The meeting was scheduled for 2:00 p.m. in Great Falls Park in Virginia, no more than a fifteen-minute drive from the Brandon home. Jack and his dad arrived at 1:30. Peter told his son he made it a rule to arrive early for any clandestine meeting so he could check out the meeting area. He said he would not under any circumstances meet anyone here if there was even a small chance of the meeting turning hostile. There was only one way in and out by car. Any escape would have to be on foot. Even with a friendly meeting, Peter had taken the precaution of using a rental car that could not easily be traced back to the Brandons.

It was a little cool and the Park was almost deserted when Frank arrived driving his brown Passat. Peter and Jack were waiting at a table, partially obscured by pine foliage yet giving them a clear view of arriving cars. Le Dinh, his father’s Vietnamese cook, had sent them off with a thermos of hot coffee and some chocolate chip cookies. Peter raised his hand and Frank headed for the picnic table. As he got closer, Jack could see Frank would be hard to pick out in a crowd. He was slightly pudgy with definite male pattern baldness, wearing rimless glasses and projecting a calming aura. His brown eyes looked both intelligent and intense. The clothing looked as though it were all off the rack of a decent department store.

Peter and Frank shook hands and exchanged a short hug. Jack had never seen his father hug anyone but him. He thought these two aging men really liked each other. Jack’s musing was broken when his father introduced him to Frank Batcher, deliberately using Frank’s last name. Peter Brandon told his son to speak up at the meeting with Frank at any time. After all, it was his life and future now at stake. Jack said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. My father has told me quite a bit about you.”

Frank said, “Then you have me at a disadvantage since I know next to nothing about you. I hope we can fill in some blanks today. But first I have to know how my friend and advisor is doing.”

“Some days better than others. It is such a pleasure having my son here with me. There is no use fooling myself, I’m steadily losing stamina. Soon, the doctors tell me, I will have to use a wheelchair full time. But enough of that. I have given my son a decent summary of our work together without many details.” Turning to his son, Peter said, “Frank will not record this meeting nor will he make it a matter of record. But, and I say but, he has an excellent memory bounded by a deep sense of honor and integrity. I believe you can talk straight to him without including our names. This process protects both Frank and us. At this point if he really wanted to find us he probably could. I’ll leave you two to get to know each other. I’m going for a short walk, and I may take a little rest in the car.”

“Thank you, Paul. That is high praise.” Turning to Jack, he asked, “What should I call you?”

“How about Nick? I’ve always liked the name.”

“Okay, Nick, tell me something about yourself.”

“Let me start with the qualifications side. I have a decent education from a large university, three years plus as an officer in Marine Recon and almost a year in combat in Iraq. After the Marine Corps I worked four years in a big city police homicide division. I’ve been in a number of fire fights, been wounded twice and have several police decorations. I think there is a strong correlation between the skills of a detective and the field work of an intelligence officer. I hold several levels of a black belt in a very esoteric martial art. Through the years my father has taught me survival skills, both in the wilderness and on the street. He was insistent I understood and could recognize surveillance tactics. I’m skilled in the handling of all sorts of small craft. In fact, he has taught me so much, we would have to stay here after dark to finish.”

Jack paused and said, “Does that help?”

Frank said, “Yes, it does. Your background and experience are impressive. Your qualifications put me at ease. I want to continue working with you but differently from the way I worked with your father. Your father and I worked on uncovering and arresting undercover Soviet agents who were in this country illegally. He knew how they thought, their problems, logistical support and communications systems and their deep cover arrangements. We were quite successful, but his well of information is now nearly dry. Terrorism has replaced Russian espionage as my number one problem. We believe terrorist organizations, particularly al-Qaeda, are planning to turn to attacking soft targets as a means of destabilizing government at all levels.

“When citizens do not feel safe in the conduct of their everyday life, the pressures on our law enforcement and legal system become enormous. The tragedy of 9/11 is in the past of our short-term memories. Our war against terrorism is hampered by congressional oversight that constantly tries to move toward management of our counter-terrorism units and a president who sees himself as the Appeaser-in-Chief. The tools we need to keep America safe are hard to acquire in a politically partisan environment.

“This situation is compounded by the politicization of the intelligence leadership positions. Appointing managers to the CIA who have never served with the CIA overseas is beyond ludicrous. You might as well appoint political hacks to coach NFL teams. Some jobs require particular skills and deep experience. The Director of the CIA is one of them.

“This is probably my last job with the CIA. In five years it will be time for me to retire. I’ve accepted a responsibility to keep America safe to the best of my ability, and I’m going to do that, even if it means stretching the legalities now obstructing the war on terrorism in America. I need you to help me. Are you interested?”

“Yes, I’m interested, but what is it you want me to do?”

“Okay. A good place to start. The reason I need you is the very real probability that a CIA officer doing what he feels is right may end up fighting a personal criminal charge brought against him or her for political reasons by the left wing of the Democratic Party. Even the top managers at CIA are fearful and timid. Many good intelligence opportunities are lost in real or imagined legal issues. It is very useful to me to have a capability that is not on any record, including financial ones. Your activities will not be subject to so-called oversight or the constant second guessing of many of our political managers. I am not even going to tell our new director about you. They come and go with the political wind, and not all of them have a sense of need-to-know restraint.”

“Are you telling me the CIA is not able to capture and kill terrorists because the liberal element of our government and your boss aren’t fighting an aggressive war against terrorism?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. These good people worship a law and order process consistent with our Constitution and judicial system. This is a self-imposed suicide pact. One does not give the protection of the Constitution to foreign groups trying to kill us, and who have had success in doing so. The Marine barracks in Beirut, military quarters in Saudi Arabia, the USS Cole, the Twin Towers and many other less dramatic events cannot be prevented as long as certain rules tie our hands. Terrorists and those who give them aid do not have the right to the rules of evidence and other judicial procedures reserved for U.S. citizens. In war saboteurs and spies are executed.

