Fearsome Memories
Chapter 1
I’ll never forgive or forget what he did to my friend. Vengeance is not only the Lord’s, but mine as well. The murder was brutal: a cold, calculated execution to be exact. I would be His instrument to kill someone who badly needed to die an agonizing death. And it would be up close and personal so I could watch the life force fade from his eyes.
***
Kris Amar, wherefore art thou my old foe, my nemesis and my ultimate destiny? I almost died several times by your hand when we last met in India. There is a score to settle, one I suspect is deeply shared by us both. Olly, olly oxen free, come out, come out wherever you are! Our new game is about to begin in earnest. Well, geographically speaking, not exactly in earnest, but rather in the heart of the Golden Triangle.
Amar is many things in one, complicated persona: Islamic extremist, terrorist kidnapper, mujahedeen warrior, Thug assassin and head Dalit at the largest crematorium in the holy city of Banaras, India.
We met a few years ago when I was dispatched to India by my former employer, the Diplomatic Security Service, to investigate the kidnapping of the U.S. ambassador’s daughter along with the eldest daughter of the former president of Afghanistan, Hamid Karzai. Luckily, I was able to safely rescue the girls from Kris’s clutches, but unable to capture or kill him. He escaped unharmed and vanished from India; his whereabouts unknown, at least until now. That’s the short version of the hatred between us. We both need to bring things to closure and that means one of us will die.
Jersey interrupted my sketchy reverie and impure thoughts of revenge with his snotty dismissal of my proposal. Oh, oh, our meeting was starting out on a sour note, a flat one to be sure.
“Richard, you know what you’re proposing is a boondoggle, plain and simple,” Jersey responded to my opening pitch. “It won’t fly with me, my friend. I simply won’t approve your asinine, harebrained scheme. It’s much too dangerous and fraught with too much potential for political fallout. You’re wasting your breath and my time with this one. It won’t happen.”
Jersey Briggs was my nominal, notional boss, at least in my mind, but I suspected not his. He was the Director of Investigations and Counterintelligence, Diplomatic Security Service, U.S. Department of State: yada, yada and more yada, ad nausea. It was the same position I’d held before retiring, and I didn’t enjoy the fact that I was now humbly groveling before my replacement. We were often butting one another’s head like two rutting rams during mating season and this time was no different. I always seemed to get his goat.
Maybe it was because counterintelligence was an apt description of Jersey’s mental prowess. His often inane decisions and equally absurd actions were legendary among the rank-and-file of the organization. He’d survived in the position because he kissed the butts of his superiors and they seemed to enjoy the experience. However, he often had to be spoon-fed solutions by his subordinates before swallowing any of their pabulum. And that’s what I was trying to do at the moment. I hoped he’d choke on the stuff, but only after giving his approval for my trip.
“Think of it as a junket then. That artful word is politically correct and will fly with big suits in the building,” I replied with a more-or-less straight face.
In the Foreign Service, it was all about the phrasing and parsing of words to one’s advantage. The packaging was often more important than the contents.
“It’s all a waste of time and money in my opinion and my opinion still counts for something around here,” he said, without looking up from the document I’d given him earlier.
He was too vain to wear his reading glasses in front of anyone. God only knew if he could read the text; much less understand it, although that might be a good thing in this case since I could easily fill in any blanks.
The document was a collection of intelligence snippets about the whereabouts of Kris Amar I’d collected from current and former colleagues over the past year or so. They all suggested the same thing: Kris Amar was now living in the Golden Triangle, probably in Vientiane, the capital of Laos, just across the Mekong River from Thailand. Moreover, the reports strongly hinted he was actively engaged in the drug trade. I had a hunch where the profits from his illegal enterprise were going, straight into the coffers of the Taliban and its al Qaeda masters in Afghanistan and Pakistan
“So, what do you expect to achieve on an all-expense paid junket to the Triangle?” Jersey mumbled while still scanning the report. “We don’t have an extradition treaty with Laos and I sure as hell won’t authorize a trip to that Commie country. You’d be vulnerable with our government unable to bail you out if the Laos decided to play hardball. The political fallout would be too great if you dick things up, as you occasionally do. Immunity or no immunity, I won’t agree to you going into Laos on what’s likely to be a wild goose chase. I think it’s a waste of Uncle Sam’s money.”
