A glimpse into my novels

The Change We Need

 

Chapter 1

“I always liked the sun and the fresh air until we met, my friend.” Kenny was grouchy while continuing to ascend the steep hillside with his companion.

Johnson started to complain about the heat and his throat, recalling he had brought his Spanish wine bag, known as a bota, to quench his thirst, even at this early hour on a workday. He raised the kidney shaped cured leather pouch, squeezing the sides, aiming for his mouth and squirted the red Rioja wine, a bullseye shot, landing directly on target. While enjoying the cool liquid quenching his thirst, the alcohol racing through his mind, his thoughts went to that summer in Spain when he met his girlfriend and bought the wine bag. “Hey, I could tell you stories about this pouch….” He stopped talking suddenly, recovering his balance after almost slipping on the trail.

“Wow, that was close. It was a real slippery slope. Got that, a slippery slope. I’ve got billions of them.” Gesturing and talking like Jimmy Durante.

Kenny and his companion arrived at the peak of the cliff. The sunshine was bright, rays cascading through the waterfalls, emptying into the raging river, guaranteed the sight to be splendorous, the plethora of the rainbow’s colors  made the rapids more pleasurable. Kenny glanced down at the fast-moving waters and said, “Nothing personal, just business.” 

He threw the dead body from his shoulders into the river, knowing it would carry  it far, hopefully, to the ocean; but Kenny wasn’t certain if the rivers emptied into the ocean. Hell, I should have studied more before becoming  a ‘hitman’ for one of those three lettered institutions.

Kenny Johnson descended the hill after texting his boss in Virginia, “Mission accomplished.”

Turning back towards the cliff, speaking to the recently deceased terrorist: “Have a quality day.”

 

“Why do you listen to this crap?” Crespo asked his colleague.

“The public thinks this is how we are, hit men and killers, just because we have CIA in our job title. That is why I enjoy this crap. I am beginning to believe it myself.”  Answering, while his partner was  making a right turn into the FBI headquarters. A one-story high fence surrounded the building, and the entrance was barricaded by cement columns to prevent a terrorist attack.

“Your right, but we are as law abiding as those fibbies. Don’t you think they do some wicked undercover stuff? I wouldn’t be surprised if they water boarded some of those…” Startled by a knock on the glass, he stopped talking. His colleague lowered the window and presented his ID to the guard. Crespo followed through, gaining entrance to the compound. 

“Crespo, you seem nervous, long night?”

“You know, Connie and I are having trouble. She wants me to be at home more with her and the kids. She also worries that something might happen to me. Am I getting soft?”

“Come on, something could happen to you, the same could happen to me, we work for the Company. I don’t think you’re getting soft; I think you’re getting wise. It’s a dangerous job, hard on our lives and harder on our family’s. I’m on number three already and only in my forties. I know what you mean, I feel like I am missing a lot in my life.”

“You might be missing out on things, but make your life on what you have, not what your missing.”

“Is that a biblical quote?”

“No, I remember it from a book I read, ‘The Forgotten Garden.’ I think she took it from Samson in the bible who asked God to give him what he needed, strength to destroy his captures, never mentioning he was missing his sight. I’m arsed about all the time and energy put into this work, looking back makes me feel like we have done nothing to really help. I want to make a difference, make a meaningful life, that’s why I’m arsed, and you should be as well.”

“My biblical scholar, sometimes you are more an ass, than arsed. What the hell does that mean?”

“My ignorant friend, it means I am concerned. ”

“If you’re concerned now, wait till we get in that meeting, that’ll make you more arsed. Don’t forget to get down notes for Senator Cross; he’s waiting for our report to open up his investigation.”

“Hell, you know how long it takes for the senate to finish investigating. I hope the senator wins many re-elections, if he ever thinks of bringing that conclusion to fruition.”

“He’s not as ignorant as you think, spy buddy, when he gets hold of this, he’ll make it higher up than the senate, believe me. Let’s get going.” Bennie Gross exclaimed while they took the elevator up to the meeting.