“I want you to sponsor and lead a small team totally independent of the government. A team not required to answer to anyone. Today I will give you the names and dossiers of a few people I believe will be ideal for this mission. If you accept them, they will be separated from the CIA as soon as you call me. I will also provide you with information and some equipment not available on the open market. I suggest you set up a cover company not easily traced to you. Use this commercial company to pay your people and expenses, and to rent or buy vehicles you will need. I will give you a key to a storage unit containing several types of small arms, small stable explosives and communications equipment. None of it can be traced back to CIA. You should move this material to your own place as soon as possible.

“Now a few words about this man, Yuri, your father is tracking. I believe he is running a network of terrorists for profit. This is your first assignment. Find out if he is who your father thinks he is. If he is, stop him and his network. This man is very dangerous and is wanted under several names by a number of nations including the Russians. Be careful. Use whatever force you need. I am not interested in a court trial, nor is your father. Send any information needing action to the FBI in some way, and then call me and tell me about it. Don’t give the FBI an opening to backtrack the information.”

“What can you tell me about the people you’re recommending?”

“I’ll give you a shortened resume on each of them. They are two of the best I have. Both are female. I’ll stack them up against anyone, male or female. They are excellent case officers. Both have recruited and run spies in several countries. They have had experience with a number of weapons and are crack shots. And, while not up to your martial arts skills, they are very good at hand-to-hand.

“I have also found women are often better at undercover work than men. These two are good. I hate to lose them and, to tell the truth, if they don’t want to work with you, they will probably leave me anyway. One needs more money to care for her mother, and the other badly needs a change from the bureaucracy. I’ve included a way for you to contact them and make a decision. I will tell them to expect a call from Nick.

“I need you to fill in some of these gaps until the rest of the country wakes up. I want you to use your own judgment. Don’t over analyze and don’t ask permission. Just do it.”

“One last question. Tell me how you see this Yuri problem. What can the government do to take his network down?”

“Right now, nothing. We have no evidence to justify a wiretap and 24/7 surveillance on Yuri. If the FBI could be interested, their initial investigation would alert Yuri and he would be gone. So I can really do nothing.

No one except me would believe your father’s story. If your father went to the authorities with his story, the most likely outcome would be an investigation of him. In short, the Counter Terrorism Center or CTC cannot meet the burden of evidence required in our judicial system to put terrorists out of business in some cases. So I need you to take care of Yuri and a few others like him. Don’t risk trying to capture him. If you captured him, I don’t know what we would do with him. When you have convincing court worthy information or evidence, get it to the FBI. Do not give it directly to me. I could not explain where I got it and could not officially act on it. But I do want to know when you do it and generally what it is all about.”

Jack looked at Frank and said, “Suppose someone gets hurt or killed during our attack on Yuri and his people?”

“If Yuri or some of his people get hurt or killed, don’t get caught. Don’t leave any evidence they can use to identify you. As far as yourselves, you are on your own. Don’t act like the government and wait too long while you stew over incomplete information. Use your best judgment and act.”

“How do we get in touch with you other than the phone number my father uses?”

“You can’t. My telephone is safe for use. A disposable cell phone is best for you. Call me on the number I gave your father. I will not call you, and no record of any kind will be kept on our business.

“I have to go now. For me this has been a good meeting. I want a long-term relationship with you. I will miss my old and dear friend a lot. He has been a source of strength and wisdom for the past two decades. I am saddened beyond grief over his condition. I’ll walk over and say goodbye to your father and thank him for bringing his son to me. I’ll do my best to make sure you are protected from government probing.”

Frank shook hands and walked slowly away. His work day was only half over. He hoped the son would be half as effective as his father had been. Frank hoped he hadn’t ruined the lives of his new team. He was taking a big gamble. Not for him. His career was already coming to an end. He didn’t know how much longer he could tolerate the leftist progressive regime now in power. They had been after the CIA since before the “Church” Committee and now had destroyed the motivation of his counter-terror agents working on the front lines. These people weren’t dumb. They saw what could happen to agents taking risks to protect their country. He would never understand the thinking of people who devoutly believed it was criminal to drip water up the nose of people who had killed over three thousand Americans and were actively trying to kill more. If their own children were taken by a terrorist, they would be screaming for the government to do something. For certain their generation will never be judged by future historians as one of our greatest generations. The best thing he could do for the son of his old friend was to give him some very good people, watch his back and separate Nick and his group from any links to the CIA.

The next step for Jack was to go see his dad’s friend and lawyer. Peter had insisted Jack go see Lee Jensen in his McLean law office before they got into any more detailed talks about money. His father had few friends and, with the exception of Frank Batcher at the CIA, no one knew his secret story. For the last twenty years Peter Brandon had counted on Lee Jensen to keep his affairs legal and his finances in order. Peter Brandon trusted Lee Jensen but did not want to burden the relationship with the details of his secret and sometimes violent life.

Jack called Lee Jensen’s office early the next morning. Jensen was expecting his call and told him to come in about 9:00 a.m. In honor of his father’s lawyer and wanting to project a businesslike demeanor, Jack wore one of his three suits with a button-down shirt, red-striped tie and black loafers. He needed a haircut but felt he could pass for at least another week.

Jensen’s office was in a quiet grouping of commercial townhouses. Jack told the attractive receptionist he had a 9:00 meeting with Mr. Jensen. Even though he was at least ten minutes early, the receptionist showed him immediately into Mr. Jensen’s office. Like the foyer and reception area, Jensen’s office was tastefully furnished.

Oriental carpets scattered over dark polished wooden floors set the backdrop for the late 18th century English antiques furnishing the office. Lee Jensen looked as if he belonged in the setting and was merely waiting for his cue to begin speaking with an upper class British accent of the same period. Jack’s eyes were drawn to the white jagged scar that ran down the lawyer’s left cheek. The scar seemed out of place with the well-tailored, three-piece, dark blue pinstriped suit and the gleaming black Italian shoes. Jensen crossed the room in two quick strides and seized Jack’s hand with both of his in a firm and warm handshake. His first words broke the spell. No British accent, just a trace of a Southern one.

