Angels Don't Die (Madeleine Toche Series Book 2) (3 page)

             
“I don't trust the phone, so I'm going to DC myself,” John said.

             
“Keep it on the QT Colonel; you're not exactly unknown in Washington.”

             
“No, I suppose not. You and Karen stay here so one of you is by the phone at all times.  I’ll try Brad Smith first and see where that gets me.  There could be a very simple explanation.”

             
“Karen and I will monitor the phone while you’re gone.  I'm sure it's just an extended training exercise, some kind of black out conditions,” Joseph said reassuringly.

             
“Let’s hope so.  I'll be sure to tread lightly,” John said.

CHAPTER FOUR

             
John had been to the Pentagon on a couple of occasions and the sheer magnitude of the place always impressed him. He strode up to the reception desk.

             
“I’m Colonel Trunce, I’m looking for Captain Bradley Smith, 86
th
Airborne,” John said to a Sergeant seated behind the desk.

             
“Is he expecting you, Sir?”  The soldier said, his eyes drawn to the impressive array of medals on John’s chest.

             
“No, but if he’s busy I’d like to leave him a phone message.”  John smiled as the man picked up a phone and dialed an extension.

             
“An escort will be right down to take you up.”

             
“Thank you.”

             
John leaned against the counter, his easy posture hiding his discomfort in having to come to the Pentagon at all.  His worry grew with each day.  He knew his best chance would be to look Smith in the eye when he asked for the favor.

             
Within a few minutes a smartly dressed private walked up

             
“If you'll follow me, sir, I'll take you to Captain Smith.”

             
“Lead the way, private,” John said gesturing down the hallway with his hand.

             
John was glad for the escort; the Pentagon was a maze of corridors with hundreds of people rushing about.  There was still a war on and apparently a great deal of work to get done.  Civilians jostled with military personnel from every service.  The farther they went into the massive building, the more John hoped he could persuade Smith to meet with him in a more private setting.

             
After several minutes, the private stopped by a solid oak door and rapped on the wood loud enough for the receptionist to hear.

             
“Right this way, colonel,” the receptionist gestured.

             
John was led through another set of doors.  Captain Smith jumped to his feet and came around the side of the desk.  He looked like a recruiting poster, tall with sandy blond hair and a ready smile.  He reached out to shake John’s hand and gave him a quick clasp on the shoulder.

“Colonel, I thought you were rotating out of this mess,” he said gesturing to a chair. 

             
“Well I am.  Karen finally put her foot down and I've been inactive for two years now.  It’s time to retire and take it easy,” John said looking around the room his eyes coming to rest on a series of photographs arranged behind Smith’s desk.  “I see you’ve got pictures of our bivouac near Da Nang from ’64.  That seems like a long time ago now, Brad,” John said, refusing the offered chair and pointing to one of the larger pictures depicting a group of soldiers casually posing in front of a tank, displaying their weapons.

             
“It was a long time ago.  I was just a lowly green grunt then, fresh off the boat.  Those days were wild.  I never knew what to expect from day to day following you and major Harper around the bush.  You two always took good care of us,” Smith said looking at the pictures.  He turned his attention back to John and folded his arms over his chest.  “So, Colonel what brings you here?” Smith said, sitting on the edge of his desk.  “Did you just come to say hi, then?” His eyes betrayed that he knew John wasn’t there for a social visit.

             
“Do you think I could steal you away for a burger somewhere?  I've got a situation that might best be discussed elsewhere,” John said.

             
Smith frowned a bit and said, “Let me get my coat.  A couple old comrades in arms out for a bit of lunch won't raise any eyebrows. Is it anything serious?”

             
“It’s a personal question,” John said already moving towards the door.  Smith took the lead, holding the door open for John as he pulled his coat off the hook on the back of the door.  Smith led them quickly back down through the corridors and outside through the reception area.

             
The two men walked out to John's car and drove into town to find a burger joint where they could sit outside. The two men chatted casually as Smith directed John to drive past the numerous restaurants that catered to the Pentagon and its employees, and to a quiet, out-of-the way hamburger stand a few miles down the road. The men walked up to the window and looked over the menu.

“If the burgers are as good as they smell, you brought me to the right place,” John said placing his order.

  When their food and drinks came, the men walked over to a table set away from the other patrons, under a spreading oak tree.  The sun was heating up and the shade was welcome.  Summer was giving way to fall but the sun was still intense.  They sat down and unwrapped their food.  Before John could speak, Smith held up his hand.

             
“Before you say anything John, I know what this is about.  Whether you see them or not, there may be eyes on us.  What I’m going to tell you will be hard to hear, but I know you’re a tough son of a bitch, so act like I’m telling you about my golf game.  I doubt they’d follow us here, but the NSA keeps track of what’s going on, especially if it concerns a hot spot like the Middle East,” Smith said, casually looking around to see if any of the patrons seemed out of place.  “Okay, here goes, I won’t say who, but a friend of ours informed me that there was an incident in Jerusalem involving your son.  Tracy's girlfriend, a Mossad agent, was killed by a suicide bomber while they were at a local market.  I was told that Tracy was abducted.  The murder of his girlfriend was just a diversion so that they could easily grab him.  It was a gruesome mess.  When the bomb went off, there were several bystanders hit with shrapnel from the suicide bomber’s explosive vest.  There was nothing Tracy or his girlfriend could have done,” Smith said with a sad shrug of his shoulders.

