Rain unto Death Page 6

  “Yes?”

  “Simon will meet with you. Inform security that you are heading to Suite 5001 and they will let you through.”

  Dahl exited the elevator and walked up to Suite 5001. He heard a buzzer click and the massive wooden panel doors swung open, and he walked inside. The British accented lady was behind a large wooden desk with a computer terminal on it. She was wearing a flashy, white bell-bottom slacks and vest combination that looked as though it might have been in style ten years ago, maybe even twenty. There wasn’t a whole lot more to the office than the reception area and a couple rooms.

  “Simon is waiting for you. Please go through the door to your left,” the woman directed.

  Simon Bowe was standing. He was medium height, very slightly rotund, and had a round face with close trimmed hair, and glasses. He was dressed in what could best be described as a leisure suit, complimenting the receptionist’s garb almost exactly. His office had obviously seen some sort of modern interior decorator. The empty wall behind his desk had numerous protruding artistic panels with hidden lighting in them, more resembling a hotel ballroom entrance than a personal office. He took a seat on his chair. His right arm appeared to be resting on some hidden object under the desk.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Dahl,” Bowe welcomed, in a distinct British accent. Dahl sank back in an egg-shaped chair that was more like a basket than a chair. It was actually fairly hard to move around in and stand up from, and Dahl could guess why he might want to have chairs with such characteristics in his office, and he had a fairly good guess about that might be hidden under his desktop. “So tell me, I’m intrigued. Truly. Why would a fugitive from justice, wanted for first degree murder, want from me?”

  Dahl cringed. He was at a loss for words.

  “Oh, I know who you are. Don’t worry. You didn’t try to hide your identity from me. I appreciate that. I respect it.”

  “Then you know my situation,” Dahl replied. “Roger says that you hire mercs to do deep cover operations. I’m not a merc, but I can do deep cover operations.”

  “Oh can you? have you ever done a deep cover operation?”

  “Well...”

  “Exactly. How well do you know Roger?”

  “I know him pretty well.”

  “What’s Roger’s last name?”

  Dahl turned red. “I actually don’t know.”

  Bowe smiled. “If you did know, I might have a problem with you. And Roger would definitely have a problem with you. Roger doesn’t share his last name. He has one, the name he uses to receive mail and sign paperwork. But it isn’t his real name. He only gives out his assumed last name if he doesn’t trust you.”

  “I don’t understand?”

  “Roger is the real deal. He was a former CIA operative overseas. He may have told you some stories. They are made up. The real stories are far stranger, and much more difficult to accept.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “I used to work with him. I was formerly with British Intelligence. MI5. We’re both retired. Sort of. Roger more than myself, as may be obvious.”

  The fact that Bowe is sharing this much information is positive. Obviously, Bowe’s objective is not to send him in to the slammer. “So, do you have a use for me?”

  “I would like to know what happened to land you in your current pickle.”

  “Last year, during the invasion of Grenada, I jumped in with my unit to secure the island’s main military airport. My company commander did not jump with us. But he did jump, from another ship. Sometime during the jump, either right before or just after, someone managed to steal my sidearm pistol. I was a sixty gunner. And when the rest of us were fighting our way to clear the airport, someone shot our company commander with my pistol. I was framed. Nothing I did or said affected the court martial panel board’s decision. They sentenced me initially to life in Leavenworth. And they were going to give me death.”

  “Who do you think shot your company commander, and why?” Bowe relaxed in his seat. Finally, his right arm emerged and rested on the chair armrest.

  “I don’t know for sure, but I think it is a couple members of our platoon, a sergeant squad leader and a corporal from his squad. Captain Lewis was black, and I know they kept it mostly a secret, but they were some kind of Nazi extremists.”

  “I see. How did you escape?”

