Clean Copy

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Clean Copy - book excerpt

Prologue

Jun Wu, a petite woman in her thirties, had just stepped from her post-breakfast shower and wrapped a towel about herself when the phone rang. She left wet footprints on the tan bedroom carpet and picked up the receiver. When it turned out to be her boss, Jun tried to sound dignified.

She rubbed the towel end over her short black hair and listened as Peter Valois explained the unusual call at such an early hour. After a moment, Jun said, “I’m fine, Peter.” She paced around her queen-sized bed and listened to more explanation from the phone. “A premonition? About what?” She glanced at the clock and pulled the red bedspread straight. “Danger? Well, I’m not in any danger as far as I can tell,” Jun said in a calm voice. Except for catching pneumonia, she thought. “Everything is normal, it’s a beautiful April day up here, and I’m getting ready to leave.”

Jun lodged the phone between her shoulder and ear, dropped the towel, and went to the dresser. “Your premonition makes no sense. You don’t know what the danger is or where it lies. Maybe it’s something in the lab.” From the closet she grabbed the day’s outfit and threw it onto the bed and then shifted the phone to her other ear. “I’ll be extra careful, but I’ll be an hour or so late. I have to see an insurance agent.”

She hung up, wondering what that was all about. The boss had called her at home before, but never at this early hour. Strange. A thought crossed her mind. Was there a connection between Dr. Valois’s intuition and her not-so-pleasant conversation with the insistent guy from the Chinese Scholars Association? She, like any other educated person of Chinese descent, knew the Association was one of many dedicated to transferring technology to the motherland. Jun didn’t feel her position in a company doing classified work for the U.S. government allowed her to consort with agents of the People’s Republic of China, and she said so. Insistent guy had asked her to collect technology and wasn’t happy with her answer.

Two men sat in a black Suburban parked in front of the vacant lot near Jun’s house in the San Diego hills. Most of the lots in the new development had FOR SALE signs, so it was possible the occupants were considering a purchase. In fact, Yingyi, a wiry Asian with a cheek scar, and Morgan, a big-fisted, muscle-bound Caucasian, watched Jun’s small bathroom window and the front door.

Both men were employees of Xianxingzhe Group of Beijing, a leading R&D outfit in China. The conglomerate competed with Jun Wu’s employer in robotics and needed something from Jun’s boss.

“The bathroom light just went out. Ms. Wu, she of the small but shapely ass, will soon emerge on schedule as usual,” Yingyi said as he lowered the field glasses. “Seems a shame to waste such fine assets without putting them to some use.”

“Shut up,” Morgan said. “I don’t think you could fuck the broad and still make this look like an accident. She just passed the front window. Mighta noticed us.”

“So what. We’re prospective buyers looking at real estate. We’re just part of the normal scenery, and if Ms. Wu is alarmed, that’s a real shame. A frightened rabbit is more fun for the hunter.” Yingyi donned reflective sunglasses and smiled. This operation, part of a larger plan, was his boss’s idea, and he was glad at last to be doing instead of planning. There’d been months of that. He finally felt alive. He interlaced his fingers and stretched his arms.

“Too bad it’s bright and sunny,” Yingyi said. “Rain and wet pavement would make an accident more believable.”

Minutes ticked by as the two men drank the remains of their lukewarm coffee. They dropped the cups into a plastic bag when Jun emerged from the house and approached her compact, beat-up Toyota.

Jun smoothed her tan skirt and adjusted her sunglasses, smiled in the direction of the Suburban, and got into her car. She started the motor and lowered the windows, took time to maneuver the rearview mirror, studied the men in the black vehicle, and then backed from her driveway.

“Punctual as usual,” Yingyi said. “And neatly dressed.”

Morgan let Jun get half a block away before he started the Suburban and followed. He stayed back at a non-threatening distance until they reached the steep, twisting road that led to the main highway. When the switchbacks began, Morgan drew close. Jun glanced in her mirror and swerved off the pavement.

“That’s just normal driving for her,” Yingyi said. “Let her be nervous.”

Morgan got near the Toyota, as if he wanted to pass. Up ahead was a stretch that had no shoulder.

“We’re coming to the place,” Yingyi said.”