 

While William Johnson was parking his Mercedes 500 series in the reserved for director’s spot, John Murray, federal public defender, found parking for his pristine sports Jaguar in a spot dedicated for attorney parking. Johnson went on his way to the fifth floor, passing through the checkpoint, with a nod of the head and a “yes sir, come this way, sir,” from the FBI security. Murray was required to show his identification, go through a metal scanner, hand over his attaché case and personal possessions to the security; not permitted to pass until going under a fine scrutiny. 

Today was no different than any other beautiful spring day in Miami, with the exception that it was the start of spring break in the public-school system. Many employees took a week off during this time, those in the Federal Bureau of Investigation were no exception, leaving the Miami FBI building more than half empty. The halls of the fifth floor were completely vacant. The lack of bodies who could observe and talk were absent, making it the right time to hold a quiet meeting that would not be seen, therefore would not be remembered.

The fifth-floor conference room in the North Beach FBI building was crowded with federal prosecutors, CIA, NSA, DEA, DOJ, AG, and FBI agents drinking coffee, laughing about the last time they partied together. The atmosphere was typical and casual until Captain Charlie entered. They dubbed him Captain Charlie because he was in the Charlie unit during the Gulf War, making a big name for himself saving the line at the cost of three US lives, also his name is Charles W Dunn the Third.

The men stood as Captain Dunn entered the room; the surroundings changed from the casual party talkers to the attentive brow-creased hardcore military wanna be officers. The air was set to sixty-five degrees, an exceptionally low temperature, the coolness of the room thwarted  the crowded space from becoming sticky. The lights were not overly bright, as not to be harsh; similar to the lighting a magician would use in their shows to persuade and fool the audience. “We have a lot to talk about today, so let’s get started. You all know me, and I expect this group to be an effective tool to show our great country how important our job is. We will protect the citizens from those criminals who steal our money, drug our sons, and rape our daughters! We will do anything necessary to defend and protect, that is our motto. If you do not have the balls or stomach to work on this project leave now before I go further. I will not think any less of you if you decide to walk away. We only want those that will be able to give this project one hundred and one percent. Any questions?”

No one stirred, not even a murmur was heard; excluding a few that shouted with pride. “The one hundred and one percent project!” The name took hold as the ‘one O one team. This group was a well-trained squad, accustomed to working with the captain, knowing from experience he would make many pep talks to get the most out of them; this one was no different, that is what they thought. They also knew that when, not if, they succeeded, each one in the team would make a name for themselves; a reputation that would help them rise above their colleagues who did not have the conscience to circumvent, if not completely ignore their scruples. They believed that it was worth the extra effort and possible unethical behavior that they are accustomed to while working with Dunn. The saying is ‘well done Captain Dunn’ after each mission and this would be the same.

After a short break for coffee refills, the group returned to the table, the business at hand started with the account of how many new federal prisons were planned for the next four years and how the current president wanted to look good fighting crime. The conversation geared towards the legal aspects of indictment and the rules dealing with the inclusion of the conspiracy concept. Captain Dunn knew he was preaching to the choir, many of those present had law degrees, no problems bending the rules to satisfy the needs of the governmental majority, at least not in the past, and he knew that they would do the same in the future, as long as it suits their advancement.

“Agents, prosecutors and other attendees, we must fill the cells to increase the number of bad guys we catch. Right now, people are getting away with murder, and no one is looking. Others are smoking guns who think they can do whatever they want because they do not get caught. We must catch them before they get away. Better yet, before they do the job, grab them in the act.“ The team worked during the lunch hour; food was brought in from a local deli. They all sat around eating lunch while ideas were thrown into the discussion, some bright, some not so bright, all were considered.

“How about we start calling people, offering them illegal work for good money. After that, we arrest them when they finish the work, we would fill the prisons faster.” One attendee from the DOJ said.

“Are you going to pick up the phone book and start calling?” Another attendee responded.

“No, use Google search!” Taunted another.

“We can use our confidential informers to spread the word that there are some good opportunities to make money, with drugs, or whatever we want to get them involved in. Then we set them up, and the marks they contact. Not only will we be able to double or triple our case load, but we will also pick up some extra snitches at the same time.”

“Sounds like a win-win situation to me. I am happy to see the participation of this group has grown into a persuasive and disciplined squad. You are following in my footsteps and really has me feeling the closeness and unity of our group, worthy of my trust and appreciation. We are all in this together, like one big family.