  “The opportunity presented itself. We had a base wide alert, and all of the staff from the stockade was outside and tied up with the alert, except for this one MP, who was an asshole. While everyone else was gone, he came for me, to do things I don’t even want to talk about. He beat the crap out of me every night with his nightstick. Anyway, he tried to cuff me so he could fuck me in the ass, and I overpowered him, and escaped in his uniform and personal vehicle.”

  “That’s quite resourceful, I must say. Why did you come to California?”

  “Roger was the only one I knew that I thought might be able to help me.”

  “I see. What do you think your chances are of clearing your name?”

  “In the foreseeable future, zero. I can’t live as Alex Dahl for the rest of my natural life.”

  “So I understand, and when I say this, I don’t mean that I heard it on the news, but one of my sources says that the MP guard you escaped from was found hanging upside down, naked, by handcuffs around his ankles, locked in your cell, with a night stick up his arse.”

  “You found this out?”

  “Let’s just say that I got a slight heads up that you might be swinging around here to pay me a visit.”

  “Then why did your receptionist give me the blow off treatment?”

  “Let me turn that around, why do you think? And you don’t have to answer that now. Maybe as you get into it, it will be more apparent.”

  Dahl breathed a sigh of relief. “As I get into it, huh.”

  Mr. Dahl, you are very atypical of the type of people I hire. You are in your early to mid-twenties. Most are hardened mercs, and are, by far, older and more experienced than you. See where I’m going with this? Far older. I actually think you could fill a unique niche in my assemblage of talent. You’re tough enough; you’ve proved that. You’re clever enough. And you’re desperate enough. All these factors, to me, equal effectiveness and loyalty. Don’t get me wrong, trust has to be earned. You will be on a very short leash at first, before we turn you out on your own. So, congratulations Mr. Dahl, you have earned a slot, a highly probationary slot, on our team. Do you accept?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good.”

  Bowe reclined back in to his chair and thought a bit. “You say you escaped with that MP’s uniform and car.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Got any weapons?”

  “Well, long story, I don’t have his .45 automatic anymore, but I scored a Sig Sauer off an immigration agent.”

  “I see. Nice work. But ditch it. It’s poison to you now. We only use clean, untraceable equipment, unless we have a specific reason for doing otherwise.”

  “I understand.”

  Bowe picked up a telephone receiver and hit an intercom button. “Carly, would you please take Mr. Dahl through in processing procedures? He’ll need an identity.” Bowe lowered the headset. “Report to Miss Logan out front, and do as she tells you.”

  Dahl shook Bowe’s hand and exited his office, shutting the door behind him. “Mr. Dahl, please go through the second door to your right, the solid one, and take a seat. I’ll be in shortly,” the woman at the desk directed. The room looked almost like an exam room. There was a table, and cameras. Big cameras. And various medical supplies.

  Carly Logan entered the room and shut the door. “Please remove all of your clothes and stand in this circle please.” Dahl shyly removed his clothes, and placed them on a chair, and stood in the circle as instructed. It’s not like Dahl had never removed his clothes in front of a woman before, but certainly not under these particular circumstances.

  She took a light, and examined hi
s body; starting from his face, downward to his legs, then walked to the rear and worked from the feet up, speaking into a voice recorder. “No tattoos, birth mark on the left buttock, some recent scarring on the shoulders and arms.” She took several shots with the camera from different angles. She traded the recorder for a light. “Open your mouth wide, please.” She examined his teeth. “Any crowns?”

  “No ma’am.”

  She picked up the voice recorder “No dental abnormalities. Composite fillings in number five and six. Tonsils are present.” She put away the light and placed on a pair of latex gloves, and pulled up a chair.

  “Um, uh, ma’am, I have to warn you, I have this reaction to that kind of exam, that, uh...”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I might, you know...”

  “Well, if you have to do a ‘you know’, please keep it in this cup.” She said has she handed him a specimen cup. “This will only take a couple of minutes. Spread your legs please.” She placed the voice recorder on a metal table, and pressed resume. “Prostate is normal, no swelling observed, no polyps present, genital and urinary system appears normal, although hyperactive erectile function is noted...”

