Chapter III

The only secrets are secrets that keep themselves.

George Bernard Shaw

The attractive brunette walked with the controlling air about her so typical of successful professional women.  She wore a conservative, calf length business suit, and heels that were tall but not over the top.  In her hand she carried a file with the red and white security cover sheet used by organizations handling classified information.  This one had red block letters denoting the classification, “TOP SECRET/SCI//IMCON//MR,” at the top and bottom. 

She walked up to a wooden door with an attached polished brass plate at eye level engraved with “Asst. Dir. W.H. Markum” in black letters.  She knocked once and walked in without waiting for permission.  A clean-cut, middle aged man in an expensive French cuffed white shirt sat behind a large, mahogany, banker’s desk.  She noted his greying black hair was impeccable, as usual.  He had the chiseled features and manner of a man better suited as the CEO of a Fortune 500 company than a director in the CIA, although, politically she could envision him as a significant force in the Agency addressing some Congressional sub-committee, one day.

William Markum looked up over his reading glasses from the paperwork on his desk.  “Agnes. Good morning.  I wasn’t expecting you this early.”  He eyed the classified file in her hand, removed his glasses as he sat back.  “Something I should know about?”

“Good morning, sir.”  Agnes Alexander leaned forward and placed the file on the desktop.  Markum reached for the file and as he replaced his glasses, she explained, “We just received this from Naval Intelligence over at the Pentagon.  They were analyzing imagery from a satellite tasked for drug interdiction activities along the west coast of Mexico when they came upon this interesting little snap shot.”  Markum opened the file and looked at several raw images and several enhanced versions.  Noting the grainy but obvious swastika near the leading edge of the object on the enhanced blowup,  he looked over his glasses at her with a slight grin.

“I would think this was a joke except you never joke about work.  Where is this, again?”

She returned his smile.  “Manzanillo, just south of the port.”  Markum started to ask a question and, having anticipated the question, she cut him off.  “Go to Mexico City and hang a hard left to the west coast.”

He nodded, “Thank you.”  Markum motioned to the chair in front of the rich, wooden, desk.  “Relax, Agnes.  Take a load off and tell me what we know.  Coffee?” 

Agnes moved to the chair, sat and crossed a pair of shapely legs.  “No sir.  Thank you.”

Markum smiled again. “Agnes, we have known each other for some years now, relax.”

Agnes deflated a bit.  “I’m sorry, Bill.  Creature of habit, I suppose.”  Bill tapped the file with a finger and she continued, “The photo interpreters place the diameter at about fifteen to twenty feet.  It would have been nice if the oblique image had come in prior to the structure being erected around it.  Their best estimate extrapolating info from the estimated heights of the figures and the ATV puts the depth of the leading edge at three feet.  If we assume the disc is symmetrical that would make it about six feet thick, not including the “cockpit” located at the center which might be another one to two feet.  Looking at the enhanced close-up, the slightly teardrop shape of the cockpit enables us to place a fore and aft to the design,” she concluded as her navy background became evident.  Markum caught the slip, “Well, Commander,” he began as he dropped the imagery back into the file and closed it, “should this top secret classification give me a warm fuzzy?”

Her face became all business again, “Not at all.  This might well be the next cover for National Enquirer. There was no reason for Naval Intelligence to use an encrypted system while imaging for general drug interdiction purposes.  They were piggy backing a satellite used by several internet programs to image world geography.  Any high school hacker could access this, but they would have to be looking for it.”

“Or, have a program looking for it.”  His smile had also faded.  “And, how about our counterparts out in the community?”

“If they didn’t see this within an hour of our download, they shouldn’t be in the community.  I can’t speak to their own satellite imagery, however.  Hell, corporations being what they are today, we’re probably providing them the same imagery ourselves.”

Markum let out a breath in an audible sigh.  “Well, crap.  If we act on this and it turns out to be some parade float, we’ll never live it down.”

“I agree.  But, if we don’t act on it we risk the same outcome.  I took the early part of the morning, before I came up here, to look up what we have on this type of project.  The Nazi information is quite voluminous, though obviously dated.  One analyst’s name recurs through most of the information we have on file.  I wrote the name on inside cover of the file folder.”

As he leaned forward again to read the annotation and asked, “How old is the latest information?”

“2002.”

Markum looked at the name.  What do we know about this analyst?”

“Quite a bit, actually, he has field work and handling experience, and his analysis work has been spot on.  His reports have been instrumental in many of our ops, and he’s been with the Agency since he was brought onboard from Army Intelligence while stationed in Vietnam where he volunteered for two tours and was looking at a third when that little unpleasantness ended and we grabbed him up”

Markum’s eyes snapped up to her at that last bit of news.  “Vietnam?  How the hell old is he?”

