Call Waiting

If there’s one thing that gets my head, and heart, racing, it’s when someone misses a meeting. Mother always taught me, if you’re not fifteen minutes early, you’re late.

Generally, for face to face meetings, I’ll arrive at the specified location much earlier than that to check for surveillance and to make sure my escape routes are mapped out. For internet meet-ups or phone calls, other than making sure you’re on a secure line, there’s nothing much more to do than sit and wait for your contact to arrive.

Now that my Bulgarian Operation has, for the most part, been wrapped up, I’m looking for another target on which to focus my skill set. I’ve done a good job of establishing my corporate cover. I’ve gained trust, built relationships and delivered results consistent, exceptional results to all of my corporate business partners. Because of this success, I may have the ability to gather more intelligence in other parts of the bank.

With this perspective, I was awaiting a phone call last night from one of Mother’s people who may have a way to interject me into their operation. We had met in person previously, but with Marcel currently residing on the Left Coast, we struggled through time zone differences to set up a contact time: 21:00 EST.

By 21:09 a myriad of what-ifs were running through my mind. What if he couldn’t get away from his corporate responsibilities? What if he couldn’t find a secure line? What if, unlikely as it may be, he forgot? What if he was tied to a metal chair in the basement of a Tijuana flat, bleeding, hoping the power goes out so the electrodes will stop while his captors repeatedly ask who he was meeting and what it was about?

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In The News

Apparently, the number of people it takes to assassinate Mahmoud al-Mabhouh is up to twenty six.

The latest accusations by Dubai police raised the size of the alleged assassination team to at least 26 and further expanded the international web of the investigation — now stretching from the United State to Europe and Australia.

The above referenced article mainly discusses the diplomatic outrage concerning the fact that this team apparently used passports from Britain, Ireland, France and Australia. I’ll let the suits and paper pushers figure that out.

What concerns me is the fact that twenty six people were allegedly directly involved. Now, I’ll be the first to admit this type of operation isn’t exactly my cup of tea, but even so, I prefer to work alone, and if forced, in small teams. This isn’t Ocean’s Eleven, or Twelve. That’s just a lot of people to trust when your untortured future is on the line.

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A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words

As you can imagine, I’m a bit skeptical of packages left on my front porch. I hadn’t ordered anything in awhile. So great, this is either a bomb or someone’s head packaged in dry ice.

The odds of it being a bomb are slim. If you were the target of one of my operations, somehow was left alive, then figured out that I was the one who was responsible, and then tracked me down through my maze of cover stories, you would have to be smart enough to know that I wouldn’t fall for the old ‘bomb in the box by the front door’ trick.

Ok, so whose head is it?

Wait, a return address from Banjo Jim? Anyone who knows Banjo Jim, and isn’t dead because of it, is a friend of mine. He lives down state, below the canal, where things tend to lag a few decades behind the rest of us. He’s a man of peculiar wit, possesses an encyclopedic memory of crossword answers, and as a result of his time spent in the Navy, besides receiving a tidy monthly pension, has a pretty substantial network in the import/export business. Every so often a shipment of something useful gets diverted to me.

Today it’s a pair of black tactical gear bags, a letter, and a black t-shirt. Yes, a t-shirt. A black, size large, Fruit of the Loom t-shirt. I know I mentioned his ‘peculiar wit,’ however I want to go back and reemphasize the ‘peculiar.’

My scanner has decided to take the night off, so I had to take a digital picture of the actual letter.



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Key Information

The Spy Museum was a lot of fun. Unfortunately, photography was not permitted around the exhibits. Granted there was like an infinity minus one percent chance that I would have gotten away with taking a few pictures, but out of respect for those that came before me, I figured I’d follow the rules for once.

We met two of Treasa’s friends, Ben and Niki Stoley, for dinner at in China town. This is not a place where they let you leave hungry.

Getting out of DC was a bit of a hassle considering we hit the road at the same time the Capitals game finished. This would have made it easier to spot a tail, yet there was none to be found.

Most importantly, Treasa and I are officially together now.

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Cooperstown

Treasa’s pretty great. We’re going here today. I haven’t told her what I do. That’s for both of our safeties. However, after dog sitting, preferring to sit facing the entrance at restaurants and an uncanny ability to remember where she’s left her keys and/or cell phone, she’s made a few innocent jokes about how I’m like a new and improved James Bond.