  “Oh, god!”

  “Oh my, you do have a hair trigger, don’t you? Here.” She handed him a paper towel. “Just toss those in the bin will you, and have a seat on the table.” She hit his knees and elbows with a rubber mallet. “Reflexes are more pronounced than normal.” She wrote down a few notes. “Let me just get your blood pressure and temperature, and then go stand over by that backdrop.”

  She walked out of the room, and returned shortly with two collared shirts. One was light tan, the other dark brown. She held them up to his chest. “Let’s go with this one. Put it on, please.” He put the light tan shirt on. She wheeled the camera assembly over, and took two photographs.

  “Okay. Please get dressed and report back in the lobby. Oh wait, sorry, forgot.” She pulled a drawer open, and pulled out a needle and a set of small paper strips.

  “Ouch!” Dahl yelped.

  “Blood type, A negative.” Dahl dressed, and emerged from the room. “Sit down in this chair please.” She started typing furiously on the computer terminal. “Hmm.”

  “What?” Dahl asked.

  “What do you think of Brian Muse?”

  “Huh? What? I don’t know who Brian Muse is.”

  “The name. Can you live with the name?”

  “It sounds just a tad dorky.”

  “I rather like it. However, let me see if we have another close match.” She typed up some search queries on her terminal. “Oh.”

  “Oh?”

  “Percy Wilford?”

  “Hell no.”

  “I didn’t think so either. But those are the only two matches. Pick one. You’re the one that has to live with it.”

  “Hello, my name is Brian Muse. Brian Muse, how are you? Muse, Brian Muse. Honestly ma’am? I’m not digging it.”

  “His full name is Brian Rexall Muse. Think about it, you could go by Rex Muse.”

  “Muse. Rex Muse. That’s Mr. Muse to you. Rex Muse here. Yeah. Okay. I think I can work with that.”

  “Good. I like it too.”

  “Who is he?”

  “An American Peace Corps volunteer. Went missing in the Congo two years ago. No immediate family.”

  “Okay.”

  She handed him a pen and a blank sheet of paper. “Practice writing your name in cursive. Your signature can be Rex Muse. Your printed name must be Brian R. Muse. Take it over there to that desk. Just keep doing it until you get comfortable with it. I recommend short and unreadable. The important thing is that you are able to replicate it consistently.”

  Dahl practiced writing ‘Rex Muse’ several times, filling out nearly both sides of the paper on multiple columns and lines. Finally, it started to flow. “Okay, I think I got it.”

  The woman checked his work. “You’re almost there. Start with the last one, and do it a few more times.”

  Dahl continued writing, as she filled out paperwork. “Okay, I can’t write this name anymore.”

  “That looks good. Now sign this form.” It was a passport application. “Good. Now, come back in exactly one week, and your papers will be ready. Then you will start your assignment.”

  “One week? Where am I going to stay?”

  She pulled out a stack of bills and counted out ten. “You can find a way to live on one thousand dollars for a week.”

  “Thank you!”

  “Oh, and one more thing...”

  “Yes?”

  “You are to go only by Rex Muse from now on, do you understand me?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Good, then study this packet. Learn about yourself. There isn’t much in there to remember, but it’s important that you know it if asked. Oh, and please grow some hair.”

  Dahl smiled.

  It was clinical. She wasn’t wearing a white nurse’s smock, but she might as well have been. That instance, that happening, that excitement, the release, wasn’t triggered by the woman rendering the exam herself, rather, images of So-Young flashed through his mind at the instant. He could still smell her skin. He could still feel her warmth. He desired her intensely.

  But she wasn’t there. She was no place to be found. The spot in the parking garage where she left the Toyota Corolla was empty, except for one thing. His travel bag. He lifted the bag. It was heavy. The Sig Sauer was still in it. So was that radio. And a note.