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you but under happier circumstances. Your father is one of my closest friends and my best client.”

“My father and I have a very close relationship, but I know next to nothing of his business affairs. Dad told me you will be able explain the extent of his investments and business interests. But first can you tell me something about yourself as one of my father’s most trusted friends? Your Southern accent and scar on your cheek tell me something, but please fill in some of the details.

“Jack, if I may call you that?”

“Of course.”

“In turn please call me Lee. The title “Mr. Jensen” from people your age makes me feel older than I am, and certainly I’m glad to give you some personal background. My home state is South Carolina. I graduated from the University of South Carolina and Duke Law School. Between USC and law school I joined the Army. I ended up as a Lieutenant in the 101st Airborne Division and saw some action in Vietnam. One night I led a platoon-sized unit on a night patrol outside Fire Base Bastogne. We took a lot of RPG fire, and I ended up with this scar. In South Carolina scars from a war are a badge of honor.”

Lee asked Jack to take a seat at the small round table in his office while he extracted several manila folders from a safe. Every piece of furniture in the office gleamed, belying at least two hundred years of use. Seating himself across the table from Jack, Lee slid a folder across the table.

“In the folder is a letter your father wants you to sign before we go into the details of his will. I believe your father told you, you could sign or not sign and your choice would affect the manner in which his estate is distributed or liquidated. Is that not the case?”

“Yes. Your understanding is the same as mine.”

“Good. Please signify you have read and understand the implications of your signature. In the meantime I’ll bring us some coffee. I understand you, like your father, drink it black.”

“Yes, I’d kill for a cup of coffee. Thank you.”

Jack opened the folder and read the short letter. After yesterday’s long talk with his father, Jack understood the reason for this letter. The letter simply recorded Jack understood and accepted the commitment to devote full time to running his father’s business. By the time he had signed the letter and returned it to the folder, Lee returned with a coffee tray. Glancing at the signed letter, he seated himself across the table.

“Jack, my first piece of business is to state you are the sole beneficiary of your father’s estate. To avoid paying an inordinate amount of federal and state income tax on the estate, a large portion of the assets are in various trusts. It may look and sound confusing, but all the trusts will be under your control. I’ll help you with any changes you may want to make. But for now we concentrate on the bigger picture. Is that okay?”

Jack nodded and Lee Jensen said, “Here is a listing of the securities in your father’s estate. I’ve used last Friday’s closing value to derive the dollar value of the stocks and bonds. You must remember the numbers will have to be run again after your father’s death. I’m sorry to discuss the situation so coldly, but I must.”

The listing was four pages in length. As Jack scanned the pages, he was astounded at the number of shares of blue chip companies. The last page provided a total dollar value of $750,289,157. Jack put the listing down and reached for his coffee cup. After taking a sip of the strong French roast and composing himself, Jack looked up at Lee as the lawyer said, “That is not all. Let me finish with the rest of the estate. Your father also owns several pieces of real estate. I have made another listing of properties and estimated the respective values by using recent sales of comparables. Please look over this listing before we go on.”

Jack said, “Fine” and reached for the folder. Nothing he learned yesterday prepared him for the staggering amounts of money involved. He had thought maybe the estate would be worth three or four million dollars in addition to the real estate. Jack smiled slightly as he thought, once again, his father’s love of surprising him was still active. Prepared now, Jack extracted the listing of property assets from the folder and slowly ran his eyes down the list. In addition to the home in McLean, the list contained sizeable tracts of land in northern Minnesota, coastal South Carolina and the Allegheny Mountain area of Pennsylvania. A small residence was located on each of the large tracts of land. The estate also owned a condo in San Francisco and a rather large house on Amelia Island, Florida. Lee laughed and said, “You’ve had the fire hose treatment. Is this all new to you?”

“Very. I’m astounded at the amount of the estate. I had no idea my father owned so much property.”

“I can’t help you there. Your father and I trust each other and seldom did things by signed contracts. A handshake was enough. But he is very skillful in avoiding questions. All he would say is he had good reason for all his acquisitions.

“Your father asked me to have a private dinner with you at his house to go over any questions or issues that may come up after you leave here. If it is convenient, I’ll drop by tonight with dinner, and we can have a quiet meal and see where to go from here.”

Jack thought for a moment and said, “That sounds good. About 7:30 then?”

“One more thing, your father gave me a sealed letter for you to take with you.”

Jack took the sealed letter, shook hands with Lee, smiled at the receptionist and walked out to his car. Jack glanced at his stainless steel Rolex and was surprised he had spent two and half hours with Lee Jensen. His stomach told him the cup of coffee and the toasted bagel he had for breakfast needed reinforcement before he had to deal with any more surprises.

There were several parking spaces outside the “Deli” his father often frequented on Old Chain Bridge road across from the Safeway. Taking a corner booth, Jack ordered scrambled eggs, toast and black coffee. In the quiet and privacy of his corner booth, he read his father’s letter. The basic information in the letter concerned his father’s accounts in offshore banks and how to use them. Combined with what Lee Jensen had shown him, the offshore accounts in Geneva and the Caymans added up to just over a billion dollars. If he did nothing but very conservative investments, his fortune should increase by several million dollars each year. His father’s letter said no one, including Lee Jensen, knew about the offshore accounts. No taxes had ever been paid on these accounts, but they had been used to finance his work for the CIA. He finished his scrambled eggs and thought about taking care of the man who had killed his mother and baby sister. It shouldn’t be too hard.

Jack noticed the deli was filling up rapidly and his privacy was just as rapidly diminishing. Jack folded up the letter and leaving a tip, paid his bill at the cashier station. Still recovering from his meeting with Jensen, Jack headed off to another meeting with his father and Frank Batcher, the Director of the Counter Terrorist Center at CIA.