********************

Mexico City at night is full of noise and cars.  Mariachi's play they're music beside the fountains, violins and accordions punctuating guitar melodies, and backup vocals consisting of yips and ee-haws.  People line up at street vendors and food carts to purchase household amenities and tacos all beneath enough lights to make it seem like mid-day or the Las Vegas strip at night; on the side streets, however, not so much.  

As with most large cities, other than the occasional pockets of activity, only a street off the main thoroughfare it gets quieter and the numbers of people continue to thin out the further you move away from the business district.  In the U.S. these quiet areas are sought out by residents seeking to escape the noise and light.  The seedy neighborhoods of metropolitan areas at night are the occasional pockets of crime.  In Mexico, for the most part, the nice neighborhoods are the occasional pockets of escape for those able to afford the secured apartment building and condominiums, or the gated and guarded communities which exist for the protection of the upscale residents. 

The small office of Filmore Travel sat several streets off one of these main thoroughfares.  It was a nondescript and narrow shop next to several others on the bottom floor of the large building that occupied the entire block.  The upper floors were apartments.  Most of the shops in this neighborhood were similar to so many others; narrow, and long enough to either meet the back of the shop on the opposite street or a common alley or hallway in the middle of the block.  8:00 in the evening found most shops or offices, that weren’t catering to food or shopping, closed up for the night. 

Fillmore Travel was no different, the door was locked and the front office was dark except for the lone halogen glow from a desk lamp coming from the back room.  The light spilled from the open door and across three small, tidy desks in the main office.  The three travel agents had closed the doors and gone home around six, leaving the only other occupant to lock up when he left.  It had been a brisk several weeks of business and evenings were finally slowing down.  These were the weeks leading up Semaine Sainte, Holy Week.  Semaine Sainte is celebrated all week prior to Easter Sunday.  For the travel business, the week before the week before is a week of long days, and big money, as the population spreads out from the epicenter of Mexico City to visit family throughout the country.

Larkin sat back in his ergonomic chair and inhaled so he could unbutton his sport coat.  He frowned at this evidence that he was, again gaining weight, a battle he was constantly fighting and never seeming to win, but it suited his cover as the comfortable owner of a travel agency.  It was the lie he told himself so he didn’t feel the need to fight it any longer.  The coat finally gave enough so the button popped loose and he exhaled.  He brought the crystal, double Old Fashion, glass in his other hand to his lips, sipping the amber liquid and savoring the oak barrel flavor of Elijah Craig’s small batch bourbon.  A few of his regular clients would pack him down a bottle from “el Norte” occasionally, and he would mete out judicious amounts hoping to make the supply last until he could get another ‘mule’ to pack down a replacement.  He thought the drink could use some more ice, but he was too comfortable to get it from the small kitchenette next to his office.  

Larkin was looking forward to a well-deserved week off.  Having never married, there were several senoritas that vie for his affections and hope for the unthinkable – marriage.  He planned to spend the week sitting around his pool and see which of his lady friends would be first to find out he was staying home for the holiday and stopped by to share the cool water and a cold, salty, margarita or two.   The office would be left in the capable hands of his middle-aged office manager, Ramona, by virtue of her longevity if not her knowledge.  Ramona was mature, married, and all business, except when it came to her grandchildren.  He knew she would schedule some time for them around her office duties and ensure the staff got home for a long Easter weekend, as she did for most holidays regardless of his urging her to take more time for herself.

Larkin took another sip and removed his wire rimmed reading glasses, tossing them to the desktop and bringing the hand back to massage the bridge of his fleshy nose.  He considered he was plump man with failing eyesight, pudgy nose and thinning hair, all wrapped up in an ill-fitting gray polyester suit and, for all intents and purposes, put out to pasture.  He hadn't had a real assignment in years, and he looked it.  He was old, hanging on way passed retirement, and he felt every bit of it.

As a young, twenty-four year old lieutenant fresh out of ROTC, he was sent to Vietnam in 1968 to be an interrogator with Army Intelligence.  He learned quickly and excelled at interrogation techniques, working shoulder to shoulder with several Central Intelligence counter-parts with whom he made fast friends and valuable contacts.  After his tour in the Nam was finished, he was invited to join the agency in 1973, and not the travel agency, the agency - the CIA.  He didn't leave South East Asia but, rather, did a seamless transfer via helicopter from Vietnam to Laos, assisting the CIA with logistics - the clandestine movement of personnel, equipment, and supplies throughout the region.  He worked the theater between there, Cambodia, and Thailand where they were finally pulled back to the U.S. for reassignment in 1976, amid a hailstorm of controversy of the CIA assisting warlords by transporting cases of weapons, ammunition, and drugs.  Air America was ‘sold off’ and the CIA hoped the news media would find another headline with which to occupy their time.

