Mule, p.39
MULE, page 39
Last but not least, two muffler-equipped handsaws were pulled from a duffle bag.
One of the men got up and switched on the homeowner's little pink radio, tuning in to his favorite hard rock station. An AC/DC tune was playing, and he cranked it up loud, very loud.
One man said to the other, "Which one do you want—boy or girl?"
The other man shrugged. "Doesn't matter, but let's get a move on. I have a softball game at 4:00."
One man unzipped a wall of the tent surrounding the bodies, and they both entered, zipping back up again before they knelt down on the plastic floor.
They turned on their powerful battery-operated saws and commenced the quality work that Benson Renovations was renowned for. After a minute or two their heads started jerking in rhythm to the banshee screaming of AC/ DC's "Highway to Hell."
*****
Jack and Kerrie were up at 5:30 a.m., had a quick continental breakfast and were waiting for the cab in front of their hotel by 7:00. They had only managed to get a couple of hours sleep, but it didn't matter. They were both pumped today. Last night's internet revelations had them very excited, and they each felt that this day was going to be a momentous one. At the same time, they had no idea what they would find, but they were fairly confident that the key would fit a lock at Within Reach Storage in Bernardsville.
They instructed the cab driver as to where they wanted to go. The cabbie was excited too. This would be a big fare. Bernardsville was in the Somerset Hills of New Jersey, and about ninety miles from their hotel. The storage location was right on US-202, just outside of the town center.
They were both deep in thought as the cab made its way along the Long Island Expressway, then the Cross Island Parkway, merging onto I-295, then I-95 into New Jersey, along the New Jersey Turnpike. They barely noticed that they were now in the "Garden State." The taxi merged onto I-80, then I-287, and finally US-202. The scenery along the way was captivating, but neither of them noticed. The Somerset Hills area was gorgeous but not to be admired today; it was like they were in a trance. The lack of sleep plus a myriad of thoughts had achieved a state of near anesthesia.
They came out of it only when the cabbie said, "We're here." Just over two hours had gone by, yet both of them felt as if they had just left.
Jack paid the driver, and they stood on the sidewalk looking at the Within Reach Storage facility. It was just like any other self-storage—units clustered together in pods, dull exteriors, fenced compound. This particular facility looked brand new, and Jack hoped that they weren't wrong in their guess. As he and Kerrie walked up to the little office, he said to her, "The numbers we deciphered must be the unit number." Kerrie nodded in agreement. Jack noticed that her face seemed to have drained of its usual color.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes, but I'm feeling very nervous. I guess it's a fear of the unknown. Now that we're here, I'm scared to death about what we might find in there."
They opened the office door and walked in. An elderly woman greeted them with a welcoming smile.
"Hello, how can I help you two?"
"Hi. I want to access a unit that my father rented here. His name was Mitch Joplin, and the unit number should be 119. We have the key." Kerrie shifted nervously from foot to foot as the woman clicked away on her computer.
She looked up from her monitor. "No Mitch Joplin on our records, dear. Close, but no cigar." She chuckled at her little joke.
Suddenly Kerrie had a thought. "Try Bernard Joplin please. Sometimes my dad went by his middle name." She waited, biting her lip.
"Well, you're in luck. Here we are. But the unit number is not 119. You're close again though. You had it reversed. It's 911—building 9, unit 11."
Jack and Kerrie quickly exchanged glances, seeing the same astonishment in each other's eyes at the mention of 911.
"I remember your father very well. A nice man. The record shows here that he was one of our first customers when we opened up back in 2002. He had his pick of units, and that's the one he picked, by George! I recall he was quite insistent on that. I'm one of the owners here by the way. Name's Millie."
They shook hands, and Jack had the sneaky feeling that Millie would talk to them all day if they let her.
"I never saw your dad again after he reserved his unit. I was quite surprised by that. And you know what? He is the only customer who has ever paid us for more than a year in advance. He bought twenty years of storage! My word, that's a lot of money, but I remember he didn't seem the least bit concerned. He said he wanted it for twenty years and just paid us in full. He didn't even ask for installments." Millie shook her head in astonishment. Clearly the memory was still fresh in her mind.
"Millie, can you point the way to Building 9?" Jack asked as politely and patiently as he could muster.
"Oh sure, go straight down the middle aisle then hang a left after four buildings. It will be clearly marked. You can go into the compound directly through the back of my office here. Will save you from having to use the combination on the fence gate."
The walk to the unit was a short one. They found Building 9 and walked to the end unit #11. Jack stood in front of the door and held the key in his hand. Kerrie was standing behind him. "Would you like to do the honors, Kerrie?"
"No, you go ahead. I'm just going to stand here with my fingers crossed." Jack knelt down on the ground. The door was a rolling overhead type with the lock secured to two embedded rings in the cement driveway. He slipped the key into the padlock and tried to turn it. It wouldn't move. He looked back at Kerrie, grimacing. She stepped forward and gently took the key out of his hand. Kneeling down, she spit on the key and slipped it in herself, jiggling it around a few times in the lock. It turned smoothly, the padlock popped open, and the steel overhead door began to slide up ominously on its runners. Jack and Kerrie stood on the threshold, frozen in place. Neither of them said a word.
