents to look down upon those aggressively battling it out. It was a tremendous honor to be the king of the Pit. The king would demonstrate maneuvers for the new recruits, give them pointers, and provide the rookies with an opportunity to watch and learn the intense survival techniques from a true expert.

But not Buliva. Although the undisputed champion of the Pit with his speed, mobility, strength, and tactical knowledge, he never indulged in such showmanship, as he labeled it. He despised the idea of being on display, completely missing the concept of how encouraging it would be to these young, eager students to be mentored by a real hero. His refusal to play in all the FBI games labeled him as an outsider by his peers, but it came as no surprise to his handlers. They knew his bio. They understood when you learn the hard way and you have no one to show you any other way, you’re not going to be a team player—exactly what they wanted.

The music surrounded the agent as it filled the matted walls and floor of the Pit, spilling over the top of the balcony and tumbling down into the barbell room, annoying several other agents. They knew from past experience that the outsider only listened to one side of the tape. They slowly cleared out of the gym, leaving him to his own world. Within forty-five minutes, the loner would be gone.

Stretch exercises first. Fingers, wrists, arms, and waist all stretched and rotated individually and then simultaneously in constant timing with the music. Side stretches were next. He bent down and touched his toes with his fingertips ten times. He did ten more, touching the floor with his fingertips and finally, holding the palm of his hands flat on the floor. Calf muscles burned, a thigh muscle knotted, sending a silent but fully audible message of pain. He ignored it.

Musical notes filled the air with the words of a song.

Crossing the border into the unknown.

Leaving behind familiar comforts of home.

Almost in tears as I say my goodbyes

Scared of what’s waiting on the other side.¹

He forced his head to one knee, then the other, hands wrapping around his ankles. Satisfied, he lay down, bringing his knees together, legs straight out, lifting his feet a few inches above the ground, toes pointing away from him. The pain began.

Sweat beaded on his forehead. His legs began to shake, and his stomach tightened. Blocking the agony, Michael picked up on the music again.

No one is sure just what his future will bring.

But sometimes I wish I had my own time machine,

Then I could peak at what’s forbidden to know,

Glimpses of what will come or where I’ll go.

Even though the music was loud, it became blurred with the physical pain he was enduring mixed with mental images. Reflections from the man’s past as well as visions for his future darted across his mind. Wrestling with his mind and body, Michael concentrated on the pain stemming from his weak stomach. I will not break, I will not bend. Ramming this thought over and over in his mind, he found himself mentally transported to a rocky border between Pakistan and Afghanistan near Khyber Pass, the year 1980.

*****

He saw himself from above, squatting on the ground, surrounded by several Afghan guerrilla fighters, battling the Soviet invasion in what the boots on the ground called, The Freedom Wars. Michael was holding a Russian machine gun in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Putting the cigarette between his lips, he inhaled deeply and began to disassemble the weapon. Stopping occasionally, with the cigarette between his index and forefinger, he would speak as adequately as he could in their language to point out vital items that were required in order for the weapon to be in optimum working condition. A few nods from his pupils would be his main feedback. Once cleaned and reassembled, he handed the weapon to one of his students and monitored the guerrilla fighter’s attempt to imitate the demonstration. This continued until all were secure with this function. They, in turn, instructed others and so on.

The same process was used for loading, proper aim, and firing techniques. A handful of the more promising fighters were chosen for the difficult weapons, such as ground-to-air missiles, anti-tank guns, implanting and detection of ground mines, and various explosive devices. The key ingredient was that all of the weapons were of Russian manufacture, thus concealing the US government’s involvement.

Once the use of these weapons became routine, Michael began teaching the small but determined band of fighters hit-and-run combat techniques, which was a Buliva specialty.

The mental scene changed as Buliva saw himself leading a selected group of fighters into an Afghan village that was controlled by a small band of enemy troops. Demonstrating for future attacks, Michael killed the watch guard and led the assault.

A new song kicked in on the tape player.

Standing on the edge of hope²

Not sure of what you’ll find.

Catching the opposing forces by surprise, the guerrillas confiscated the enemy’s weapons and destroyed their buildings. The Russians incurred a staggering cost in equipment, property, and lives. The Afghan resistance fighters suffered only one casualty: a bright, and skillful young man.

The beat of the music pounded inside the agent’s head. His mind picked up the song.

You’re searching for direction

As you walk the narrow line.

His stomach muscles begged for relief, but his mind played tricks on him, telling him the pain he felt was that of sorrow over a lost life.

Life is much more than what you feel.

The incidents that led to the young man’s death appeared rapidly and clearly in the agent’s mind. An enemy communications building was secured and robbed of its precious equipment. He handed off the explosive device to the young man who eagerly accepted the challenge. Everyone exited, except his star pupil who rushed to the far wall of the building to set the time bomb. A hundred meters away from the building, Michael froze as it exploded much too quickly.