Jun accelerated, but Morgan kept pace, and then retreated. Yingyi saw the woman reach over to something on the dash. Distractions cause accidents, he thought.

The next section curved around a steep hill. A cable strung between metal posts separated the narrow shoulder from a rock-strewn ravine. Morgan had made sure the cable was slack and low, too low to prevent a car from flying over the edge. And Jun was on the downhill side. The Toyota’s tires squealed in a hard turn.

A yellow sign indicated an S-shaped curve and recommended twenty miles per hour. Jun slowed some, and Yingyi waved Morgan forward. Now the woman might suspect that her pursuer was not just a bad driver. The little Toyota kicked gravel as it strayed off the pavement.

The Suburban kissed the Toyota’s bumper. Jun left the road again with another blast of tire on rocky dirt. This time she yanked the wheel to the left and took her foot off the accelerator. Morgan nudged the smaller car with the brush bar on the front of the Suburban. Jun went off the road but somehow managed to maintain control. The SUV backed off and sped forward again. This time it did not contact the rear bumper. It swung into the opposite lane, came alongside, and pushed Jun to the right. The much heavier vehicle shoved the Toyota off the blacktop, and as the road curved, the smaller car faced open air.

Jun screamed as her sedan flew past the cable barrier. The undercarriage caught the wire, and the Toyota held for a moment. With a screech, the vehicle broke free, and the rear tires rolled over the cable. The front end bounced once on the slope before the drop-off, and then the car somersaulted into the abyss. Wheels spinning, the Toyota landed roof-down with a crunch of metal, its feeble horn wailing. A few rocks bounced off the undercarriage, and then there was silence.

The Suburban pulled to the side, and the men strode back to the now flattened guard rail. Morgan took off his dark glasses and gazed at the belly of the Toyota far below. “What do you think?” he asked.

“Either dead or badly injured,” Yingyi said. “Must have dozed and lost control on an unfortunate section of the road. Fiddling with the radio probably distracted her.”

“Miss Wu won’t report for work anytime soon. Someone will have to take her place.” Morgan walked back to the SUV. “Let’s get the car taken care of and tell the boss how the accident went.”

The men returned to the Suburban and drove off as a single, pumpkin-sized rock loosened by the crash finally let go of its perch, rumbled down the slope to the edge, and rolled off. The smell of gasoline tainted the air. Crows, silenced by the screech of metal, resumed their bickering. The sound of a small engine interrupted their caws. A moment after the SUV departed, a Honda cycle bounced from a narrow path on the uphill side of the accident site and stopped near the guard cable.

A leather-clad, helmeted rider dismounted from the motorcycle and gazed into the ravine. Seeing no movement and hearing no sound near the overturned car, the figure cursed and pulled out a cell phone. There was no signal. The rider remounted the bike and, after another glance into the ravine, rode off.

Chapter 1

Antoinette

In January, three months before Jun Wu’s murder near San Diego, events unfolded in Langley, Virginia that sealed her fate. At the Central Intelligence Agency, Antoinette Dai-tai Marino worked as an analyst, a job she’d had for almost two years. Her Italian and Chinese heritage explained an unusual beauty that featured Mediterranean olive skin and ebony hair from her father and Asian eyes from her Chinese mother. More than one man had called her striking.

The CIA was her third employer—she’d spent two years after college working for a biotech company and four years in the army. Known as Andy to her colleagues, she had a reputation as competent and tough. What her intelligence co-workers didn’t know was that she had an agenda of her own.

She had to find out why her brother Tony had died. The CIA job meant access to documents about his death, but she couldn’t let her search be obvious. Dogged pursuit of information on this topic had nothing to do with her assignment and might threaten her career. Despite the risk, she again entered Records to access a Nicaragua file. Her professional attire—knee-length skirt, white blouse, and picture identification card—gave her every right to be there. She pushed open the door and marched in as if nothing were amiss.

Andy strode across the gray room: carpet, government-standard furniture, and walls were shades of gray. Pictures of the president and the Agency head decorated one wall, and overhead fluorescent lights gave no-nonsense illumination. An ozone taint in the dehumidified air almost made her sneeze. She suppressed it and nodded to the desk clerk who continued watering a pathetic philodendron, a protest of the room’s rigidity. A thick-necked man, white collar choking his red face, occupied one carrel, engrossed in a file. He ignored her.