Another man, Yuri, was working on a different plan. Last week Yuri had had a feeling he was being followed when he left the Four Seasons Hotel in Georgetown. After he pulled into his garage and closed the overhead door, he went quickly out the back door, cut through three deserted backyards to a place where he could clearly see the entire block. Sure enough, trusting his instincts had paid off. A car was parked 50 feet farther up the street with a man slouched behind the wheel. This was no coincidence. Using a small pocket telescope, Yuri recognized the renegade KGB officer he had once known as Ivan Kalin when they were both mid-level KGB Officers. This man was dangerous, capable of killing him without a second thought. He had to move fast, but he also needed some help. You didn’t take on Kalin without professional help. With hands shaking so much he could barely note the license number, he took one last look and, with a dry mouth and pounding heart, hurried back to his house. He had a phone call to make later that night. It would take two days to get his Charleston cell up to D.C., and some time to run them through an attack plan.

For the first time in a very long time, Yuri was frightened. He had long, repressed memories of killing Kalin’s wife and infant daughter years ago. Kalin would give him no mercy. Yuri had been waiting for Kalin to find him ever since. Just when he had thought he finally could stop worrying about Kalin, there he was parked just up the street. Tonight he would alert his most experienced team to come up from Charleston. He had Kalin’s license number, and tonight he would use his internet skills to tap into the DMV and find the name he was using and his address.

When the Berlin Wall came down and the Soviet Union fell apart, Yuri hi-jacked the KGB cells under his supervision which gave him a constant source of funds. The cell members spread throughout the United States thought Yuri was still following Moscow orders. In fact, all his cells were profit generators. Assassinations and terrorist acts for clients brought in most of the money. If all went according to plan, Yuri could retire next year.

 

Peter Brandon paused and several minutes of silence followed. Jack saw his father brushing tears from his eyes as he stared out across the snow-covered lawn.

Shadow broke the spell by pushing the door open and leaping off the porch in pursuit of one of life’s real villains, a gray squirrel. Jack’s father said, “You know, it’s grown cold out here. I’m going back inside. When you’re ready, come back inside and we’ll talk some more.”

With Shadow bouncing beside him as he walked down the snow-covered trail in the park behind his father’s house, Jack knew he had a lot to think over. To find out he has been using a false name his entire life and is not even a citizen of the country he served, shook him badly. Not to mention his father was a former KGB agent and probably still on the Russian Intelligence Service wanted list. Maybe the CIA could cope with these facts but the FBI would slap both him and his father in the lock-up at the first opportunity. No matter what he did, the facts remained the same. He still loved and admired his father and was proud to be an American. He wondered if he were any different from the millions of illegal aliens residing in the United States. After an hour watching Shadow splashing in a small partly frozen brook, Jack headed back to the house. He had convinced himself to go with his gut and pick up his father’s work.

A slow fire burned in the small Brandon library and threw a flickering light on the floor-to-ceiling book shelves. A small lamp on a writing table with an open bottle of port was the only other light. All else was in shadow. They clinked glasses and drank a silent toast. Peter Brandon set his glass down on the pine coffee table, looked at Jack and said, “Which is it? Do you think I’m nuts, scared you to death or both?”

“Dad, I know you aren’t nuts. You didn’t scare me, but I’m confused and more than a little troubled. I guess our illegal status bothers me. And I wonder if the Boulder cops blamed you for the death of my mother and sister.”

“I don’t think so. The only warrant they issued for me was as a material witness. I’ve learned to live with my illegal status, and I hope it will be easier for you. You have a long documented history in this country that can be checked. A certified copy of a John Alexander Brandon’s birth certificate is in a safety deposit box along with some other things. Remember when I said I wanted to open a safety deposit box in your name and had you sign the forms. Well, the key to the box is in the house safe. You used the original of your birth certificate when you became a Marine and when the Pittsburgh police did a background check. I don’t have any birth records for me. I claimed they were burned in a courthouse fire, a real fire and a real courthouse. Also, you have served in the Armed Forces of the United States and have a real history. I wouldn’t worry about your citizenship status.”

“Dad, I’m ready for a career change and after my job in homicide, I’m ready for a new challenge. Do you think I can handle it?”

His father laughed and then coughed. Finally he said, “Son, it never was my style to throw you into something over your head. For at least a few months I will be there to help. After I’m gone you will control all the money and all the activities. Remember ninety-five per cent of all I did was well within the law. I believe it will take only a few months before you’re comfortable taking over.”

“Okay! I’ll do it.”

Shortly after their late lunch his father went to bed for a nap. Jack carried a cup of tea out on the back deck. The sun was out and, with the protection from the wind, he was quite comfortable. Shadow curled up next to his chair, at peace with the world. Jack’s world was far from being at peace. The respect Jack had for his father had grown with these revelations. He wondered how he could have been so naïve. He had never suspected his father had a secret life of such magnitude. Now Jack knew the details, he could see he had plenty of opportunities in the past to be suspicious. Now he had to make a plan to kill a man he had never seen, a man who had in cold blood murdered his mother and infant sister.

 

 

 

Jack poured them a fresh cup of coffee, muttered and settled back in his chair.

Peter sipped from cup and looked at Jack. Jack nodded and Peter picked up his story.

“All this time the KGB was frantically searching for us. As careful as I was, one day in Colorado when you were playing at a neighbor’s house, I left by the back door of our rented house and went shopping. KGB killers entered the house and killed your mother and infant sister, Sarah. The killing team was just leaving from the front, when I walked up through the alley to the back of the house. I recognized one of the killers. Someday I swore I would find him and kill him.” Pounding his fist on the chair arm, Peter said in a hoarse voice, “That time is now. I saw this killer in the Four Seasons Hotel in Georgetown last week and followed him to his house.”

Peter whispered, “You have no idea how much I have missed your mother.”

Jack hugged his father and asked if he wanted to rest awhile, but Peter said, “No, not yet. But go find Le Dinh and see if he’ll produce something a little stronger than coffee.”

When Jack returned with two bloody marys, Peter said, “I just want to live long enough to see justice done and, yes, vengeance as well. There is no evidence we can turn over to the police or FBI. It is almost as if some higher power has delivered Yuri to me in my last days. I’m sure he won’t be leaving the area soon. We’ll take him within the next few weeks.”