Discover the truth in what is real.

*****

His tortured stomach muscles brought the agent back to reality. Sweat dripping down his face, his legs shook from the strain and cried out to him that he mustn’t lie down or he’ll never get back up. After struggling to his feet, Buliva took a few deep breaths while walking in short circles, shaking his legs to get the blood circulating. Listening to the words in the song, blending with his mental images of the young man who now appears in his mind to be more like a child, the agent weaves the words of the song in and out of his painful memories.

Pulls the curtains down

The world’s too hard to face

His tormented thoughts droned on. The death should never have happened. I should not have trusted the boy as the boy had trusted me. Why didn’t I go with him? Why did I let him do it alone? What was I thinking? I gave him a death sentence.

The song continued:

Can’t find the strength

To climb…ladder of…faith

can’t you see a brand new day

is waiting beyond your sorrow.

All you gotta do is follow

Not for me! his mind shouted.

Welcome to, welcome to the next level

You can leave this world behind.

Buliva flicked the tape player off in an attempt to shut out his thoughts. But one haunting perspective passed through his mind, is that what I need to do? Leave this world?

The agent’s mobile cell device began ringing, jolting him back to reality. He knew exactly who it was. Only one person contacted him: his director in the agency, Gary Franklin. At times, Franklin got his office assistant to call him, but at this late hour, he knew it was his boss.

Exercising, I take it. The tone in his voice was obviously irritated as Franklin must have attempted several times to reach him, but the agent’s music drowned out the ring.

No response.

The caller, more agitated now due to the agent’s lack of communication, continued, Buliva, the ladies received a sudden inquiry and wish our presence at seven. A brief moment of silence before Gary reconfirmed the meeting, At seven. And then the receiver went dead.

Glancing up above the seated balcony, the wall clock read just about an hour before midnight. As a precaution against eavesdroppers, it was established procedure to add five hours to the assigned time set for the secret meetings with the ladies. He grabbed his gear and headed toward the locker room.

As Michael entered the locker room, he spotted several young men attentively listening to the soft-spoken Bob Paterak, Michael’s double in the agency. Both men were of similar ages and rank within the organization. The similarity ended there. After graduating from Harvard, Paterak became a successful lawyer before the FBI enticed him with a high position and salary. He quickly rose within the ranks of the agency with quick, decisive, and accurate ideas assisting the agency’s activities nationwide. Robert became the face of the new FBI—well-educated, devoted, and quick on his feet with the canny ability to turn negatives into positives through legal maneuverings. One last similarity to Buliva though: both men knew their jobs, and they both exceeded expectations.

Buliva, on the other hand, had very little education prior to joining the agency; those qualities were not what piqued the FBI’s attention. No, what excited the bureau were his natural talents for war.

As a young man, Michael was thrilled to be leaving a country that treated him like a second-class citizen as he was thrust into Afghanistan’s fight for survival against the Soviet Union. Michael Buliva was part of the Italian UN forces sent to assist the resistance fighters against the Communist invasion, and he couldn’t wait to take his frustrations out on an enemy—any enemy.

The US involvement in this war was concealed under the CIA. A rising star at the time within the bureau, Adolfo Trapana convinced his superiors in the FBI to dispatch a small crew to assist the CIA in their covert operations. In reality, those dispatched were to keep the bureau’s hands involved in US interests, even on foreign soil. This tactical maneuver did win big points for Adolfo that panned out for him later in his career.

One of those agents Trapana dispatched into the barren lands of Afghanistan was Gary Franklin, a man with a proven track record of spotting talent where none existed. He knew he had a winner the moment he witnessed Buliva’s aggressive and daredevilish stunts in action. So he got close to him and did his utmost to befriend this young fighting machine. He held several confidential conversations with him in hopes the man would open up to him and reveal any cracks in his armor. Franklin also followed him into war zones and observed him up close in life and death situations. Without Michael’s knowledge, Gary Franklin conspired with his superior. Here’s a man who’s a misfit among him own countrymen. But, Franklin conceived, a willing pawn ripe for our handling. A man, I believe, we can train, educate, and mold to our liking.

After hearing about this young raw talent’s escapades and trusting in Gary’s insight, Adolfo Trapana gave the order, Have him prepped to join the bureau immediately. Do whatever it takes to get him past immigration and on the fast track to US citizenship. Then Adolfo questioned if this man would be willing to leave his country behind.

No doubt about it! We’ll have no problem enticing him to join our agency. His only connection to Italy was an old man who died right before he enlisted, Franklin assured him. Then Franklin bragged to his superior, Just by being around English-speaking agents, this guy picked up the language! Hell, he even got the local dialect down. He’s out in the field, communicating quite well with these resistance fighters.