Andy took a corner carrel and pulled a yellow pad from her folio. She sat, eyes closed, and took measured breaths. The voice in her head said investigating her brother’s death was not her assignment. But it’s something I must do, she thought. For her sake, for Tony’s sake.

A shuffling noise from the red-faced man brought Andy back, and she turned on the light under the bookshelf. On the pad she wrote a number and took it to the counter. The clerk disappeared and returned a minute later to hand over a manila folder.

Back in the carrel, Andy turned over sheets in the file with a steady, deliberate pace, rechecking contents seen before. The material fromArmy intelligence was its version of what happened. It seemed insufficient to tell the real story. Terse field reports, Tony’s cryptic letters, and her own research, including an off-the-books trip to Central America, left her unsatisfied. Her mind wandered over what she knew.

Tony had left the army and was recruited by the Drug Enforcement Agency, which wanted experienced men disrupting drug routes in Central America. That he was killed in an ambush in Nicaragua leading trainees through a supposedly secure area was clear enough. He had been ordered to take that route. But why?

She shook off her sadness and again tried to understand what lay beyond the anemic facts. Willing calm, she selected the page with a post-event investigative report.The team reported finding twenty bodies—nineteen Nicaraguans and one American—one fewer than the twenty-one supposed to be in the unit. Perhaps the original information on unit size was wrong. The possibility that a man had escaped or been captured was recognized. Andy wondered if the twenty-first man was the enemy.The report said nothing of attackers and motive. American-made spent cartridges were left behind and not much else. Tony’s body was shipped back home. Andy knew every sad detail of that part of the story.

A pot-bellied co-worker with a wrinkled tie passed the carrel, his glance lingering a second too long. Her skirt had moved well above her knees, exposing several inches of thigh. She lowered the skirt, muttered an expletive, and went back to the page.

The report raised the possibility that Taguro, the Nicaraguan unit commander, might have betrayed the group. His allegiance was suspect, but no reason was given. Andy knew the name, for her brother had mentioned him in his letters where he described Taguro as dedicated, loyal, and dependable. Why would he have anything to do with an ambush?

She needed to see the intelligence report that authorized the path they were on. If faulty intel caused the unit loss, there should be something about the source and its error. She stared at the page that first mentioned Taguro and her eyes drifted to the footer, a line that usually contained the file save date and the preparer’s initials. These were present, but in parenthesis after the information was a six-digit number preceded by two letters, possibly a file ID, perhaps a file that contained more information about something on the page.

Feelings of sadness, regret, and sorrow fell prey to a new emotion: anger. Without any evidence, she felt certain that the file in front of her did not contain the whole story, that the death of Tony Marino and the Nicaraguans was not just an accident of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

She wrote down the footer number. Her knowledge of the Agency security protocols told her the unusual coding of the file made it unavailable to her clearance level. She had no official reason to access the document. If she asked for it, a report would reach her boss.

She returned the folder to the records desk, stopped herself from requesting the file, and left, thinking how she could get access.

John Caro’s office was spacious with a mahogany desk and matching bookcase that warmed the room. The fortyish section chief was not the flower type, so Andy assumed the vase of fresh flowers had to be his secretary’s work.

“What’s up?” he asked, continuing to scribble on a pad. “Just let me finish this sentence.”

Andy watched him scrawl several more words. He still had a full head of brown hair and was good-looking in a pinstriped brown suit and red tie. He smiled, showing a chin dimple, got up, and came around the desk. He put his hand on her shoulder and steered her into a chair.

“It’s good to see you,” he said. “You always brighten this office. Now what can I help you with?”

She gritted her teeth. “I want to ask about that security upgrade.”

Caro sat in the other visitor’s chair, his knees an inch from hers. He reached to loosen his tie, revealing a gold watch on a tanned wrist. “It’ll happen in due course. What’s the rush?”

“I think time has run its course. I’ve been here two years and came with an exceptional track record in army intelligence. Any man with that background would have started above my current level.”

“Would he?” Caro asked, his jaw muscles tightening.

“Wouldn’t he?”

“Why do you need a security bump? Is there something in your assignment that requires it?”