 “If everyone agrees that is a good idea, we can start working this into the project to convince people to break the law. It should be easy enough to persuade some to commit crimes, then we arrest them; the local police are doing this all the time with their sting operation, using the vice squad.”

“When they can’t find enough hookers to arrest, they set up a sting operation and send out female officers to entice the Johns. Why can’t we do this at the federal level? Why wait till the individual commits the crime; we arrest the perk when he agrees to perpetrate the offense.” The captain commented throwing in the concept of conspiracy as an indictable act, the same as the actual crime.

“But how do we catch the big fish? They are not easy and not frequent.” another FBI agent asked.

Judy Gable took advantage of this moment to speak up. “We have a lot of money and can print more; it does not matter how long it takes. Why not just watch and wait till the little guy gets bigger, then we arrest him?”

”Who said that?” Spurted Bill Johnson. 

The culprit was shy and thought she was being reprimanded, to her surprise, the division head continued with a very complimentary comment. At least that is how Ms. Gable acted.

“This is the best idea I’ve heard today. We follow small fish until they get fat enough to catch, just like a fish farm. We set the bait, letting  them bite until they’re ripe to snag.” Responded Johnson.

Captain Charlie commented: “Looks like we have accomplished a lot, now it’s time to work on expanding the ideas we picked up today. Next, we will meet at department level. Just the heads or representatives will be here tomorrow to decide how to continue. Ladies and Gentlemen, we made excellent progress today and I want to congratulate everyone here for creating great ideas.  

“Looks OK, project ‘Fish Farm’ and the ‘101 team’ will soon commence. Once again, I appreciate this interdepartmental cooperation that you have shown, your enthusiasm reaches a common goal and achieves our outcome. Let’s break for the evening. Bill, can you stay for a few minutes to talk something over?” Dunn and Johnson shook hands or back patted most of the participants departing from the meeting. 

 

The two CIA attendees left the conference together. “Hey Crespo, the name sound familiar; the one from this morning in your radio show?” 

“Kenny Johnson has a lot more balls than this crook. William Johnson might be the director, but he still seems to me like a crook.”

“Crook or no crook he is the director of this district, and we are not responsible to him.”

“Let’s hope that we don’t get involved in this scheme; doesn’t look Kosher.”

“Hey Crespo, what do you know about Kosher, I am Rabinowitz.” Both men laughed and continued on their way. Gross avoided using his name and preferred to identify himself as David Rabinowitz, his partner knew nothing about his real history.

 

When the group left, Dunn and Johnson retired to Captain Dunn’s office on the ninth floor, reserved for the brass. Johnson stepped off the elevator, sinking into the thick, rich dark- golden carpet. The captain’s office has the same plush carpeting as the hall. His desk made of fine mahogany matched the door and the red leather chairs, soft and comfortable, were placed in the corner near a table. Charlie pulled out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Double Black, serving two three finger pours in fine crystal whiskey glasses.

“Some ice or water?”

“Just fine how it stands, neat, just like we had in the jungle. Nice hidden bar, I should have one in my office.”

The two went back further than the Gulf; knowing each other from their teenage years, when they entered into the service. Since that time, both decided to work in law enforcement, one became chief of the FBI headquarters, the other district head of the Federal Prosecutor’s Office.

“Bill, how do you think it went today?”

“You are a genius my friend; that’s how it went, that is why you are the boss. The way you made them all think that it was their idea, the whole sting and fish farm. Having them united as the one hundred and one percent  team was a great idea. I give you credit Charlie; as they say, you are the man.” Thinking to himself; I am controlling everything, but better to give credit to others. If it fails, I carry  no blame, it was someone else’s concept. If it makes good, I give credit to others, making allies and seen as a great guy to everyone; while in reality, I benefit from the plan, indifferent to who gets credit for disclosing the idea. Sort of like a race car driver who has nothing to do with building the racetrack, drives his car and wins the race.

“Oh, not so easy Bill. The 101 was a beneficial coincidence. You made that woman take the credit for the fish farm; we will follow those small fish till they grow bigger, what a plan we have going. It sounds almost illegal.”