Jack looked over at his father and said, “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll see to him! Now tell me some more of what happened after my mother and sister were killed.”

Sipping his coffee and clearing his throat, Peter picked up his tale with a weakened voice. “Now there were just the two of us. We ran fast. Before everything was computerized, it was relatively easy to change identities. I chose a very American name and slowly added documentation to support the name of Brandon. Although I was born in Russia, my grandmother told me I had a lot of Celtic ancestors. Since your mother was no longer with us, I didn’t have to worry about explaining her slight accent. My American English was native and so was yours. So with our changed identities, we bought a used car for cash and headed east, looking for a place where we could start a stable, if not a normal life.

“We needed schools and a place where no one was interested in our backgrounds. We had plenty of money. In fact, taking care of the money was almost a full-time job for me. We had to pay some taxes, so the money had to come from someplace. Some of my early high risk investments paid off many times over. I paid taxes on our investment income and stashed the rest in a number of safety deposit boxes.

“Fairfax County in Virginia was exploding with new development and an influx of people pouring in from all over the country. Land was cheap and I bought a lot of it. We settled on a house in a Fairfax County development called Kings Park. You may remember some of this. No one cared where you came from. Everyone was from someplace else. Schools were good. And the chaos of rapid growth provided a good place for us to hide and continue to improve our identities.

“Early on I decided to find a contact in the CIA. For the next year I spent all my free time trying to identify the right place to start the destruction of the KGB network assigned to me. The FBI and other organizations with judicial cultures that are focused on making cases for prosecution in the courts just don’t have the liberty or even the desire to look at solutions beyond the law. At the end of a year of investigation and research, I had a few prospects. I needed an ambitious officer who had served a number of foreign tours. From my KGB training I knew the organization and function of the different components of the CIA.

“Before the KGB could warn my entire network of illegal agents, I contacted each of them and gave them new locations and identities. A few years later the CIA, with my assistance, captured all but one of these illegal agents.

“My first attempt to establish contact worked. I picked Frank Batcher, an officer who had just returned from a posting in Vienna. I found his address and one morning, followed him to work. The rest was easy. I made up a package giving complete details of one of the most dangerous agents in my old network. To improve my credibility I included the small clandestine radio given to me by the KGB. In my note I told Batcher if this worked out, I would give him more leads, but he must make no effort to find or identify me, and there must be no leaks to the media. I put my package in his mailbox at night and then called him from a pay phone. When he asked me how he could contact me, I said he couldn’t. I’d call him occasionally, and he could give me information over the phone. From the beginning, we have completed twenty-five years of working together.

“During those years my contact, moving from one assignment to the next, became quite senior in the Intelligence Community. He trusted me and began giving me things to work on. I’m sure, from time to time, the CIA tried to identify me. I don’t know how hard they tried because my information was always accurate and dependable. I believe they made the decision it was better to have my cooperation, instead of identifying the source and taking a chance of losing the information.

“In intelligence terms I was a very good source who asked for nothing in return. You see if all a source wants to do is provide information, he or she can control all contact. If you are doing this for payment or some other tangible form of reward, you will eventually lose control of the contact arrangements. All I had to do was to conceal my packages of information, and then call my contact and tell him where to pick them up. I assure you after the first package of information, there was no hesitation about picking up my packages. Then, too, since there was no money or the usual paperwork involved, there was no Congressional oversight.

“Three years ago my CIA friend moved into a very senior position as the head of the Counter Terrorism Center (CTC). From his position he could provide some protection for his sources. One time when I called him on the number he had given me, he convinced me to meet with him in person. I was concerned but he agreed to my stringent meeting arrangements. There was no need for my paranoia. We talked for several hours and agreed to regular monthly meetings. His proposal was very attractive. He had been impressed by the information I had provided in the past. He said it was some of the best he had ever received but now we needed to make some changes. He said my knowledge of the workings of Russian Intelligence was dated. He wanted to continue our relationship but in another direction.

“Frank told me his work was being handicapped by the increasing liberalism of government officials, elected and appointed, who failed to realize terrorism is not a law and order problem. It is, instead, a war. And different rules had to be applied. The war cannot be won by trial lawyers and words. The FBI and the lawyers in Justice and on the intelligence staffs on the Hill were culturally wedded to the case method, where evidence collection, an indictment, an arrest are followed by a trial. A long process with a high standard for rules of evidence that is not suited to a battlefield. According to Frank, they act as if their own government is the enemy. When people who are trying to kill us are given the protection of the Constitution and our system of Justice, it is a recipe for national suicide. He feels strongly that the law and order process will never win the battle with terrorism.

“Frank wanted a source of assistance and financial support that would never be exposed to anyone with an oversight role or those looking for political spin. The government is full of people who try to impose their solutions in an area they do not understand. Most of them have never heard a gun fired in anger. But they are full of tactical advice and are willing to apply the protections of our Constitution to people trying their best to destroy our way of life. Partisan politics and intelligence operations just do not mix well. The motive of ninety-odd per cent of all representatives and senators is to get reelected and to increase their power positions. The needs of the nation come in a distant second, and truth is what benefits the office holder.

“Frank gave me his speech, a long one for him, nearly two years ago. Frank is the only name he gave me, but he of course knows that I know his full name and address. His full name is Frank Alan Batcher. He knows me as Paul. In return for my help, he was willing to give me the guarantee neither I nor my family would ever be prosecuted for entering this country illegally or for any of the work done in his behalf. Frank knows I am dying and wants to meet with you to discuss a new direction for our work together.

“He also knows I’m trying to track down the man known to me as Yuri. This is the same man who was part of the KGB team that killed your mother and sister. To help protect our arrangement he wants us to send our information to the FBI but to tell him when we have done so. When we finish up here, I’ll make arrangements for the three of us to meet. No one else knows our story.”