             
“Who was it, the Russians?” John said.

             
“No, believe it or not, they don't want any trouble there either.  They are waiting in the weeds to see what happens and then take advantage of the situation if it presents itself. But the Israelis, the Egyptians and Syrians look like they're going to have a go at it pretty soon.  Tensions are mounting and all of the countries involved remember what happened in ‘67’ during the Six Day War.  Israel is convinced they won’t be attacked, following the shellacking they gave their neighbors during that conflict.  But we’re not so sure.  The Egyptians and Syrians harbor a great deal of resentment towards Israel and want the territories back that Israel now occupies.  In reality, they want more than that.  The Arabs want the Jews pushed back into the sea.”

“Good luck. The Israelis aren’t likely to do that voluntarily.  Their mandate is to push their enemies out of Israeli territory and fight on foreign soil.  Not only that, the Israeli people consider themselves to be front line soldiers.  Two years of compulsory military training sees to that,” John said, taking a bite of his burger.

“All I know is that our projections lean towards lots of dead soldiers on either side.  Israel's General Sharon is one tough bastard; he was there from the beginning, the 1948 War of Independence, along with some rather unsavory characters left over from World War II.  Sharon's always in the thick of it and you know he'll be there this time,” Smith said.

             
“What about Tracy,” John said steeling himself for the worst.

             
“We think they’ll keep him alive for now.  The likelihood is that the PLO has him and it is in their best interests to keep him alive as a bargaining chip, if things don't go well for the Arab coalition.  The word from above is that the United States has to be seen as neutral, regardless of our demonstrated support of Israel.  In short, we can’t help them start a war.  The Russians are going to take the same approach.  The area is too strategically vital to choose sides.  We'll do what we can, but if they shut off our oil, that could be disastrous. The problem is if we acknowledge that we have an NSA agent on the ground there, they will assume there are more.  The PLO might not even know who or what they've got.  They’re still pretty disorganized, but they're smart enough to understand what can be accomplished without bloodshed if they use some strategy,” Smith answered.

             
“Of course nobody was crazy enough to grab any Russians, and even the score, were they?” 
             

“No, the Russians and Israelis don't really tolerate one another.  The unwritten alignment is the US and Israel and the Soviets and the Arabs.  The PLO must just be following what the Syrians are telling them, in the hope that their homeland will be liberated when the war is over.”

             
“So, nobody's going to go get Tracy, at least not now?”  John said.

             
“Not unless the Mossad do it.  Of course the NSA or some other group will retaliate for Tracy’s capture when things are less tense.  These clandestine agencies tend to send clear messages when one of their own has been compromised,” Smith said, trying to avoid discussing the possibility of Tracy’s death.

             
“The Mossad is more likely to retaliate for the death of their agent as opposed to rescuing an American agent, even though he was training with them when all this happened,” John said, disgusted.

             
“Everyone in that region is on pins and needles; nobody is going to do anything until one side is ready to move on the other.  It's like a game of chicken right now, except neither side is chicken.  This is age old hatred, and as you know there have been other fights and skirmishes in the past,” Smith said, pushing some fries into his mouth.

             
“And my kid's in the middle of it,” John said, shaking his head.

             
“Sorry, John, my pay scale's not high enough to give you any more information than I already have. I could get in a lot of trouble for telling you this much.”

             
“Brad, don't worry.  You’re a good man and I’m not without allies up the chain of command.  I won't involve you in anyway.”

             
“Thanks, John.  I owe you a lot more help than I've given you today.”

             
“At least I know what I'm up against.  I appreciate your help,” John said.

             
John dropped Smith back at the Pentagon.  It didn't seem to him that anyone was taking an active interest in their meeting and he knew Brad would never speak of it to anyone.  John drove back to the airport weighing his options.  This was something he would have to do himself.  It had to be the Middle East, he thought.  He'd stick out like a sore thumb there.  He was tall, thin and about as American looking as Uncle Sam.  There were countless old comrades who would help him, but they had their own lives to lead.  Asking them to drop everything and go snooping around a powder keg like Israel wasn't fair.  His buddies were soldiers, not spies.

             
John’s first concern was how to tell Karen.  She would be wild with fear.  He had a decision to make, one that would probably cost many lives. It was certain that the government would wash their hands of the matter.  They would be willing to sacrifice one man for the good of American interests in the region.  He didn't know where to begin.  He was worried that if he went through channels, too many eyes would be on him, too many questions asked.  John decided to act quickly before any agency could establish solid surveillance and track his movements.

CHAPTER
FIVE

             
John pulled into his driveway just as Karen walked out the front door drying her hands with a dish rag.  As soon as he stepped from the car, she walked slowly towards him, her eyes raking his face for signs of hope.

             
“Where's my boy?” Karen said, holding onto John. John sighed and put both of his arms around her.

“We think he's being held prisoner by the PLO, somewhere in Israel or Syria.”

             
“He's alive, then?” Karen said, her face buried in John’s chest.