Chapter 34. Rendezvous with Deception

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Ryan was chauffeured in an indistinct silver-grey sedan through a leafy bower of trees lining the quarter mile drive from the Isle Road. He could get but fleeting glimpses of the Spanish Colonial Revival Style Mansion and its faux bell tower that loomed ahead at the check-point’s wrought iron gate. An eight-foot-tall, and three-foot-thick, adobe wall ran the perimeter of the whole property. The Island Mansion Facility, (aka, the IMF), was tucked deep within a mixed grove of Eucalyptus, Coastal Live Oak, and Sycamore on a square-mile mound that rose sixty-feet above the levees, rice paddies, and marshes of the delta. If anyone caught sight of it from the road or slough, it looked like an abandoned house. A closer inspection revealed a no-man’s land of fifty yards between the wall and a fence adorned with signs, Warning Electrified Fence: NO TRESSPASSING. And, discretely hidden, if seen at all, was a member of the security squadron posted at regular intervals. Each appeared unarmed but, under their camo-coats protected by Kevlar body armor, they packed nothing less than Mac-10's.

Baker met Ryan with a handshake where he was dropped off at the steps of the unappealing outer portico of decaying stucco and peeling paint, “Good. You’re early enough for a game of chess.”

Ryan quipped their standard greeting, “I don’t like being fashionably late.” It was a personal code that meant there was no trouble on the way… no one tailing him.

Neither smiled. They’d been loosely affiliated colleagues for decades and Baker never had need for niceties except for this exchange, “Fashionably late in our business is fashionably dead.” Meaning, all’s well here too.

Ryan smiled, “When is it fashionable to be dead?”

“Never’s a good time. No bags? Good, we have everything you’ll need. Come with me, I’ll show you around.”

One of about ten security personnel led them through the seedy exterior of a walled in courtyard. Ryan had heard rumors about the place but this was the first-time that he’d been invited inside. He was aware that the estate had been empty and officially condemned to the wrecker’s ball in the late fifties. From what he could see of it that day, he might have wondered why it still stood. 

They passed an empty reflecting pool and bone-dry fountain to a small portico before a weathered teak door that opened with the click and buzz. They were joined by two more security guards and all five crowded into a recent addition of a small sally-port. Sally-ports come from castle architecture… an arrangement whereby the outer door closes behind those that enter while the second, interior door doesn’t or can’t, open until the first door is shut. 

One of the guards began to frisk Ryan but stepped back when Baker held up a hand. Ryan felt a little relieved that he didn’t have to explain the butterfly knife he carried at all times. Subic Bay was almost as close to his heart as Havana and the knife was a souvenir from an Olongapo bar girl that taught him how to flip it open with one flick of the wrist. Another click and buzz opened the interior door that transported them past the decay of courtyard into the luxurious and exotic world of a classic foyer and grand staircase Ryan associated with old Havana, that is, old Havana Brothels.

Baker led Ryan around the foyer where mahogany double doors opened to a clubhouse library, billiard and smoking-room. “We’ll be meeting Smerdyakov in there. We’re going to the other side for now.”

They passed through a set of matching doors to a dining hall that featured a hearth at the far end of the room large enough to park an Econoline van sideways. Doors at both ends and the side of the room opened in and out to a full-scale hotel-style kitchen. Baker held a door open for Ryan. They were greeted by a bustling staff preparing a meal on massive ranges, from stainless-steel refrigerators, and storage cabinets on seamless tile floor covering. Baker opened a door to a service entry where they walked the length of the building through a what Ryan suspected was a secret hallway towards the other end of the building. A small door opened to a spiral stairway led up towards the top of the bell tower. Baker pointed to the landing from which the stairway continued downward, “Below here, under it all, is a gymnasium, pool, and shooting range.”

“I’m impressed. You must have a hundred employees. How do you staff this place?”

Baker was three steps above Ryan, his voice echoing, “Discretely.” He turned to boast, “We do a more thorough security check for our service employees than the White House staff gets.” Baker continued his stride effortlessly up the stairs.

Thinking he ought to get back to the gym for some cardio workouts, Ryan panted, “From where?”

Baker answered, “San Q, Folsom and CMF aren’t far from here.”

“Prisons? Why am I not shocked?”