Peter Brandon went on to say, “I was born as Ivan Kalin in the Soviet Union in what was then Leningrad. I was a young KGB Officer, selected early in what you would call the sixth grade and trained in a mostly English environment by American and Canadian born staff in a special school not far from Moscow. Languages were easy for me. I learned Polish and French. Many of the skills I learned were passed on to you as you were growing up, sometimes in the form of games and other times in the context of sports and physical fitness.

“It was in the period of Détente, the counter-intelligence vigilance of the cold war era was fading into memory and the KGB leaders decided to take advantage of the soft U.S. borders. My superiors began to infiltrate KGB Officers into the United States through Canada and Mexico.

“No one except my instructors knew of my KGB status, and they would never leave the Soviet Union. My handlers decided to send me into Canada and then into the United States. They never knew I despised the regimented life under the Party elite. The grayness of life, the constant worry that anything I said or thought might be seen to be anti-party, the arbitrary allocation of career opportunities, and the danger of trusting even your best friends made me yearn to escape. My grandmother was the only person I could talk to. She told me tales of how her friends and family members had been persecuted in the insane purges prior to World War II. Before she died she made me promise to take the first opportunity to escape. What better way than for the Party itself to make the arrangements?

“So for years I knew, if I ever got a chance to get out of the Soviet Union, I would never go back. I despised the cruelty and arrogance of the Communist Party. I was certain one day the Russian people would rise up against the regimes who had, one after the other, brought them hardship without hope. The threat of the camps and the omnipotence of the KGB sapped the courage of even the bravest. I could not be part of the historical repression that had wrung the light and gaiety out of people wherever the Hammer and Sickle flew on its field of red.

“A young man traveling alone presents a higher level of risk so I was provided with a wife. The KGB was a resourceful organization, and within three months they found a suitable wife. She was a beautiful young Polish woman from a good family who spoke excellent English. Her name was Anna. I’m not going to tell you her full name or give you any dates. Nor am I including the places and details of our break from the KGB. Backtracking my story would be dangerous for you. Her parents were ranking party members and highly trusted. I loved your mother from the first day I saw her.

“Armed with KGB-provided papers, we now had a Polish identity with all the necessary documentation including university student identity cards from Warsaw University, drivers’ licenses, a military status card, medical records and a collection of pocket litter to add authenticity to our cover stories, we made our way across Poland and Czechoslovakia into Austria, where we joined with other refugees in the endless processing. Eventually we got our Canadian immigrant visas and arrived in Canada. The journey was not hard. The trip from Austria to Canada was the easiest part of the trip.

“The Catholic Church in Canada helped us to get settled in a small town near Ottawa. Much to my surprise Anna was fascinated with the Christian church, and keeping with our cover, she attended church several times a week. Once in a while I went with her but was never able to match her interest and commitment to religion. I found work as a carpenter’s helper and with the help of the church and Canadian social services, we made ends meet. Two years later you were born. I was told my mission was to make my way into the United States and to settle within thirty miles of Washington, D.C. Once there I would take control of a spy network.

“My Control in Canada handed me a list of important American military and civilian office holders to assassinate prior to the start of a military attack on the United States. The intent was to confuse the American political and military chain of command. I had a secondary mission of creating chaos in the civilian sector by the spread of bacteriological agents, placing bombs in pre-selected key areas and sabotaging other targets.

“I was relieved when I learned Anna, though frightened, shared my feelings and was willing to take the risks we would face breaking away from KGB control in the United States.”

Talking rapidly now as if he were trying to get through a difficult time of his life, Peter plunged on, telling his son he knew they had to get out of Canada and make their break soon. “There were not enough places to hide or cities large enough in Canada to hide a family on the run from the KGB. Fortuitously, the KGB contact in Canada told me to get ready to move to the United States the next month. He said the counter-intelligence forces in the U.S. were improving rapidly and personal contacts between KGB controllers assigned to the Soviet Embassy and Consulates and undercover officers were becoming more and more dangerous. Officers with my training had to move in and take over key espionage networks. I was assured all the necessary funds and equipment to perform my mission would be in place, so I could improve the access of my network, recruit and pay agents, and acquire necessary real estate for the mission. Once in the United States, I systematically withdrew nearly all the funds from each safety deposit box and bank account under my control.”

“Wait a minute! Are you telling me our whole life is financed with funds stolen from the KGB?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Over the years I have grown this money into a sizeable fortune and used a lot of this money to help protect our country.”

“Why didn’t you just walk into the nearest FBI office and tell them your story?”

“Good question. But once you walk in as a defector to any counter-intelligence organization, you cannot walk out. For the rest of your life, you will be in their hands. They will never fully trust you nor allow you to develop your life by following your own path. Also, I didn’t trust the Americans to keep us safe from a vengeful KGB. One of the essential things I have learned from my life is that while some people will keep their word, all governments break their word as soon as it is expedient to do so. I swore once our family was safe, I would help the American government to protect this wonderful country.

“Now, please bear with me, and let me get through my story.”

The snow covering the landscape disappeared just outside of Frederick, Maryland, and it was late afternoon when Jack pulled into his father’s driveway. His father lived in a small estate on a hillside above the town library in McLean, Virginia. Jack parked in the roundabout near the front door and let Shadow out to chase after a gray squirrel. In all his six years he had never caught one, but true to Bouvier honor Shadow gave it all he had each time. The clamor brought Jack’s father to the front door.

Jack hadn’t seen him for four months and the change was incredible. Peter Brandon had lost a lot of weight. His skin hung in folds under his chin, the color was gone from his face, and only the piercing blue-gray eyes remained. He looked much shorter. His hair had thinned and he could see his scalp under the wispy white hair. Jack ran up the few steps and took his father in his arms. He could feel every vertebra and was conscious of his dad’s fragile body. His father hugged him back and said, “My God, do I look that bad? Never mind. Come on in and have a drink with me. Le Dinh will get the baggage. I’ve put you in the master bedroom.”

At Jack’s look, his dad said, “I moved out of my huge master suite a month ago. Everything is too far apart, and the old guest bedroom on the other side of the house is quieter and the bathroom is much closer to the bed.”