“Nothing specific, but more than once I’ve had to check something in another file and had to stop what I’m doing, interrupt you, and maybe get back to that job a day later. Not efficient. And not necessary. I should have that upgrade.”

Caro leaned back and folded his hands. “Well, I never mind your interruptions. It does get lonely in here. But I’ll see what I can do. Wouldn’t want you charging gender discrimination. But keep your nose out of what doesn’t concern you. Now get your ass back to work.”

Andy left wondering if Caro was watching that part of her anatomy as she left.

Her bitching worked, but Caro made her wait. Twice she reminded him and twice she was told to be patient. After a week she was about to make like the squeaking wheel yet again when the upgrade notice reached her.

Chapter 2

The File

The day her security clearance was upped, Andy requested the mysterious file from the Records clerk, who glanced at her computer terminal and said she wasn’t eligible to view such material. With barely contained anger, Andy prodded the clerk to confirm her new status. The woman did so and, without saying a word, retrieved the requested file.

Andy grabbed the folder and retreated to a corner carrel where she sat, staring at the prize, willing her racing heart to quiet. The anticipation of learning from the CIA perspective why her brother died blurred her vision. She wiped the tears and at last opened the report, which consisted of a short, official document and an appendix. She skipped the usual subject-and-security coding at the top and perused the body, a concise account of the number of dead men and their names. It identified a joint task force of the DEA and the CIA as the agency that had authorized the mission and the route. It referred to a standard operating procedure, or SOP, for the intelligence gathering and claimed the area had been quiet for a month. The region had been scanned by a chopper-flyover the day before Tony took his men into the jungle. The summary attributed the massacre to the unexpected infiltration of a force from the drug cartel whose shipment was going to be stopped by the unit. No evidence was cited.

The dry report contained an appendix, labeled as an eye-witness account from the one survivor of the attack. This was the missing twenty-first man. Why hadn’t the main file made this clear? Maybe he hadn’t shown up until after that first document was prepared. Andy noted that the appended material was labeled as having been typed by the witness and unverified. She started to read and realized the tone of the text was unexpected, something written by an educated, intelligent person. At times, the material was almost poetic.

Lieutenant Tony Marino led us along an overgrown jungle path on Nicaragua’s Mosquito Coast, between the Rio Grande de Matagalpa and Rio Prinzalpolka at the end of the rainy season. We tromped through festering, wet jungle, the homeland of the Miskito people, and wiped sweat from our faces under a midday sun. Tropical plants tried hard to engulf the narrow path, and we hacked them back, seeing no reason to be quiet or cautious. We were in the pacified zone from which both drug-shippers and those unhappy with the present government had been driven.

Things seemed normal. Above the insect buzz, raucous birds protested, and somnolent lizards swished leaves in scurried retreats. We hacked foliage, scattering snakes and lizards. The lieutenant stopped to wipe his forehead and watch a scarlet macaw take flight. A green anole with rosy dewlap whose bright color worked against any camouflage jumped in front of us.

“Mating first, invisibility second,” Lieutenant Marino said. He pointed to another lizard decorated with prominent red spots. “Another survival ploy. Garishness that says only a foolish predator would even come close to such poison.”

When we moved, the lizard’s protuberant eye followed with a jerky movement, like the spasms of a loading Ferris wheel. I tell you this detail to show how relaxed we were, relaxed enough for biology.

Andy blinked away tears. The dialog sounded like Tony Marino, the brother she knew, one interested in everything around him, always with a theory. She forced herself to read more.

We walked single-file, close together, rifles hanging from shoulder straps. No one was particularly alert. The territory was safe. We expected a quiet stroll to a village for a few days of R and R, perhaps some gecko soup, as a reward for a successful training mission. The lieutenant was pleased with our accomplishments and felt that Taguro, our leader, was ready to take on a significant role. If the lieutenant could convince his superiors. Diplomacy and political awareness were not Taguro’s strong points.

Andy remembered Tony telling her he had received more than one communication from command indicating misgivings about Taguro, although nothing specific was ever cited. Tony figured he did not have the intelligence rating for such sensitive information. All he was eligible for was risking his life in a bug-infested hell.