Did I mention she’s smart too?

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Quit Buggin' Me

Compartmentalization: (A) the process by which individuals involved in a plan only know about, and complete, a distinct part of the whole. This means that, if a person was captured and interrogated under duress, only their part of the operation would be compromised. If a chain is as strong as its weakest link, by doing it this way, that weakest link is not only replaceable, but expendable, should they mess up. (B) part of Mother’s plan that scheduled me to meet Duncan DuCaine at the corporate cafeteria.

Typically, I wouldn’t want to know the name of the person I’m working with. And I definitely wouldn’t volunteer mine. However, since we’re co-workers, if we were to run into each other at a later date, a certain amount of familiarity is to be expected. Considering the hundred or so people that may remember us talking, mutual denial is not a possibility.

I don’t know if Duncan works for Mother. He could be working parallel, or he could just be pissed off at his current boss and looking to earn a few extra bucks. Either way, he was able to smuggle in a few bugs that I’ll need to gather intell.

We make small talk on the way back to my office. He’s discussing the advantages of mechanical switch keyboards vs. what I’m working with. Mildly interesting, yet irrelevant to the task at hand. As Duncan pulls the metal case containing the bugs out of his pocket and opens it for me to inspect, we hear a third voice. Not good.

Every office has one, I would imagine. The guy asking you to go grab a cup of coffee with him four times a day. The guy asking you how your weekend was at 12:18 PM on Wednesday. The guy who needs to ask you what time a meeting is even though both of you just received the same email half an hour ago. He’s harmless – pretty much the nicest guy in the world. But damn it! Why do you pick now to see what I’m doing for lunch today?

Both Duncan and I ignore the metal case and its contents. As I stand up to detract attention from my desk, Duncan tells him he should go try today’s deli special. I take the case and slip it into my pocket. Poker faces, smiles, laughs, and disaster averted.

I don’t know Duncan, but he was able to bring surveillance equipment into a corporate office and remain calm in the face of a threat. He could be Mother’s. He might not be. Either way, he’s probably someone I want on my side.

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Man's Best Friend

Treasa and I met at her friend’s house around 4 PM. She left me on the porch as she went in. The dogs obviously recognized her and immediately sat and awaited their leashes. We took them for a short walk and let them reiterate that the corner of the garden was in fact their territory. The stroll gave me a chance to earn enough trust for Treasa to invite me into her friend’s house.

While Treasa ensured that the dogs hadn’t left of made a mess in the house, I took a minute to take mental note of all exits. Treasa’s friends had hired a dog walker, yet we couldn’t determine if they had stopped by yet. The payment was still on the dining room table. It’s possible that they wouldn’t take the check until the three day assignment was completed, but unlikely.

We decided to stay a bit longer and give the dogs some attention. They appreciated the companionship and took to me quickly. The best way to get a woman to like you is to get her dog to like you. Though these weren’t Treasa’s pets, wagging tails were definitely a step in the right direction.

When it was time to go, we still hadn’t figured out if the dog walker had been there previously. It was a few minutes after 5 PM, so it was conceivable that her scheduled arrival was later in the evening.

I walked over to the leashes that we had hung behind the front door. After explaining to the dogs that they weren’t getting another walk, I twisted the leashes so that the clasps were all facing in the same direction. That way, I explained, that even if the walker didn’t inspect the check, between the order of the leashes and the direction of the clasps, we’d be able to tell if the dogs had been taken for a walk.

She smiled and said that dogs would really enjoy having us check on them tomorrow morning.

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"Sharing a Drink They Call Loneliness"

There are two types of people in the world. People you trust and people that can get you killed. I used this afternoon to catch up with someone of the former category.

James Piston and I were assigned to a team a few years back monitoring the interface between organized crime and tax paying society. Our target was Salvo, an Italian restaurateur who paid his staff in cash and tended to purchase from companies with indirect ties to certain syndicates. Despite claiming that the red clam sauce was homemade, the restaurant was staying mostly legal. But based on the sourcing of various goods, however, it was possible that Salvo might be ‘urged’ to buy exclusively from mafia sponsored companies at above market costs then be forced to siphon remaining profits back. If we could understand how this dynamic worked, Mother could open a restaurant of her own and broil meatballs of organized crime.

James and I had drink and caught up.

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