“About almost illegal, it was illegal; until we just made it legal, right now in our meeting. At least I hope it is. Also, I have to congratulate you on opening the door to the conspiracy theory.” Chuckled Johnson. 

“I’ll drink to that and to your mistress Judy.”

They both finished their Johnnie Double Black and called it a night. Charles left for his house down south, Johnson to drove to his luxury hideaway condo near the beach, to meet with Judy.

While walking to his car, Johnson approached a well-dressed young man entering a Jaguar sports car from the sixties, a classic automobile. “That is a beautiful model and well kept. Do you work here?”

“I came to see a client, and you.”

“I am William Johnson, division director of the Federal Prosecutor’s Office. Since you are here on this beautiful day interviewing a client, I would assume that you are my adversary.” Chuckling.

“Director Johnson, I have heard about you, I believe we are both looking for the same outcome, justice. Let me introduce myself, John Murray, public defender.” Reaching out and shaking hands with Johnson.

“Mr. Murray, I didn’t know they paid that well in the public defender’s office to purchase a car like that. You must be a fantastic lawyer. If you ever decide to come over to our side come by and see me.”

“Like I said, we are all working for justice, but if I find it is better from your point of view, I might just do that.”

 

 

The Spy Game

 

Chapter 1

“The dry heat swept up from the desert sand and felt like a fire pit, probably 120 degrees. Who knows, here everything is in metric and Celsius. All I know is that I am toasting and when I am finished, cooked on both sides, they will send me home.” John continued texting Judy on his satellite phone. “I just wanna be home.”

“Just come back in one piece. Oh, and don't forget to get a nice gift for your wife and the twins.” Judy responded.

John closed his eyes and thought about how his life had changed in the past few years. He went from public defender to federal prosecutor to special investigator for the Senate Ethics Committee. Now his new post is head of the vice president's special services. He was a mixture of Jason Bourne and James Bond. John laughed to himself as he walked along the hot sand. He also thought how his career advanced, but not like his stepfather's climbing from senator Paul Cross to president of the United States. John walked while fantasizing about his wife and twins, son, and daughter. His thoughts were interrupted by another text from Judy.

“We are going to have dinner with Cynthia and Peter. Cynthia's son will be a perfect playmate for Max an Esther.” 

“John pondered, Cynthia Baptista was head psychiatrist at a major psychiatric hospital in Miami, Peter Connors had medical privileges as a neurosurgeon in the same facility. Cynthia and Judy had a little affair in the past, girl thing, just made her more interesting. Every time he looked at Cynthia, he imagined her and Judy naked together. His conspicuous stare turned into a gawk, and that was dangerous.

“Doctors, lawyers, and spooks all of the same family and friends.” John stopped texting after hearing a loud crack when he took a step. He was told in training that it could be the sound made by stepping on a landmine. Even with the dry heat he felt the sweat coming down his head and face. Fear took over for only a few seconds, calling out to his buddy, a Mossad trainer. “Benni, landmine!” screaming while pointing down to his right foot.

“Don't move, stay where you are, and we will help you get out of this with all your limbs attached.” Major Byron Gross, aka Benjamine/Benni, responded calmly yet forcefully.

The team manipulated the pressure plate, preventing it from exploding, allowing John to leap off, falling to the ground and rolling over on the hot desert sand. The crew disarmed the mine.

“ The threat has been contained. John, you did the right thing, but if this had been a real situation, not a drill, would you have acted the same?”

“This was a drill!  No one told me that! I thought it was the real mine, and I was going to die. When did you say this was a drill? I never heard that!” John was breathless with anxiety.

“Oh, that's right, you don't understand Hebrew. Well, we told everyone else.” Byron smiled.

John, upset but understanding, knew he had passed the hazing and had been inaugurated into the group. Remembering what led up to this course by the Mossad when they were enjoying a French pastry last month.

One month before, in Washington DC, overlooking Layfette Square, the popular park in front of the White House, three gentlemen dressed like stuffy English bankers sat around munching a plate of exquisitely prepared appetizers of clams, oysters, and other shellfish. Jack was chucking the oysters after drizzling fresh squeezed lemon juice, washing it down with a Sauvignon Blanc. They drank and laughed, preparing for the main course of brochettes of roasted lamb and a fine light red wine. Although acting like common tourists, their attention was centered around a unique military detail of the United States Marine Core’s Finest, protecting the president and his dwelling.