  Alex, you cannot know the pain that I feel, knowing that we could never be together in our lives. I hope you understand. – So-Young

  In life, you make decisions. Most of them you make yourself. Some get made for you. She was right though; it was a pipe dream. He had not known her nearly long enough for any options to be placed on the table. Sometimes you just have to grab that one fleeting opportunity before it’s gone. But it was clear that this was never supposed to end up any other way than it already has.

  He wrapped the Sig up in a cloth, climbed up a railing and placed it on top of a concrete abutment where it probably wouldn’t be found for another decade. No point in destroying options.

  The week flew by quickly. He found a cheap place to stay. At least, it was easier to sleep at night. Dahl had a new lease on life. Upon return to 707 Wilshire Boulevard, Floor 50, he would be a new man. Rex Muse.

  Chapter 2 – Indoctrination

  One of the worst parts of it was telling the stone mason what day to put on the headstone. He wanted to leave it as April, 1980 but the mason said it was proper to have a specific date. He didn’t actually know the exact date, just the week. The organist played a somber theme as the visitors paid their respects to the deceased. Simon Bowe was still in a state of shock over the brutal kidnapping and murder of his wife, Shandy. At least the British Government paid for and arranged for the transport of her body from Hanoi, Vietnam to the Nottingham Cathedral. Bowe was seated in a far pew in the rear of the massive cathedral, dressed in a jet back suit and tie.

  A tall man in a sharp, black suit took a seat next to him. “I am so very sorry to hear of the news about Shandy.” the man said soberly.

  “Who did this, Arthur?” Bowe said.

  “Unfortunately, Simon, you are the one in the best position to know this. Vietnam was your assignment. It’s not like we can pass agents freely into the country, like we can in every other country in Southeast Asia.”

  “I fail to understand how my cover was blown. I did everything correctly. I did everything by the book. I took every precaution possible and even then some. To be frank with you, Arthur, it smells a bit like an internal leak to me.”

  “Perish the thought. MI5 has an extraordinary track record when it comes to ferreting out internal double agents. The few that have had the bollocks to try it have not fared well, as a message to those that might try it in the future. I highly doubt the breach is internal.”

  “I need to know who did this.”


  “Of course you deserve justice; that is recognized. But it’s not quite so simple. The consulate cannot even think of approaching the government for an investigation. The whole incident has had the effect of straining our relations. And you can’t go back there. You know that.”

  “I don’t want to go back there.”

  “I will say this. Please keep this confidential if you will, but a source in Cambodia has heard rumors that the Soviets may be responsible.”

  “Why? That makes no sense. Their relationship with Hanoi is hardly a secret.”

  “Maybe, but the Soviet naval base in Cam Ranh Bay is officially a secret.”

  “Yes. That is true.”

  “I have to tell you, Simon, that the Director General finds it a bit confounding that the Americans seem to be a bit ahead of us in gathering intelligence in that country.”

  “As do I, Arthur, but remember that they also happen to have quite a stock of expatriated native Vietnamese that they can implant, of whom are highly motivated to report intelligence activities. Us, not quite so much.”

  “You really should consider your retirement.”

  “This is in my blood.”

  “May I suggest this? You are a highly talented agent with a penchant for managing assets. You might consider contract work.”

  Despite the sadness, Bowe had to render a slight chuckle. “You suggest I hang out in a flat in my home town of Leeds, and contract for Intelligence?”

  “No, no, you would be of little use to us here in country. Dublin maybe. Berlin. Seoul. Indonesia. Bloody hell, you could set up shop in the United States and have easy access to all of those places.”

  “I need to go, Arthur. The procession is starting. I need to join back with the family.”

  “Simon...”

  “Yes?”

  “I know this is a bad time to talk administration, but please do not take consideration of your retirement as simply a consideration.”

  “Very well. I will submit my papers on Monday.”