The sound from a zul, a native flute, stopped us. It had to be from an outlying farm, for we weren’t near the village. Suddenly the music stopped and the jungle quieted. The men tensed and raised their weapons.

The next sound we heard was not of the jungle. A single rifle shot rang out and Taguro screamed and fell. The men reacted by firing into the trees at what they thought was the source of the shot. The tat tat tat of automatic rifle fire sprayed bullets everywhere. Around me men dropped with cries of pain or the silence of instant death. Blood splattered over giant, green leaves and dripped to the spongy forest floor. My leg took a bullet, but I was lucky. I fell behind a downed tree trunk and stayed quiet. Covered with blood, some mine and some the lieutenant’s, it was easy to play dead. Thank God the shooters didn’t come closer to finish the job. My leg wound was minor, and I managed to limp away after the attack.

Andy shuddered and closed her eyes. She imagined her brother’s last thought was a question: how could the intelligence report be so wrong?

If the attack aimed to eliminate Taguro, why? Did Taguro have unacceptable allegiances? It was not unusual for Central American leaders to be in bed with drug lords. But where was that data? She also wanted to know the intelligence that cleared the path to the village.

From Records, Andy went directly to John Caro’s office. He pretended to maintain an open-door policy, but Andy knew he hated to be interrupted. She didn’t care.

“John, I need your help on something.” She sat. “I’ve been looking at a file on my brother’s death. I need to know why the rebel leader he was training was under suspicion.”

“Why the hell are you wasting your time on that? Your brother’s loss was tragic but put it behind you.” He wore a brittle smile.

“I’m not satisfied I have the full story. My brother was gunned down and there is some reason for it.”

Caro came around his desk. “You have got to let it go. Focus on getting ahead in your job. Just curb your anger and be more pleasant.”

Andy took a deep breath. “If I can get to the bottom of this, maybe I can move on.”

“There are some files that even your new security upgrade does not open. Try putting your energy into fitting in. Use your assets to create your career path.”

“What assets are you talking about?”

“You are a beautiful woman. Like any organization, the CIA runs by more than rules and regulations. People call the shots. If you want to get ahead, be friendly to those who control your future.” Caro sat down and placed his hand on Andy’s thigh. “I might answer your questions if you were friendly enough.”

She was stunned. And then it all became clear. He didn’t just want her to be friendly. He was looking for favors. It happened fast. In one fluid motion, she jumped up, and her hand came around and slapped her boss. His glasses went flying. Caro’s face reddened.

He grabbed her hands and pressed himself against her. She reacted without thinking and brought her knee up into his groin. He rolled away, clutching his genitals.

“You bitch. That’s ground for dismissal.”

“So is sexual harassment.” Andy’s analytical brain took over and came up with a stark conclusion: she had to quit. She’d run into a brick wall in investigating her brother’s death. Caro could fire her, and she didn’t want that on her record. Working for Caro disgusted her. The course was clear. “But I’ll save you the trouble. I quit.”

“Good riddance. Clear out now. I’ll have security give you a hand. And don’t plan to work for the government again. I’ll see that your attitude problem is well known.”

Andy glared at Caro, wishing she could hit him again. She suppressed that impulse and left the office. A security man showed up with a carton as she cleaned out her desk. Without saying goodbye to anyone, she let security lead her to the exit. She walked stiffly to her car across the icy asphalt, avoiding the patches of snow and feeling the chill of the winter air that matched the black cold in her heart. That her predatory boss should remain employed while she was out the door enraged her.

She deposited the box in the trunk, sank into the driver’s seat, and was about to stick the key into the ignition when the glint of sun on chrome caught her eye. Caro’s new BMW, polished and shiny, was parked four cars away. This was his new toy, and he’d made it clear how much he cherished the machine. Andy loathed the BMW as she loathed Caro.

She eased open her car door and slithered out, crouching to stay hidden from the lot security camera, and crept to the BMW. Without hesitating, she ripped a key along the side, leaving a satisfying scratch in the black mirror coat from the front wheel well to the rear door. For good measure, she unscrewed the rear tire valve cover, tossed it, and depressed the valve stem with the key. Air hissed out and the tire grew soft. When it was almost flat, she crept back to her car, got in, and drove away feeling better.