Both men realized they had an uneducated intellect on their hands, someone who was never given a chance or an opportunity to shine. Someone who, with a little encouragement, would be willing to sacrifice much in the hope of being part of something bigger. So Gary began to make Michael Buliva his main focus and not just for the agency’s interests but for his own as well. Realizing his only flaw, being a Black man in a White man’s organization, Franklin knew he needed something to pole-vault himself above his peers. He saw Buliva’s plea to join the FBI as his ticket for recognition and advancement within the organization.

The second Buliva’s feet touched American soil, he began intense studies under Gary Franklin’s direction. Franklin provided Buliva with the administration’s finest combat instructors and top tutors in education. In reality, though, it was Adolfo Trapana, the rising star within the bureau, pulling the strings without the new recruit’s knowledge. It was Adolfo who required Buliva to speak fluently in English and Arabic. Picking it up off the streets didn’t meet Trapana’s high standards. Adolfo also believed his new at arm’s length protégé should learn to speak Hebrew, which would enable him to fully integrate anywhere needed within the Middle East, an area of the world with constant political unrest and turmoil resulting in a breakdown of leadership and governments. This continuous instability was something Trapana knew the United States would want to control, thus making his agent indispensable within and outside of the FBI.

It came as no surprise to the two men leading Michael’s training that he excelled in his studies. The brief background file the agency had on this new recruit was more than enough information for them to know what buttons to push to motivate him to go above and beyond even the most gifted agent in the bureau. In reading the man as well as the file, they theorized it was Buliva’s deepest desire to please the one who gave him even the slightest bit of attention, something he only briefly tasted in his young lifetime. The theory proved to be accurate as the young recruit’s longing for a father figure drove him to be at Franklin’s beck and call in order to please him, to be rewarded by him, and to be loyal only to him.

After completing his studies and training, Buliva became a thoroughly rounded professional for the FBI. As the years and field operations went by, it became abundantly clear that Michael had become a priceless asset to the bureau as his successful exploits continued to mount. Following several years of completing dangerous field assignments, the natural next step for Buliva was to bring him in to consult on high-risk situations. Michael’s military hands-on point of view, though, frequently countered Paterak’s legal advice, thus the conflict.

The group surrounding Paterak in the locker room suddenly broke out in laughter. The group was singular in dimension—White, young, well-educated, physically fit, and most noticeably, wanting to fit in the organization. To them, Bob Paterak, whom the young men worship and idolized, represented the agency. He was the man who made all the right decisions and who, someday, would surely be in control. To be close to Bob was to ensure a good position with the agency.

One of the men spotted Buliva entering the room and quickly shouted, Hi, Mike, how goes it?

The laughter died; the conversation stopped. Very strange, Buliva thought as he silently went to his locker.

You completed your exercise about twenty minutes early. Is something wrong, Michael? Paterak inquired with a concerned and sincere tone. As Bob spoke, he broke away from his crowd of admirers and approached Buliva, stopping a noticeably safe distance away from him.

Buliva opened his locker; no time for a shower, he realized. There is nothing wrong, Robert, I just felt my ears burning and decided to put an end to it.

What the hell does that mean? Sincerity gone, Paterak took a few cautious steps forward. With hands on hips, he took the appearance of a face-off. Sizing the man standing in front of him, Buliva realized he was in excellent condition, even handsome. He was considered by many in the agency to be a triple threat—brains, looks, and well-trained in martial arts. He lacked one thing: he never had to fight for what he got. He earned and worked for it, but he never had to fight for it like Buliva.

Well, Robert, Buliva began slowly. Why is this man provoking a fight with me in front of his faithful followers? Buliva knew he had everything to gain by breaking this man’s bones while his opponent had everything to lose. Then the thought struck him. Perhaps Robert feels earning the title is not enough, that this organization requires proof of his power. Can it be that simple? Is Bob Paterak just insecure of himself and his quick success? Buliva reined in his thoughts.

He grabbed the half-used pack of cigarettes out of his locker, knocked out a cig, and placed it between his lips. Everyone waited patiently. The FBI is a team effort, and I just wanted to start playing ball, he spoke as he clicked his lighter.

Paterak knew Buliva’s response was total bullshit, but he did what he did best, and that was to calculate the risk of escalating any continued confrontation. He decided it was best not to push the issue, especially with his young devoted followers behind him. No need for them to see upper-level managers get into a squabble. That’s great to hear, Michael. His tone was rich with insincerity, letting Buliva know he, too, could bullshit with the best of them as he added, Come by and see me, and we’ll discuss some team operations.

Sure, Robert, Buliva replied as he turned his back on him and continued to change into street clothes.

Buliva felt Paterak’s eyes on his back momentarily before hearing him shout to his disciples, Let’s get out on those mats! We don’t want to lose this valuable time!