“Charlie, what do you think of the situation, can we get in?” Jack asked.

“Why do we have to use these names? You can call me by my right name.” answered the Gray-haired man with a strong Middle Eastern accent.

“You know why. We cannot let anyone know about our plans here. You are not a fool Charlie.” Speaking with a stronger Middle Eastern accent, emphasizing the name Charlie.

“Just call me Richard and with your accent it makes little difference who you call yourselves. Better not to talk at all or we will end up in a top security federal prison for terrorists and treason. You are worried about getting in, I am more interested in being able to get out.” chuckled the Englishman eating with them. “Let me do the talking and you two will be responsible for the weapons.”

“You are the right man for that, but we need to get into those tunnels under the White House and rescue our friend. They are holding him there. We need to extract him before he talks!” Charlie responded, emphasizing the word ‘before.’ Making it understandable that if they waited too long all will be for naught.

“OK gents, I think we can clarify this easily enough. You set up the meeting with the arms dealer and I will find a way into the tunnels and develop a plan to escape without being shot. All I need is a few days to contact the right person.”

“We do not have a few days, we needed to be there yesterday, as you English say.” responded Jack, the older man who appeared to be in charge.

“In that case we better get the weapons now. Let me text my friend to help us get in, and out, of those tunnels.”

“I don't trust you Englishmen; how do I know you will not turn us all in for a reward?” spoke up the terrorist called Charlie

“Oh, how much are you worth, alive or dead?” chuckled Richard.

Richard texts the following. “One of the top terrorists was recently captured and is being held and interrogated in the underground cells located somewhere in the massive tunnels leading from the White House to the congressional building and the Pentagon. The underground city is known to exist but the full disclosure regarding holding, and interrogation cells was not released. Unknown to most top-level officials, located in the maze is the most secure prison in the world; not even named to maintain its confidentiality.

“Middle Eastern terrorists plan to attack the prison and extract their friend. If extraction is not possible then a suicide mission will leave them and their friends dead. Either way they must contain the information he has about their group. I am on it, and we have three days to act. I will keep you informed. Tell those who need to know to wait for my directions.”

John was puzzled by Ben's text, and it automatically erased completely from the network after reading it.

“Charlie this is no time to start a discussion, we must get this finished. Richard is highly recommended, and I trust him, that is all you need to know.”

“OK in three days we will have your friend out of there. Let's get going and get those weapons.” Byron Gross continued impersonating Richard Christian

“Come now, we will talk to my friend and supplier in Virginia, close to here. Let us leave now, he's waiting for me.” commented Jack.

 Richard, aka Byron Gross, was astonished that a nuclear weapons dealer was working just a few miles from the capital of the United States. He was appreciating the Israeli defense more each day he spent here. The three traveled south in route to contact the arms merchant.

In less than 20 minutes the trio pulled up to the gates of a southern mansion, laid out on the grounds of an old plantation.

“Charlie, you have to be less angry. The Americans have a way, a different way. All the westerners are like that, not bad, just not learned in our traditions yet. You are full of hate my friend. You must use that energy in a better way.”

 Gross, aka Richard,  knew he should be careful of Jack and not take him as an easy mark. He decided to build up Charlie’s ego and make himself look good to both terrorists.

“I don't agree with you one hundred percent. Jack was correct about many of those Westerners, but some are people like me.”

“This place looks like the house they used in Gone with The Wind, a mansion in the old South. Those pigs, they get their money from our oil and laugh at us. Richard, you are in it for the money, maybe a little thinking on our side, how do you say, empathy. But you are here to get your money more than anything else.”

If the leader of the group believes he is in it for the money, Byron felt safe, he would not deny it.

“Yes, $1,000,000 is a large monetary consideration. But it is OK for me. I pay for my workers, and you are my worker.” Jack said casually while they were greeted and patted down by a team of paramilitaries, working for the arms dealer.

