“Successful completion of this mission comes with a bump to GS-12 and a significant pay raise.” I opened my mouth to speak, but Leslie held up his hand, cutting me off. “Look, Wallace. I told you, in order to climb you must be willing to go deeper. Well, son, it doesn’t get any deeper than going undercover in Mother Russia.” Leslie leaned in close. “Tell me something… do you want to put up drywall for the rest of your life, or do you want to serve a higher calling? Because, if you really want to be of service you’re going to have to hang up your toolbelt. You’re an entry-level operations officer with a bright future, which has afforded you the sliver of a personal life until now. But, if you want to advance you’re gonna have to let the family business go.”
“You don’t know how hard what you’re asking me to do is,” I replied.
“Maybe, but every officer has had to give up something or someone at some point. Right now, it’s only a meeting with your brothers.”
I nodded.
“Good. The details of the mission and stage clothes are in the backpack under the table. Your counterpart will have further instructions and a clean weapon waiting for you in Moscow. Hopefully, you won’t need it. All you need to do is get on the plane, study the brief inside and out and start brushing up on your Russian.”
“Do you remember your first kill?” I asked, quietly.
“I remember every single detail of that day from what I had for breakfast to the look on his face when I pulled the trigger. You will never forget the first time. It’s impossible. Others I’ve forgotten, but not the first. It’s the same for every officer. It’s why those who’ve never gotten wet don’t climb the ranks as quickly, if ever. Once you’ve killed a man in service to the people of the United States of America it’s hard to trust anyone who hasn’t. It’s kinda fucked up, but it’s true.”
Leslie’s words burned my ears. I didn’t want to hear that this job would turn me into a callous death machine. It’s not why I joined the agency. On the other hand, I’d been trained to kill bad guys, and Zivon was most definitely a bad fucking guy.
“Just keep an eye on my family while I’m gone,” I said before finally taking a bite of my cobbler.
“Good?” Leslie asked.
“Fucking delicious, but I probably should be eatingapplepie after such a rousing and patriotic speech.”
“We’re not heroes, Cameron. We’re garbage men. Don’t ever forget that. We take care of the trash, so ourcitizens aren’t swimming in it every day.”
“You once told me that some officers have at least one civilian who knows what they do.”
“That’s right,” Leslie said, taking a fork full of cobbler from my plate. “The company frowns upon it, but more officers have a civilian confidant than you might think. Officially read in or otherwise. You’re not thinking of spilling the beans, are you?”
“When I imagine the future, I see my family suffering because of what I’ve chosen to do with my life, and I need to do everything I can to avoid that from happening.”
“And you have an ally in mind?”
I nodded. “My brother, Hatch. I think he could and would help me bridge my two lives if I came clean and asked.”
“You don’t sound entirely convinced.”
“He already plays the roles of big brother, father figure, and MC officer. As much as I could use his assistance and guidance, I don’t want to burden him.”
“I think you should trust your gut and hold off on disclosing to anyone right now. Your career is only just beginning, and the burden of knowledge is a genie you can’t ever put back into the bottle.”
“Thanks, Leslie.”
“You can thank me by sliding that cobbler a little closer to me,” he replied.
I pushed my plate toward him and sat back in my seat.
Cameron
ACAR SERVICE arrived at my door at precisely five a.m. to drive me to the military airfield at PDX where I found a C-37A fueled up and ready for takeoff. I made my way to the back of the plane in hopes of finding a private and quiet place to go over the details of the mission. According to the brief, I was to fly to Moscow with a small group of U.S. diplomats posing as a White House staff photographer, Clifton Wells. Of course, that cover identity was only to keep my fellow passengers in the dark.
Once in Moscow I’d be operating as black market art broker, Noah Beck and was to travel by train to St. Petersburg where I would meet a deep cover officer using the name Eleanor Finch. Together, we were to infiltrate the home of Sasha Fedya posing asbusiness and romantic partners. Once our mission was complete, we were to split up.
The brief, while detailed in some regards, lacked key mission information, and I looked forward to officer Finch filling me in on some of the missing details. In all honesty, I was thankful to have a partner on my first international case and was confident that whomever Leslie assigned to assist me on the mission would be competent and helpful.
“Catching up on some light reading?” a voice asked.
I looked up to see Ambassador George Korman coming down the aisle. He was a dapper man in his early eighties. Impeccably dressed and groomed to perfection. Never a hair nor a word out of place. His appearance bested only by his legacy as a global peacemaker.
“Uh, yeah. Just going over my itinerary,” I replied with a smile, casually closing the brief.