The stillness of the empty locker room covered the agent. The stench of damp, sweaty clothing filled the air. The sound of water dripping slowly from a showerhead echoed its way along colorful blue-tiled walls, bouncing off cold metal lockers to be held captive within the boundaries of a concrete ceiling and floor, only to echo in the solitary man’s ears. Hot ashes fell from his cigarette, landing on his leg, but he didn’t flinch as his thoughts kept pace with the water. Five years ago, I would have popped him like a balloon. Why not today? Did I earn my position? Did I work for it?

The monotonous drip stopped momentarily as a realization struck him, I’m just past that now…And he fully recognized what that was as the song replayed in his head,

Welcome to the next level

You can leave this world behind.

*****

The ladies represented a code word to meet at Franklin’s private office, meaning he had business too secretive to discuss at HQ and too dangerous to be observed at his personal residence. The private office was located deep within DC’s ghetto. The location provided cover and privacy. It was very easy to spot and lose a tail with the heavy concentration of down and outers in the area. And this night, as always, the agent felt a tail.

As Michael left the gym, he heard a car engine start, coincidence to most, but not to Michael Buliva. He quickly weaved into a back alley, allowing the car to speed past him. The agent examined the occupants, a Black couple in their mid-forties, dressed semiformal. The woman was smoking. The vehicle was a midsize. A possible surveillance team? Sent by whom? A foreign power? Paterak? He took no chances. Being extremely cautious, the agent backtracked and ducked into doorways so when he reached the building that housed the office, Buliva felt confident he was not followed.

From the outside, the building appeared to be vacant with all the windows bricked shut. But that’s the way most warehouses were, at least in this city. The building had one main entrance for transporting inventory, which was the main function of the warehouse. Franklin used a second entrance through the garage so he could come and go as he pleased. And a third entrance just to the right of the garage led into a short corridor and then into Franklin’s unofficial office. The office and garage were completely blocked off from the warehouse to ensure privacy.

Buliva tapped three times on the door, constantly checking for any type of tail. He hated the spotlight right above the entrance door. It illuminated him and cast huge shadows into the alley, making him a lame duck for any hired gun.

A surveillance camera, which he installed, zoomed in on him from above. A quick click came from the steel door as it opened slightly. The agent gave one more check down the alley prior to entering the building and quickly closed the door behind him.

Michael was now in complete darkness. Even though this was normal procedure, it always made the agent reach for his gun. His eyes were searching into the empty void, and his ears strained for the sound of any movement. This routine was a protection device serving two functions. First, people from the alley could not see someone coming and going in the night as easily. And, second, if an unwelcome intruder managed to get in, they would find themselves in total darkness and thus vulnerable.

Franklin controlled the lights in the same manner as the door with a remote control unit, but this night, it was taking a little longer than normal. Buliva, with his own internal control devices, instinctively took a quiet step to his left, away from the door, and then he crouched down low.

Suddenly, the scent of a woman’s perfume became noticeable, and he immediately recognized the bearer: Helen Gold, Franklin’s secretary. The agent didn’t expect her. Franklin must have gotten his hands on something explosive to require Helen’s assistance at this late hour. Buliva took his hand off his gun, which he had hidden in his sport coat, and reached for the pack of cigarettes that was stuffed in the shirt pocket. Buliva leaned back into the corner of the hallway and lit up a smoke in an attempt to masquerade his initial fears.

Flash! The lights came on. They were extremely bright and hurt the eyes. The agent kept his head down away from the lights, slowly opening his eyes until they were adjusted to the light. And what a sight to focus on as Helen suddenly appeared in front of him.

She stood at the end of the corridor, wearing a blue satin dress that came down to her mid-thigh and clung to her petite waste and beautifully plump behind. The thighs that sprouted from beneath the hem were full with sculptured curves that led down to the remainder of her shapely legs. All this beauty was contained in a five-foot-four frame.

The attractive woman approached him with a smile that clearly stated, Got ya. Helen maintained a nothing fancy attitude about her style. Her wavy sandy-blond hair was always just below the shoulder; her bangs were cut mid-forehead. There was a hint of eye shadow to accentuate her hazel eyes, eyes that looked at Michael but seldom gave away her thoughts.

The first time he met her, she appeared to be a plain-looking woman to him, no pizzazz. However, potential did exist with features such as a tiny rounded nose and chipmunk cheeks that accompanied thick pouty lips. The more he saw her, the more increasingly attractive she became to him. Her only physical flaw, if it was one, was her small breasts, which Michael would comment on occasion to piss her off because of her total indifference toward him. Through the years, the two of them had enjoyed a pleasant working relationship full of teases, but Michael had yet to develop the courage to broaden the relationship outside of work. Would he be able to look at those beautiful eyes again if she rejected him?