Byron knew they were going to negotiate the price of a dirty bomb, capable of killing many essential military and political personnel as collateral damage. He also knew that once he had arrived at his destination in the setup, the location would have been tracked and his whereabouts known to the Mossad agents; that was his backup. Though not registered in the United States as a foreign agent, the Mossad was overlooked at times, in return for their help on occasional situations, such as this one. All he needed now was to get out of this and return to the site of initiating and finalizing his contacts in the DC tunnels.

After the arms deal was concluded they returned to the bulletproof Mercedes and Jack pulled out a Sig Sauer P229 DAK. He leaned over to Richard who shared the back seat and spoke. “I was waiting to shoot you if you had done anything out of the way. Now I know I can trust you my friend.”

“But Jack, I've always had complete confidence in you. Why the distrust?” Byron smiled and spoke with an ear of tranquility that was unnerving. He thought, if this terrorist could have entered with a Sig Sauer, he had to be one of the major arm dealers if not their leader.

“We are leery of those English spies, Richard. Real James Bond types. Sometimes they can be worse than the damn Jews.”

“The English can never be worse than those damn Jews.” Byron casually responded with a strong British accent. 

“I'm glad we agree on that Richard my friend.” the second terrorist, Charlie, charmed in while sitting up front driving the $450,000 bulletproof Mercedes.

“Just one more thing my friend Richard. We need to get in as soon as possible. When do you think?”

“How long do we have?”

“We need it sooner than three days.

“I will meet my contact who will give me the time frame.”

“I want to meet all of them, or it is off.”

“OK, but it will cost you more money. I'm giving them half of mine. If you come along, they will ask for more.”

“Give them all your money. I will give you another million when we come out alive with my friend.”

Gross thought for a moment, knowing he had to act like he wanted economic compensation. “Half now and the other half when, and if, you come out alive; it would be better before we go in.”

“Are you sure you're not a Jew my friend? You keep asking for money.” Jack laughed. “OK, I will deposit half now into your account and another half after I meet your contacts.”

 

After agreeing, Byron left the Mercedes and entered his Jaguar, immediately calling John Murray, special investigator for the vice president of the United States. “We need to meet ASAP.”

Byron stopped at a flower shop to buy an arrangement and continue to John and Judy's condo. “This is a house-warming gift.” handing the flowers to Judy.

“Thank you, Byron, you are always so considerate.”

“It's an Israeli tradition to respect the woman of the house.”

“John, I need you to get us into the tunnels.” Said Byron after accepting a well needed Lagavulin.

“What tunnels?” dissimulated John.

Byron explained the situation in full and added. “Make a big show about the money; next time you want more. Then take care of everything we plan out.”

“OK, I’ll get on it. What else do I need to know?”

“Come, let’s get something to eat. I know this deli that has Israeli food.”

“We can make something here.” Judy responded.

“Ah, the walls have ears. Let’s go to this deli, no ears.” Insisted Byron.

“Is there more to say about the plan?”

“No John, there is more to show you.”

They stopped at a vending cart with a few outside tables for the customers.

“Where is this deli?” John asked.

“John, you are impatient. The deli is across the street.” Pointing to the building and continued. “Here there are no walls.” Ordering three falafels and Pepsi Colas, adding. “This vendor is Mossad.” 

They talked about the terrorists.

“OK, so did I tell you about my studies in Spain and the need to leave once a year for passport regulations because I did not have a visa. Remember this was some years ago. I took a trip to Seville, stopped off for the week to enjoy the Holy Week, called Semana Santa, and then continued by train further South to catch a ferry to cross the straits of Gibraltar. I arrived in Tangiers and went directly to the Casbah.”

“I know the route; Judy and I did the same during our honeymoon.  But how does this have to do anything with what we're talking about now? Responded John

“I met a young man who wanted to sell me a brick of hash. I really did not want that large quantity, too risky. We smoked up all night and when he left, I had to find my way back around the streets and the steps of the Casbah. It was night, cold, dark, and the women had their heads and faces covered. I was very stoned and became paranoid.  I did get to know some angry anti-Semitic and anti-American people who had plans to attack the United States.” Byron paused taking a bite out of his falafel and drinking some Pepsi.