I’d anticipated his question and had a good answer which nicely played into Jersey’s overly inflated ego and his disingenuous concern about squandering taxpayer money.
“Two million U.S. dollars is not chump change in my view,” I responded while staying mute about my purported screw-ups. Sometimes discretion and diplomacy were the better parts of valor for wiseass agents who served and protected our nation.
“What are you talking about, Richard?” he asked in return. His question indicated he didn’t remember what was in his own job portfolio. This was no big surprise given Jersey’s self-induced absentmindedness.
“If you recall, Kris Amar has a two million dollar bounty on his head, dead or alive, per the Terrorist Rewards Program for kidnapping the two girls in India. I’m surprised you don’t remember since your office administers the program on behalf of the State Department.”
Jersey actually blushed and nodded his head indicating he did remember, but only after I’d reminded him of the fact.
“Why pay out the money to some scumbag snitch for ratting out Amar? Informants typically are not the most upstanding citizens to begin with. Why not avoid that scenario and save the money? If I’m right, I won’t have to step foot into Laos to capture the guy. He will come to me in Thailand and once he does, the Thai authorities will arrest him and we’ll extradite him to the U.S. to stand trial,” I explained, hoping he would realize how good it would make him look to save his department all that money. They were all about getting big bangs for their bucks.
“There’s already a U.S. arrest warrant out for him and Interpol’s issued a Red Notice for his detention and deportation to the U.S. Our extradition treaty with the Thais will complete the process; a neat, sweet and discreet deal. So, we’ve got the necessary paperwork in place already. It’s a slam dunk, boss,” I added so that he would understand that all he had to do to look like the hero was let me do what I wanted.
I used the word boss to indicate I was still a servile supplicant and in no way a threat to his illustrious, illusionary career. He always appreciated my submissive behavior in his presence and I never disappointed. I could step and fetch with the best of them these days when I badly desired something in return. Okay Jersey, throw me a damn bone for Christ’s sake!
“Just think, Jersey, of the kudos you’d garner if we’re successful. Two million bucks saved, terrorist-cum-drug dealer apprehended, justice served; not to mention the fat performance bonus you’d receive for pulling off such a brilliant, audacious plan.” I purposely used the word we’re to draw him into ownership of my proposal.
I could tell I’d hooked him at that point. He closed his eyes and sat back in his chair, contemplating what I’d just said. His mannerisms and body language were dead giveaways. Thank God Jersey telegraphed his thoughts and feelings without the slightest bit of encryption since those tell-tale signs made him much easier to read and manipulate.
He hemmed and hawed for awhile and finally said, “Okay Richard, let me think about it and I’ll get back to you when I’m ready.”
I’d been dismissed without any fanfare or gratitude for my plan to enhance his stature in the eyes of his superiors. It was vintage Jersey and nothing more. He simply couldn’t share the glory with a fellow colleague, much less the agony of defeat. It just wasn’t in his nature to do so and I understood the phenomenon well; sometimes much too well for my own good.
Forty minutes later he called and gave the plan the green-light. I suspected he’d made a quick call to his superior to get his boss’s approval along with some bureaucratic cover if things went south. He assiduously avoided any negative blowback on his reputation and career like the plague. However, Jersey could be especially decisive when it came to self-aggrandizement and calculating the number of sugarplum fairies dancing in his head. Delusions of grandiosity knew no bounds among the Foreign Service elitists and Jersey Briggs was certainly one of them.
True to character, Jersey’s parting words were: “Don’t embarrass me Avery,” before correcting himself, by saying “the department.” I hung up the phone, laughed, stubbed out my Marlboro and rolled over on the sofa for a well-deserved nap.