I lost you for a moment, she said, walking up to him. She held the remote control unit for the lights in one hand and night lenses in the other. The lenses picked up body heat. With these, she could see a rough outline of a figure with no actual features, so she would have recognized a figure crouched down low, perhaps reaching for a gun while trying to dodge a bullet.

The agent looked at her and wondered how this woman could have ever appeared to be plain to him. He often found himself daydreaming about her, especially during his exercise routines. He also wondered how Franklin managed to recruit her. What was he looking for? Franklin always had a purpose, a function that needed to be fulfilled, and he sought out individuals who were underrated, overlooked, and easier to manipulate—the people who, given the right encouragement, would exceed even his expectations. Helen was no exception. Her lackluster first impression could fool you, except for Franklin who saw a confident, intelligent, and resourceful person who, like all members of Franklin’s team, were always on the job.

Hope you enjoyed the show. Not that I mind, but what brings you out so late tonight? Buliva asked while sucking in a shot of nicotine.

My services were required. She turned and headed toward the back corridor, the entrance to Franklin’s secret hideaway. I had to escort a certain—she paused, searching for the correct noun—friend of yours to discuss business with you and Mr. Franklin.

I didn’t know that you were aware of my ‘friends.’

Helen reached the entrance to Franklin’s office, and turning toward him, she said, I know everything about you, mister! Poking a finger into his chest, she added, Everything.

Did she know the effect she had on him? Did she care?

Buliva, your boss has been asking for you. Better go right in. Suddenly, she sounded very professional. As the agent reached for the door, Helen whispered, Michael! As he turned to face her, she put her arms around his neck and said, I’m going to miss you. With that, she kissed him gently on the lips. Pulling away, she said, It’s a wonder I found your mouth through that beard of yours!

I’ll shave it off tonight!

My mother taught me to never trust a blue-eyed dago. Sound advice, if you ask me, she said smiling while pushing him toward the door, adding, He’s waiting. Get in there!

With hundreds of thoughts racing through the agent’s mind, he entered Gary Franklin’s subversive office. It was when the door shut behind him that her comment, I’m going to miss you, registered. What did she know that he didn’t?

Franklin sat behind his desk, which was facing the door. He had two desk lamps lit, but the overhead florescent lights were off, creating that cozy FBI environment. Buliva stood at the entrance, trying to pierce through the high back chair to see this friend, but he was well-hidden within the thick cushion and side panel of the guest chair.

Gary looked up and waved at the agent to come over with his huge paw that God gave him for a hand. At that moment, the visitor leaned around the side panel of the chair and shot the agent a quick glance. Their eyes locked on to each other’s, and the guest immediately retreated into the safety of the chair.

Well, this is it, thought Buliva, no wonder Helen said her goodbyes. The agent believed the good doctor was here to give him his walking papers, and personally, that was fine with him. He was tired of the games.

Michael took another drag on the cigarette, blowing the smoke toward the doctor while walking over to take his seat. Both chairs were identical and faced the desk. The agent’s so-called friend, Dr. John Bishop, headed the bureau’s shrink tank and was currently Buliva’s personal counselor with the agency.

Buliva felt the prick never gave him a word of praise, just verbal abuse as the old doctor constantly ridiculed his input, dismissed his accomplishments, and denied the agent’s successes. Bishop possessed the power to reject applicants into the FBI as well as the authority to give agents their walking papers if he deemed it necessary. He was a very powerful friend to have in your pocket. Unfortunately, in Michael Buliva’s case, a belligerent enemy constantly on his back.

Buliva was just about to ask why the third-degree when he spotted pictures on Franklin’s desk. They revealed military personnel securing a structure. Looking up from the pictures into Franklin’s face, the agent knew it was a whole new ball game.

Michael, Dr. Bishop has provided us with an excellent opportunity to showcase our strengths, Franklin spoke as he spread the pictures in front of the agent. With John’s position, he was able to acquire these pictures and database of information.

Give me the dirty details, Buliva spoke directly to Franklin, ignoring Bishop.

Have some tea, and put out that damn cancer stick, Franklin ordered while pouring hot water into a cup already set up for him.

Tea? Bishop finally spoke. I would have thought you to be a coffee, a black-only drinker.

Franklin chuckled. No, he’s a tea man, sweetened with a touch of honey. He paused and added pointedly, I would have thought you would have known that.

Bishop winced.

The agent could not wait for the doctor’s retirement, which was expected to be in a year or sooner. He looked ready to retire with a round bald head, a gaunt and pale face that was lined with wrinkles from years of chain-smoking. Due to glaucoma, the lenses on his eyeglasses were so thick it made him look bug-eyed. He was always serious, never relaxed. Rumor had it he was hitting the bottle and that his marriage was in jeopardy. Buliva studied Bishop and could not help but think, Here sits a man whose life is a wreck, and he chastises me!