Jack called for Shadow who came bounding back instantly to greet Le Dinh Nguyen, his father’s long-time friend and servant who, with his wife, kept the house running and excellent meals on the Brandon table. Jack greeted Le Dinh and tried to give him a hand with the baggage, but he was chased away. Jack followed his father back to the library. His dad asked for a scotch on the rocks. Jack poured himself three fingers of Jack Black over one ice cube and said, “I wasn’t prepared for the oxygen bottle. Is there any reason to get another opinion? Maybe there is some new treatment out there?”

“No. I’ve seen the best. I have rejected the transplant process. The doctors tell me I am not a good candidate anyway. We have six months to a year, and I have a lot to say to you. By the way I’m sorry about your divorce, but to be honest, I could never warm up to Marsha. I don’t think she thought the world of me either.”

“Don’t be sorry, Dad. I made a mistake and got out of a bad situation without needing a shrink or a loan officer.”

“You know you could have money from me at any time. I’ll bet Marsha thought I was either a fraud or the tightest old man she had ever known.”

“Hmm, not too far off. She couldn’t understand I wanted to make my own way and you had taught me to be self-sufficient. Yeah, but finances were only a part of our problems. It wasn’t like I was in debt or couldn’t pay my bills. She just wanted to live beyond our means.”

“I’ve asked Le Dinh to serve us a light supper in here. It saves me some steps and energy. Talking tires me out and I have a lot to say to you. After supper I want to have a short talk about your past work with the police in Pittsburgh and then about your future with them, but I want to get to bed early. I have a long day planned for tomorrow.”

Before Jack could ask any questions, Le Dinh entered with their trays. Jack had forgotten how good the food was in his dad’s house. A cold cucumber soup served with curried egg salad sandwiches and roasted red peppers stuffed with saffron rice and diced shrimp. His dad passed on the Chablis, but Jack, knowing the quality of the wine cellar, accepted. After supper Jack talked to his father about his police work and where he could expect to be in the next five years, if he continued working with the police. His father asked a few questions and then said he needed to go to bed.

Jack wondered as he tossed in bed how he could go on without his father. His father had always been there for him. Here he was at thirty about to make a turn in his life he would not have thought possible yesterday. It seemed during their after-supper talk, his father wanted to know how qualified Jack was to manage the Brandon money and to continue with his life work of encouraging private enterprise.

After a late breakfast the next day, his father suggested they have coffee on the sun porch. After they were settled in the warmth of the morning sun, he told Jack he had a complicated and shocking story to tell him. He began his story by saying, “Brandon is not the name I was born with, and I was not born in this country.”

Jack nearly spilled his coffee as he sat up and sputtered, “What do you mean?”

“My story is long, so please sit back and hold your questions until I take you through it.”

This blog will serialize Barry Kelly’s first novel “Justice Beyond Law” every Wednesday and Saturday. For more by Barry Kelly, visit his Amazon author page.

One

Jack Brandon rolled out of bed just after dawn, dressed in his casual style of traditional Levis over the ankle lace-up boots, a polar tech mock turtle and an old leather jacket. He let his black Bouvier, Shadow, out in the small snow-covered fenced-in backyard. The temperature was still below freezing. Leaving Shadow to his morning ritual, Jack knocked the snow off his boots and went back in the house to finish packing and shutting the house up for a long absence. Before bringing Shadow in, he ground up some Colombian beans for coffee. Jack wouldn’t need breakfast, but Shadow wasn’t big on skipping any meals.

Jack’s father had called him last night and asked him to move in with him. His doctors told him he wasn’t going to get better. His failing heart might give him another year. Jack hadn’t hesitated. He told his dad he and Shadow would be there tomorrow. He called the captain of his Homicide Department and asked for a leave of absence. After a few questions his captain told Jack he could come back anytime, but now he needed to take care of his father. The Department would mail the necessary paperwork to his father’s home. Jack was his best sergeant. He had several awards for valor and his captain hated to lose him. The captain said he would be in touch and put the phone down. Jack would miss the guys in his unit and the challenge of homicide work in Pittsburgh. He knew he would miss the city where real Americans lived and worked. Blue collar was not a bad thing in Pittsburgh.

Jack ran a hand over his chin and decided to skip shaving. Lugging his three bags down the narrow staircase to the front porch, he went back into the house and motioned for Shadow to come in. After feeding Shadow and locking the front door, he pulled on his black watch hat and went down the steps where his Jeep Cherokee was parked at the curb. He signaled Shadow to jump in the back seat.

Throwing his bags in the luggage compartment, Jack glanced at the house and warmed up the Jeep for the trip to Washington, DC. It hadn’t taken long to close up his small Cape Cod house located in Oakland, one of the older neighborhoods of Pittsburgh. His ex-wife Marsha had been gone for five months and had taken anything of value with her. In no uncertain terms she had told Jack her family was right. He would never amount to anything. She wasn’t going to sit around this shack while her husband wasted their lives fighting crime in Pittsburgh. A bullet wound last year followed by a commendation hadn’t helped matters. Marsha cared little for awards without money. She constantly nagged him to ask his father for money.

Why didn’t he get some money from him? Jack told her his dad believed in people making their own way. She said well screw him, too, the tight old bastard. Last week Jack had signed the final divorce papers. She left him his books, Shadow and the house she hated. Life with a high-powered attorney would suit her much better. Jack didn’t expect a wedding invitation. At least he had no alimony to pay and there were no kids. He wondered if her new husband-to-be knew Marsha didn’t believe in post-marital sex.

With the radio tuned to a country music station and with Shadow looking out the window, Jack felt freer than he had in months. He might even sell the Pittsburgh house and try a new career. He got great satisfaction from his job, but wasn’t sure he could handle all the politics Captain Shorer faced every day. Jack was often counseled to be more politically correct and more respectful of his leaders. Captain Shorer was wonderful to him, almost like a second father, but the rest of the hierarchy sucked. Maybe it was time for a change.