“You ought not be. We have people inside, guards and inmates, tasked to seek out the most qualified. Profiled for several years… psych evaluations and physical requirements… all, one way or another, at the State’s expense.”

The steps came to a landing at the top of what was once the belfry. It was large enough to be partitioned and converted into an observation room. One of which was complete with a wall of high-resolution monitors covering every inch of the property. Ryan watched one of the screens on a small pill box he would have missed had it not been for the movement of two security agents that appeared to be changing guard. Harry waved at a man stationed in front of the screens and said, “If a squirrel farts within a quarter mile of the perimeter Jackson will spot it.” Then he gestured above and to a dark closet on the side, “Above us, in the copula, is a radar antenna that feeds Toni in there.”

Toni leaned back to peek out the door and nod to Ryan and Baker in the belfry’s main room. At first Ryan thought Tony was a man but realized her gender when she answered, “Gotcha boss.”

Baker patted Ryan’s shoulder, “We’re all spies and spooks. Have a seat Ryan. You look like you’re going to collapse. How about some water? We have soda water and just about any kind of juice you can name.””

Ryan took a seat at the table with the chess board set up. “Thanks, I am wiped. Soda water sounds good.”

Harry signaled a man standing by to bring a soda water and Harry stood until the soda water was delivered, tapping the shoulder of the guard as though in appreciation for services rendered beyond table service, explaining further, “Thanks, Christopher. Ex-Cons, these are our boys. See, we don’t take tatted-up gang-bangers. We look for the ones who don’t stand out. Maybe a promising career as a burglar, a few bank heists, grand theft auto, more than one manslaughter or murder raps. You know, working-class criminals, not grifters. Well, maybe a few. But mostly men and a few women who can handle themselves”

“Women like Anna?”

“Not many that attractive. Good looks can be an asset but more ordinary women can blend in better.”

“I see, but, why no grifters? Seems they would be best suited for the game.”

“Personality. So many grifters have no conscience and believe themselves entitled, an IQ a notch higher than the rest of us. A safety hazard, though smug pricks like that usually don’t get themselves killed, they can get another agent’s cover blown, killed, or worse. They can compromise a whole mission."

“I know what you mean.” Ryan shuddered. He sensed this IMF operation was superior to any the Government had at their disposal. “How many field agents do you have?”

“As many spooks as we need but all are principled men and women. Jay Edgar had it right, tapping Mormons for the field.”

  “That’s a proper evasive answer. I get it but how many convicts are as principled as Mormons?” he said, feeling exceptionally glib. He was happy that he was going to be sitting with Harry Baker in the bell tower of what looked like a haunted house, playing chess and talking about spooks. It was a surreal situation from what started out as nothing more than a minor squabble between jurisdictions in the murder of a small-town cab driver. Had it not been for the Bird Dog, Ryan would not have scratched the surface of it. But, like the Polar icecap, under the frozen expanses was a vast ocean of deception. However, he felt like he was on the job but minus the tethers of petty corruption that restrained everything he tried to do in Santa Barbara.

“It's a tightrope.” Baker added, “We value creativity but we can’t have wildcards,” He offered, “You take White. How do you like the house that the Senator Church Committee built?”

Ryan moved his Queen’s pawn to d-4. He didn’t want to let on with how impressed he was, “I’ve been in whore houses before. This is a bit James Bond. Are you the evil genius here?”

Baker moved his Queen’s pawn to d-5. He asked, “Queen’s gambit? Speaking of Anna, you already knew we trained her here.”

“Yeah, I knew.” Anna’s disappearance tore into Ryan worse than he thought it would. He was at the top end of a middle-aged old man in love with a woman at the top-end of her teens and hated that she was in the middle of this business. “I mean, that’s how I found out about this place. You scooped her up in the middle of my investigation. That made it looked like we were in cahoots. Fuckin’ nightmare.” White pawn to c-4.

Harry wasn’t going to allow Ryan to lay the blame across his bow, “If I remember right, I answered your call. You said she was in a mess and needed some self-defense training. What did you think I was going to do, send her back after a couple karate classes? I had her for almost a year and could've used two more to make a team player of her.”

Ryan changed the subject. An idle bitch-fest suited his mood better, “Let’s get back to Senator Church. Tell me, how did his budget restraints build this?”