There were seven pictures. The first one Michael looked at was an overview shot which revealed a metal security fence around three buildings with two guards protecting the only entrance into the encampment and two other guards with K-9 support patrolling the outer border of the fence. Men were pictured hauling what appeared to be raw materials out of a cargo truck. The finished product was really of no concern for Michael, for he was certain it was illegal, and he was also certain Franklin would be requesting his services to stop the manufacture and distribution of said illegal product.

Holding the picture in the same hand as his cigarette, the agent reached for his tea and asked, Where are we here? After a quick sip, he added, Mexico?

The Bahamas, the doctor replied.

Last time I checked the news, we’re on good terms with them. Even though I haven’t heard what you’re planning on doing, I have a sneaking suspicion that the Bahamian government isn’t going to like it, Mr. Franklin, Michael spoke with a hint of humor in his voice.

Tough, Franklin spoke while he rubbed his massive hands together.

Michael always envied Franklin’s powerful hands. Even with constant exercises aimed at strengthening his, they would never come close to the God-given strength that his possessed. How the agent could use that power in the field. But to Franklin, it was another method of persuasion. Yes, people were like cattle. With just the perception of physical strength, they would buy into his motives and solutions without question, for they sensed he had the power to get the job done. With that thought in mind, the agent took a deep breath as the realization that he did not want to be there struck him.

This trash has got to burn! Bishop said, pounding his fist on Franklin’s desk, ready to get to the point and tired of all the small talk. And there’s the son of a bitch that’s got to go with it! He grabbed one of pictures buried in the pile and laid it on top, pointing to a short man who was smiling and appeared to be having a conversation with another individual whose back was to the camera. The picture was a blow-up, and his face was very clear. He had short wiry hair, a full face, and a Roman nose. To the agent, he was obviously Italian, a bit stocky, with a powerful frame and broad shoulders, a huge neck, and muscular arms. But the scar on the right side of his face caught the agent’s attention. It ran from his upper jawbone to just short of his lip and was very broad, giving the man a menacing appearance.

It’s his trademark, the doctor spoke, with such conviction that Michael was compelled to listen and momentarily dismissed the desire of wishing he was not present for the meeting. The agent had heard of a drug-importer who mutilated spies, competitors, and those considered untrustworthy within his organization by slashing their faces with a razor blade.

He always scars the faces of his victims prior to their deaths, the doctor continued. His method of murder varies: a bullet to the head, slicing the throat. Once, he threw a member of his drug distribution team into the Hudson River, bound alive to a chair. The doctor paused, perhaps thinking of other hideous methods of murder committed by this bloodthirsty man. But to Michael, it appeared as if the old man was searching for justification.

But no matter what method, all of his victims get the scar. Bishop pointed once again to the man smiling in the picture and said, His name is Torque Valentine, and the man he is talking to is his brother, Giuseppe. Together, they have created a very powerful and feared drug cartel. Once again, he paused. A look of hatred passed across his face and then out his mouth as he quietly spat out the words, This poison must be destroyed.

The drugs? No, he clearly meant the man with the scar, Torque Valentine.

Bishop, tell me, Buliva spoke while knocking out another cigarette and offering him one. The doctor shock his head no, only to appease Franklin. Is it murderers you hate? The agent paused to light up. While exhaling, he finished the question, Or just Italian murderers?

The agent had to ask, placing himself in the last category. He had nothing to lose since he was already on Bishop’s shit list. Turning toward him for the first time, Buliva looked straight into the man’s eyes and was surprised to see a hint of a tear forming. But hatred overcame and resurfaced in anger as he shouted out, Damn you, Buliva, you’ve got a job to do! Just do it, and don’t concern yourself with my reasons!

Franklin quickly took control by insisting that everyone act like the professionals they were. Getting back to business, gentlemen. Buliva, as I said earlier, Dr. Bishop is providing us an excellent opportunity. Let’s decide if we can handle it. Franklin didn’t ask, Will you consider taking on this secretive mission? Just, Are you capable?

Bishop settled down and started hunting through the pictures, searching for one in particular.

What’s wrong with the CIA? Why don’t they handle it? Michael asked, leaning back into the chair.

Franklin shot Buliva that You’re bothering me look as he rested his elbows on the desk and began rubbing his hands together. The doctor found the picture he was hunting for and waited on Franklin to reply. He was obviously in tune with the fact that the agent would do Franklin’s bidding.

Sucking in a glob of air, Franklin explained, Because the CIA obeys orders. Pushing up his glasses that slid down his sweaty nose, he added, And those orders are issued by the state department which, in simplest terms, states, ‘Don’t mess around with petty thieves and screw up our tight, friendly, and long-term relationship with the Bahamian government.’