Chapter 35
It was 8:55 a.m. on Friday, and Sam Summerfield sat in his office in downtown New York City, awaiting the arrival of the agents code-named Brooklyn and Harlem.
Where he was sitting was still only temporary, until suitable permanent offices were decided upon in New York center. This temporary situation had existed since September 11, 2001, when the CIA Clandestine offices were destroyed in the collapse of WTC building 7, a full seven hours after the Twin Towers had come down.
Sam was hoping that a good location was found soon. He never liked temporary. It was hard to justify expenses for necessary upgrades to work stations and infrastructure, when there was always a possibility that they would be moving. They needed to be downtown due to the undercover work his division did with corporations, the United Nations, and the foreign visitors who came to New York every day.
Sam had lost track of how many times he and fellow agents had portrayed wealthy businessmen, looking to make deals at any cost. They were all slick enough to pull off such deceptions, and it was amazing how easy those deceptions were when money was no object. And with the CIA, money was never an object. They had trapped countless corporate executives in payoff schemes over the years, enabling the CIA to use them going forward as information-gatherers and manipulators. And of course, for insider trading. Congress never gave the CIA all the money it needed to do its work, so other methods of revenue were necessary. A separate team of specialized agents handled the sophisticated work of day trading and stock manipulation. The drug trade was another lucrative revenue stream for the CIA. While the four prominent drug cartels in Mexico got all the publicity for their violent ways, there was a fifth cartel that operated with no publicity—and a little less violence.
Insider trading and drug dealing aside, blackmail was the easiest of crimes and useful as hell. If only the American taxpayers knew how many Fortune 500 companies they had invested their hard-earned money in that were basically beholden to the CIA, they would have thought twice before buying stocks. But the good thing for the CIA was, the American people generally believed whatever they were told to believe, and the mainstream press cooperated with the government quite nicely to make sure that happened. Sam thought it was pathetic how citizens in supposedly free nations like the United States loved to brag about how glad they were to live in a country where their government and media told them the truth, as opposed to communist countries. Yes, they were sure proud to have a free press, with free speech, and that they had a government that respected their right to know. Yeah, right. If they only knew. Most of the mainstream press was in the CIA's pockets, again through blackmail. The CIA pulled the strings, and if they wanted stories thrown in a different direction, all they had to do was ask. Editorial control, in essence, was in the hands of the CIA. Of course from time to time they had to allow some controversies to be reported, and some criticisms of government policies. This was necessary to add credibility to the real serious stuff they manipulated. They had to throw them a bone once in a while.
It was merely a matter of content control, and the CIA had an entire division that did that and nothing else. It was a full time job. They arranged for the juicy blackmail information, or if none existed, created it. They communicated the blackmail, they groomed the next-in-line rungs of editorial talent, and they made the threats. The system was slick and it worked. And sometimes when threats failed, the balls were handed off to SAD to execute the threats.
The CIA was officially in the business of information collection. Unofficially they were in the business of controlling information. But oftentimes if it didn't exist in the manner they liked, they were also in the business of creating it out of thin air.
Hell, even when major news stories like Watergate hit the front pages citizens who applauded their "independent media" didn't have a clue that Watergate was simply allowed to happen. It was one of those stories that the CIA reported. Watergate was merely a bloodless coup.
Most people were unaware that the CIA had undercover offices in the WTC Building 7, along with the mayor's Office of Emergency Management, and the Securities and Exchange Commission. Many other tenants had been in that building as well, but they were hardly as important.
Well, until more permanent offices were established, Sam would just have to try to make himself at home here on Barkley Street whenever he was in New York. His comfortable office was always here for his exclusive use, and of course when he was at this office he was a "coffee importer," as were all the other CIA employees at this location.
Sam swung his chair around, put his feet up on the credenza, and stared out the window. From his eighth floor vantage point he had a good view of the WTC site and the extensive preparations being made to make it into a world-class facility again. He chewed on the end of his pen as he thought in amazement about the incredible damage the terrorists had caused. It made him sick to think that America actually cooperated with those maniacs in other parts of the world when it was politically expedient. And he was one of the facilitators. Well, he just did what he was told. If he had his way...
That was one horrible day eight years ago, and one that made him glad that organizations like his existed. Even though disillusionment had set in for him lately, he was proud of what he and many others like him did every day to help keep America safe. In his lifetime he never wanted to witness another attack like that. It was scary, to say the least, and he was a man who wasn't accustomed to being scared. He couldn't even imagine the horror ordinary civilians had felt when they watched their television sets that day.
Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted. His secretary's voice came over the intercom advising him that his guests had just arrived. "Send them right in."
Brooklyn and Harlem were escorted into his office, and his secretary closed the door behind her. Sam didn't bother to stand or shake their hands. He asked them to sit. Neither of them showed any signs of being nervous. That would change.
"I'll get right to the point," Sam said as he leaned over his desk. "What you did last night was a travesty."