No new snow was predicted, but the mountain-sides were covered with deep drifts and the highway had patches of ice and snow. As long as he kept a reasonable speed, 4X4 wouldn’t let him down. He planned to stop in Ligonier at a place he knew. Jack and Shadow never met a cheeseburger they didn’t like.

Shadow was a good listener, and Jack talked things over with him as the Cherokee rolled along route 30 East through the Allegheny Mountains. Two hours later Jack pulled into the small parking lot at the diner. Shadow immediately sat up and howled. Jack told him to be patient and went inside to get two cheeseburgers and a large black coffee. Sitting in the jeep eating his cheeseburger with Shadow watching hopefully from the back seat for a second helping, Jack thought Marsha was partially right. He wasn’t going anywhere in his police career. He loved being on the “job” but recognized he had gone about as far as he could bringing killers to justice in Pittsburgh.

He was in great physical shape. He had been a starting cornerback for the University of Pittsburgh before wrecking his left knee early in the season his senior year. After graduating from Pitt magna cum laude with two majors, one in political science and the other in criminology, Jack took an opportunity to go to Officer Candidate School at the Marine base in Quantico, Virginia. There he ranked at the top of his class and was accepted into Marine Recon School at Camp Lejune, North Carolina. Jack did equally well there. With the training he had received from his father and with his hand-to-hand combat skills from fifteen years of Hapkido, it was easy for him to excel. None of his instructors could beat him.

Early in the Iraqi War, Jack led a sniper team on the leading edge of the Marine Corps advance. After Baghdad fell, his unit moved into the Sunni Triangle near Ramadi. During a night mortar attack, he got enough shrapnel in his left leg to get a ticket home. After recovering, Jack was assigned to Quantico. While there he met and fell in love with a debutante from Washington, DC. After a whirlwind romance he found himself in civilian clothes with a wife and no job. The law enforcement job in Pittsburgh was just too timely and convenient to pass up and he had the credentials.

Now he was at another crossroads. This time he had neither a wife nor a job. Money would not be a problem. He could always find a job, and he knew his Dad was a millionaire several times over. Jack had doubts about going back to the Pittsburgh police. He liked the action and the hunting down of killers, but he hated the bureaucracy. Maybe he would like his father’s world of finance. He could always look for the excitement of living on the edge outside his job. With no responsibilities, he was free to try different paths.

This blog will serialize Barry Kelly’s first novel “Justice Beyond Law” every Wednesday and Saturday. For more by Barry Kelly, visit his Amazon author page.

Prologue

December

Arthur Cohen, congressman from New York’s 10th District, was anxious to begin his usual morning run. Everyone else in the Cohen house was still sleeping, at least in the case of his wife, Shara, who liked waking up softly, especially since their third child was expected late next month. Without his workout he had trouble concentrating on the minutiae of constituent problems. They invaded his time to work on new legislation. At 7:15 a.m. the world looked good. The weather forecast was for a bright sunny early winter day. The first rays of light made the forecast look good. The coolness of the night still prevailed and wafted around him like a cocoon as his ten-minute-a-mile stride carried him down the slope to the C&O Canal. The dirt path along the canal was the best place he had ever found to run. It was good for his over-forty knees. He often felt he could run forever along the canal. This morning he would run for exactly another twelve minutes and ten seconds, and his life would end.

Just before first light Jason settled himself into his shooting position and waited for his target to come striding down the canal path. It wouldn’t be long now. In the distance Jason could see a few runners approaching. Runners all have distinctive styles. Jason saw the blue and white warm-up suit come in view. The second runner was his mark, but to be sure Jason used his binoculars to compare the runner to the photo his Control had given him. It was a match. For the last two mornings from his carefully chosen shooting position, he had watched the congressman run along the tow path. Jason liked punctual targets. He had one here. Right on time. The light was good. At one hundred meters he would fire one round into Cohen’s chest. Then he planned to hit two more people among the cyclists, runners, and dog walkers to confuse the police and worry the local population.

Jason was concealed near the top of a steep bank. He had a clear view of the canal path. His getaway car was parked just off MacArthur Boulevard, a short walk from his ambush site. The weapon, a Steyr-Mannlicher SSG-69, when broken down could be concealed under his long dark coat. Although Jason was over sixty, he was a born hunter with steady hands and a keen eye. Jason’s spare frame carried the same weight it had decades ago when he came across the Canadian border. Nothing about him stood out.

The perfect kill was always easier than the perfect escape. The target neared the stone he had placed to mark the distance. Cohen’s left foot landed beside the hundred meter marking stone at the same instant Jason fired his first round. He hit Arthur Cohen in the middle of the chest. Cohen took one more half-step and fell on his face. No one paid any attention to the partially silenced first shot.

Jason held his position and selected the next target, a tall blond ponytailed runner with a near perfect stride, who had been gaining steadily on the blue and white warm up suit. Ponytail saw Cohen fall and broke her stride. Sighting on her upper right thigh, Jason’s second shot knocked her down within three feet of his kill. As other runners and bikers seeing the blood and the downed figures scrambled for cover, Jason, secure behind a screen of dead wild grapevines, selected a young male cyclist on a silver racing bike and shot him high on the right shoulder. The bike swerved and plunged into the shallow canal, causing more chaos.

Jason picked up the three brass casings, smoothed out the impressions made in his ambush position, and then worked his way back up the slope, wiping out all traces of his movements.

Jason didn’t mind killing. These people were all enemies, and the mission came straight from Moscow. He would just as soon have killed everyone on the canal trail, but he always followed orders. Jason did not hurry. It would be ten minutes before the first District of Columbia police car and an emergency medical unit arrived on the scene and by then he would be part of the morning traffic headed north around the beltway. In two hours Jason would be back on Tilghman Island on the eastern shore of the Chesapeake Bay, secure in his job as an owner-operator of a small marina. He would call his Control as soon as he turned off 495. This job was worth a nice sized bonus.

 

This blog will serialize Barry Kelly’s first novel “Justice Beyond Law” every Wednesday and Saturday. For more by Barry Kelly, visit his Amazon author page.