He took a sip of coffee before continuing, So, as we choose to look the other way, our buddies at the Bahamian government take full advantage of the situation. Taking bribes, they allow safe harbor to petty thieves who smuggle drugs into our country, selling them to our children.

The innocence of children. He knew the right buttons to push. As a kid living off the streets, Buliva grew up hating injustice. The agent despised the way those with any kind of power, no matter how small, took advantage of those less fortunate. Images filed away long ago darted across Michael’s mind. Someone—his sister or whoever—took care of that little boy he once was, climbed into a big car because the driver promised her money, and then she was gone. The car took off, and Michael never saw her again.

Fighting off the tears, the agent’s mind quickly sought refuge in memories of his adoptive father, Mario. Why he took Michael in, the agent would never know. Mario had little money. He was in poor health and had no patience whatsoever. The two of them always struggled financially. Michael never had too much of anything, except for one thing: his adoptive father. He gave Michael everything he had from his name to his knowledge of carpentry to teaching the teenager right from wrong. His insights into life, including breaking away from what is safe and doing what had to get done, like taking care of an unwanted child, forever influenced Michael’s response to his world. Now, looking back a little over two decades, Michael realized what was really important: his adoptive father’s love and concern for him, brief as it was. Any extras to that would have been stripped away as meaningless baggage.

The doctor gently placed his hand on the agent’s shoulder. Perhaps he understood his emotions, although the doctor knew all the background info on Buliva, the personal points, like an older sister, remained locked inside. It was not fear of the doctor using this information against Michael as Franklin might do that caused Buliva to hold on to the inner secrets. It was the fear that no one would care. Michael thought, Maybe someday, I’ll open up to this old man. Perhaps there is more to him than I give him credit.

Handing Buliva the picture, a blowup of an area of the grounds near a section of the security fence, the doctor pointed to a conductor contained on the fence. You see, the fence is electric—

He was about to tell the obvious when the agent spotted something interesting in the picture, so he cut off the doctor to question Franklin, Did you notice the whistle mines?

Franklin reached for the picture to verify Buliva’s find when Bishop stated defensively, I was just about to point them out. Even I can see them sticking up out of the ground.

The agent ignored him and spoke directly to his boss, Do you think they realize what they have?

If they do, then they have someone within their organization who has special training in high-tech weaponry, such as yourself. Franklin looked over at the doctor whose expression conveyed confusion with the interest in the mines.

The whistle mine is a top secret weapon devised during our stint in Afghanistan. The ex-task force commander paused to let the doctor digest the fact that he was about to hear classified information before he continued, These mines can explode when stepped on, of course, but these babies were engineered with an on/off switch. One could hear the excitement in Franklin’s voice over the cleverness of the weapon’s design. If we were traveling on a stretch of road, a silent high-pitched sound wave—

Thus the name ‘whistle,’ Buliva chirped in with a smile.

Yes, Franklin replied, shooting the agent a look for interrupting before continuing on with his description, a whistle could shut off the mines, giving the impression that the road was clear. Once we got passed the mines, another sound wave would turn the mines back on!

Completely fooling the enemy, Buliva added to Franklin’s last comment.

But how could a drug cartel get their hands on such a secretive weapon? And what significance do these whistle mines have to do with our plans?

Michael answered the doctor’s first question. When the Soviet Union finally had enough and got the hell out of the country, the US wanted the troops out ASAP, of course, to appease the media. So the order was issued to bolt, only take out what you could carry. A cleanup detachment was ordered in to do all the dirty work, like dig up mines. But many of our so-called finest went in first, stealing the equipment and making a mint selling the weapons on the black market.

The tactical administrator of the FBI answered Bishop’s second question bluntly, We can take control of their defense, either deactivate the mines or, with a single signal, cause them all to explode!

Since Buliva actually had more expertise utilizing the mines than Franklin, he felt justified in clarifying his supervisor’s final point: Mines can be programmed to self-explode at a designated time while others nearby remain deactivated. There are many possibilities.

Dr. Bishop was not about to drop the issue. He wanted to know how the Franklin and Buliva team was going to bust these guys, so he continued, Yes, but how will you get into their complex?

That’s our business, Doctor. The less you know, the better, Franklin quickly responded while rubbing his massive hands in front of the old man. It was the tactical administrator’s standard reassuring way to convey strength, meaning, I got this.

But it was obvious to Michael that Bishop was uncomfortable with the idea of letting go as he watched the old man gently shake his head back and forth while staring blankly back at Franklin in reply. Michael picked up on the vibe that, in some way, the doctor wanted to contribute to the clause. So the agent decided to push it and make the old man squirm a bit. Doc, you could help us, though. The agent, trespassing on his supervisor’s territory of using others, could feel Franklin staring him down. Michael ignored him.