Baker’s move… black pawn to e-6, saying one word, “Iran.”

“Okay, so this chat isn’t about Anna anymore. Queen’s gambit declined?” Ryan scowled, “What about Iran?”

 “No, I don’t want to talk about your queen either. I thought we lost her at first. And yes, what happened after Senator Church was good for us.”

“Oh, yeah, a good thing for the Ayatollah.”

Curiosity fueled Ryan’s willingness to listen to Baker. The old ghost was a quiet man… not usually given to banter unless it was to spur a thought and steer it so that the subject owns it.

Baker’s tone was professorial, “Anything the budget cuts didn’t accomplish. They made it sound like it was about U.S. sanctioned assassinations. Church tried to dismantle the CIA and Presidential Executive Orders did the rest. Good thing too because by banning anything that worked they cleared the path for us to step in for the dirty work. If historians ever want to put a date on when the Republic became a doghouse for tyranny, it was when the CIA became the lap-dog of whoever sits their fat asses down rubber-stamping executive orders from the Oval Office.     Baker snorted, “The day when the CIA the CYA and most of what it did got farmed out.”

Ryan felt school-boy giddy that Baker actually laughed and chuckled, “Cover Your Ass, I like that. I put the date you had SAVAK take out Khomeini’s rival… what was that guy’s name… Ali Musharati or something?”

   “Ah yes, Shariati, you’re good old boy.” Baker caught Ryan’s levity. “The older I get the more pleased I am that I remember anything at all. The State Department’s bureaucrats suckered for the status quo. You can count on the suits backing the wrong horse. Ali wasn’t going along with the Ayatollah or the Russians.”

“I heard you were in Paris the year before… wasn’t it seventy-six?”

“Where are you hearing this, Sean?” Baker knew Ryan had contacts and any major FUBAR gets passed around the inner circles, “… our team was set up and ready for the green light to take out Khomeini... it wouldn’t have out footprints anywhere near it. We had last minute orders to stand-down … been eight years and I can still taste it.”

Twenty-minutes of banter cleared the board. It was empty except for a few pieces and white still had his queen. Neither had spoken for several minutes before Ryan asked, “You can fold now if you like. Do you plan on telling me who put the money in this place? I know it wasn’t Frank Church and it sure as hell isn’t the CIA or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Very prescient of you. Our team’s not getting anywhere near Langley. We’re considered a borderline criminal enterprise until they need us for plausible deniability. The politicos and paper pushers still need men like us and places like this. We are privately funded by corporate accounts, and one of our under the table investors, though not the biggest, is The Company.”

“And you do what, besides training ghosts like Anna?”

While Ryan pondered his next move, Baker stood to scan the horizon through binoculars and said, “I hope you know I did my best to keep Kraszhinski from taking the fall for this.”

Ryan sighed. He was in position to mate on the next move, “Yeah, I know. He did do a good job of containing the collateral damage but he painted himself into a corner.”

As though talking to himself, Baker grumbled, “and you gave him the paint and the brush.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice, Harry. Break it down for me, did you drop the dime on Kraszhinski?”

“Drop the dime? Are you going film noire on me, Ryan?”

“It’s all this spy business.” The detective wasn’t embarrassed by the tease, nor was he thrown off by Harry’s uncustomary chattiness until he realized he’d been had. White’s knight threatened his queen while checking his king, “You aren’t going to answer my question, are you?”

Harry Baker wouldn’t be the Bird Dog if he talked about whether it was his call that turned in Kraszhinski, Ryan knew him well enough to know discretion and betrayal were but tools in Baker’s kit and that he wasn’t above anything to complete an operation. His mission was to draw Smerdyakov to the IMF. This wouldn’t be accomplished by taking the high road to the sewer where this business led. He could’ve betrayed Kraszhinski, but, it was just as likely that the call came from Smerdyakov.

“Damn. Your game.” Ryan rolled his king over on its side. That Anna had gone missing from the hospital… gone dark… slipped out or taken out… was of greater concern to him. “I would like to know what’s going on, Harry, does Smerdyakov have Anna?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay then, so you don’t have her. Is she…?”

“Dead? I’m assuming she’s alive. Anton’s coming to meet us because he doesn’t know either.”