"We got the information, didn't we?" Brooklyn asked sarcastically.
"Yes, you did, but you were ordered specifically not to hurt her."
"She died of a heart attack," Harlem jumped in. He stretched his arms out behind the back of his chair, and yawned.
"And you did nothing to prompt that heart attack?" Sam probed, trying to keep his anger in check.
"No, just tied her up and scared her a bit," Brooklyn answered, while brushing some lint off the shoulders of his Armani suit.
Sam clenched both of his fists. "Have you ever had to call in our cleaning service before?"
"No, first time."
"I guess you're not aware then that the scouts take photos?" Sam asked through clenched teeth.
Silence. They both shifted in their seats.
"I saw the photos early this morning." Sam said sadly. "You tortured her." "Well, okay, we did a little."
"You drilled out her eyeball, you fucking asshole!"
Silence again.
"And why did you have to kill her brother?"
"Is that who he was?" Brooklyn asked nonchalantly.
"Answer my question."
"He was compromising the situation. We had no choice."
"You are trained in lethal martial arts. You know plenty of methods of
subduing a man, short of putting a bullet through his head," Sam retorted.
The young agents nodded, both of them now sitting stiff in their chairs. Harlem leaned forward slightly. "Could I have some water?"
Sam reached behind his desk and grabbed a bottled water off his credenza. He got up and walked around his desk to where Harlem was sitting. Harlem reached out his hand. "Thanks, much appreciated."
In a lightning move, Sam slapped the bottle into Harlem's open hand, while at the same instant Sam's other hand grabbed the man's wrist from the back. Both of Sam's hands worked in unison to produce a loud snap. Harlem gasped as his hand bent backwards well beyond ninety degrees. The plastic water bottle fell to the floor from a hand that could no longer even hold a pencil.
Brooklyn jumped to his feet, thinking he was next. He was right. Sam delivered a fast kick to his solar plexus sending the agent flying backwards over the coffee table.
Sam's secretary opened the door and came rushing in at the sound. Sam held up his hand in the "Stop" symbol, and she immediately turned on her heel and left, closing the door again.
Sam used his significant presence to dominate the two cowards—one of them sitting in a chair holding onto a dangling, useless hand; the other still lying on the floor holding his stomach, gasping for breath.
"Stand up! You're both suspended, pending an investigation. Give me your weapons and your identification, including your magnetic entry cards. You don't deserve to call yourselves agents. You're not agents—you're just hollow dime-a-dozen killers." Sam paused for effect to let his order sink in, and continued. "If it were my call, I'd put you in front of a firing squad right now. You're a disgrace to the CIA and to this country. Those two good citizens were not the enemy. We just wanted information and you were trained to use other ways to get it."
The two agents were now standing, with their eyes aimed down to the floor. Their arrogance was gone.
"Two innocent American lives, decent lives, were needlessly wasted because of you heartless clowns," he added as he motioned for them to hand over their guns. Sam was well aware that some people might be justified in calling him heartless as well, but he consoled himself by thinking that he knew where to draw the line. Some people deserved to die, had to die—and others simply didn't. Agents had to be careful not to completely lose their sense of humanity. He also knew that it was easier said than done with the power trip that the CIA vested in its agents.
Brooklyn and Harlem quietly took out their side-arms and identification, laying them on Sam's desk. Sam punched the intercom to his secretary. "Let them in now, please."
His door opened and two uniformed guards appeared. "Show them out of the building," Sam ordered, voice dripping with disgust.
*****
They began walking into the storage room, slowly. The unit was only 10' by 20' but appeared cavernous. There was only one item in the room. Right smack in the center, looking almost like an altar, was a wooden pallet with one metal box sitting on it. Kerrie moved over to the pallet while Jack flicked the light switch and closed the overhead door. Then he joined her. They both looked down at the box, realizing that their madcap search had led to this— whatever it was.
Jack knelt down and looked at the box. It wasn't locked—it sat there just begging to be opened. He looked up at Kerrie. "Whenever you're ready."
She knelt down beside him, took a deep breath, and opened the box. On top of the other contents inside, was an envelope with her name on it. She picked it up, stood, and walked over to a corner of the room. Jack watched her as she opened the envelope and withdrew several pages.
"It's a letter. Addressed to me."
"Go ahead and read it, to yourself. This is a private moment for you.
Don't think of me."
As she read the long letter, tears began to flow, her eyes became wide, and she clutched at her chest. Jack forced his eyes away from her and let her have her moment. He looked down and began rummaging through the rest of the contents. The next item he found was an old photo with Mitch, Kerrie, and her mother. Kerrie was about five years old, and they looked like the typical happy family. On the back was written, "Kerrie, for a time, we were happy. Love, Dad."
Underneath the photo were a couple of layers of plastic sheeting, and beneath that a videotape, and a miniature cassette tape. That was it. Nothing else was in the box. He looked at the videotape—the cardboard case was old, faded, and bore the CIA seal on the front. There were no labels and nothing else to indicate what was contained on the tape.