What is it? How can I help? the doctor replied, eager to be part of the action.

I am aware of a new weapon designed for the army called the Barracuda.

Yes, what of it? he responded.

Not taking his eyes off of him, Buliva said, We need two of them pronto, to complete this mission.

That’s impossible! The Barracuda is top secret! Bishop stared up at Franklin, shaking his head and looking for support. Franklin was the guy who ran the show and definitely did not like to be topped by his sidekick, but this time, he threw a curveball.

Buliva’s right. Doctor, that weapon will significantly assist us in accomplishing this difficult operation. Michael was not sure if Franklin actually believed that or even cared, but what was transforming right before the agent’s eyes was the Franklin manipulation machine firing up into high gear. Buliva figured Franklin was going to find out just how far he could push the doctor and then gauge from there how he could use the old man in the not-too-distant future.

Bishop stood up, shaking his head and talking rapidly. Listen, I’m FBI, not the damn army! We’re not on the same team here, Gary. There is no reason for the army to give me this weapon, not one!

Franklin began to rub his massive hands in a slow methodical manner, hand over hand, giving the doctor time to sit back down. The tactical administrator of the FBI, taking his time, started to explain the situation. Doctor, Buliva is ready to risk his life.

Bishop glanced over at the agent.

And I am willing to jeopardize my position with the bureau. Now, if this operation is not worth it, you tell us, and we’ll pull back. On the other hand, if you truly feel this exercise is necessary, then you need to do your part as well. Franklin spoke very calmly with conviction. Michael doubted if the dynamic duo would back out of the assignment, but it sounded convincing to him.

Bishop put his head down, then he slowly nodded in agreement as he stated, I can say the bureau needs to evaluate—he stopped, realizing this was the first of many requests he may have to swallow—the mental stress such a weapon as the Barracuda could impose on an individual.

Looking into the old man’s eyes, Michael noticed tears starting to well up. The agent knew there was more to this story, so he looked at Franklin for some input, but he was busy searching through the papers on his desk for some detail. Suddenly, Buliva did not care if the old man gave him poor reviews and criticized him every chance he could. The agent felt for him.

Don’t push me off this time. I need to know why.

Bishop shot Buliva a puzzled look as the agent continued. Come on, Bishop, you heard Franklin’s speech. We’re putting everything on the line for this. We have the right to know what this guy did to you personally.

Franklin stopped his paper hunt and focused his attention on Bishop.

Dr. John Bishop pulled out a handkerchief and began to wipe his eyes. I guess that’s only fair. Four years ago— He choked on a knot in his throat, and after forcing it down, he slowly continued, I was asked to identify the remains of a young man as best as I could. You see, the young man’s hands were tied to the bumper of a car, and he was dragged behind it until his flesh was practically removed from his body. Only one mark was easily identifiable, a scar that ran down his right cheek. The old man took a deep breath, and his body seemed to shrink as he exhaled. The other two men sat with their eyes fixated on the doctor, waiting for him to finish. The young man—he wiped the tears that were streaking down his face—was my son.

Buliva had to ask. He had to know. His boss looked across the desk at him, the words, Are you happy now? written clearly across his black face.

Michael thought, What can I do? And then the answer came to him: What I was trained to do.

Doctor Bishop. The agent put his hand on the doctor’s shoulder. The old man had removed his glasses to wipe his tears, and for the first time, Buliva saw his blue eyes without the extreme convex look. They were searching for hope. "I will eliminate this monster." The doctor remained focused on Michael, believing his words.

Franklin rose and came beside Bishop. He can do it, John, Franklin stated as he assisted the doctor out of his chair. Bishop’s eyes remained fixed on Buliva until Franklin guided him around the chair and toward the door of his office.

Helen will take you home now. I will get back to you late tomorrow morning with the specifics. In a very quiet and calm voice, Michael heard Franklin tell Bishop not to worry, that everything would turn out all right.

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¹ Already There Artist: Truth, Album More than You’ll Ever Imagine, Written by: Christopher M. Rice.

² Welcome to the Next Level Artist: East to West, Album East to West, Writers: Brian Gene White and Todd Christopher Burns.

2

The man, in his late twenties, sat just outside of Mr. Harry Yentle’s office, obviously frustrated at his current state. Professor Mark Sterner was totally out of his environment. After the past five years of working almost daily out of a laboratory, he contrasted with the administrative setting. The first three of those five years were spent in the research labs at the University of Israel. As Mark’s research slowly went from theory to fact, the experiments began to take on a life of their own, demanding more money and attention, especially from the military. When costs of his experiments skyrocketed, the Israeli government requested financial support from the US, who promptly took control of the research. Thus, Sterner moved to a US military facility in Charleston, North Carolina, two years ago. From there, it’s been