He was never truly indoctrinated or trained by the Agency as South East Asia was run by the seat of their pants and they bouced around so much that any thought of training was considered ‘on the job’ for the most part.  So, when they returned stateside, they didn't really have an office position suited for him.  He had always been in the field so; they threw him back out there.  He was where he belonged, and he discovered a talent for covert operations.  

He loved to plan covert ops, but he loved being closer to the field as a part of the op, so he spent the bulk of his career undercover in Germany and, much later, as a handler of other undercover operatives.  When he wasn't on assignment, or handling other agents, he was assigned the busy work of information analysis, which is where he found an interest in researching old World War II records, especially those pertaining to Nazi super weapons and, in particular, one General - Hans Kammler.  

Kammler was one of Reichsfuhrer Himmler's golden boys of the SS, attaining the rank of SS-Obergruppenfuhrer, Senior Group Leader, a title second only to that of Himmler himself.  New information on the Nazi regime was continually being released, especially after the fall of the Soviet Union and the Berlin Wall, concerning super-secret Nazi weapons.  Kammler's name, though initially not initially tied to many of these projects, was being referenced with increasing regularity in this newly released information coming out of Russia.      

Agent Larkin's increasing knowledge in this footnote of world history did little to forestall the inevitable path of his career.  In 2008, at the age of 64, he was given a choice of to retire, or manage a clandestine agency ‘depot’ with the sole task to ferry information and personnel from point A to point B.  Retire and die a slow death of boredom, or be relegated to some backwater desk job and be all but forgotten.  He opened the dusty vault to his brain labeled “Logistics” and took the depot assignment.

He packed up his entire life which, in a material sense, didn’t amount to much.  He put all but a few boxes of memorabilia and clothing into storage and bought a one-way ticket, first class, at Agency expense. He had learned early on, it was easier to ask forgiveness than ask permission.  His next stop was the land of the Aztecs, varsovienne dance, norteno music, pig ear tacos, and, as of late, an overabundance of plastic wrapped dead people and drug cartels.  Ah!  Mexico City!  Bienvenido!

Larkin tossed back the last of his bourbon and was leaning forward to hoist his butt up when the phone on his desk rang.  He set the glass down, then his ass, lifted the receiver and sat back as he greeted the caller, "Buenos noches, Filmore Viajes!"

The professional voice of a young woman answered, "Senor Larkin, por favor?"

"Yo soy el senor Larkin."  Staying late may have paid off if he could assist a young woman in distress.  He smiled at his thought, considering his age.  Yeah, right.

"Mr. Larkin, good evening.”  His smile broadened; an American woman in distress.  “I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Sam Wilson.  If you recall, he had his agency on the east coast when you first met?"  Crap!

Larkin sat up straight as adrenalin moved to replace the alcohol.  He opened the drawer of his desk and rummaged to retrieve a pen and paper while covering with, "Why, yes!  Yes, indeed."  He closed the drawer to roll his chair closer so he could write.  "As I remember he was a top performer.  How is Sam these days?  Still winning those gold stars?"  This last was a prearranged phrase to prove his identity.  He waited for the appropriate response.

Her voice took on a tone of exasperation, "Unfortunately, yes.  He works much too hard."

Identities confirmed.

The "gold stars" referred, of course, to the wall of anonymous agents adorning the foyer walls of the CIA in Langley, Virginia, agents that have died in the line of duty for God, country, and the Agency.  Her response played to how unfortunate, but necessary, their sacrifice was.  As to Mr. Wilson, during the War of 1812 a story began to circulate among the troops that led to Sam Wilson, a descendant of one of the oldest families of Boston, Massachusetts, becoming the basis for the iconic "Uncle Sam."  The intricacies of code phrases could make a body wonder, “Who stays up at night to think of this crap?”  Why, federal employees, of course.  He smiled continued the game.

"What can I do to help a fellow travel agent?"  He readied his pen over the paper.

"Actually, it’s what Sam can do for you.  He got word that an old friend of yours is in Mexico; a Mr. Walter?”  Larkin arched an eyebrow, confused by the name reference, she continued.  “He says the two of you spent some time together in Europe during the late 70's and early 80's.  He thought you might like to look him up and surprise him."

Larkin's pen continued to hover without writing.  He stared at the name on the sheet of paper, almost losing the small handset from his meaty fingers.  Yes, he knew ‘Mr. Walter,’ very well indeed.  Larkin had the label on that manila file folder burned into his brain, as he did for several others, along with the contents.  Last name first, first name last, as it would appear on any file: Walter, Hellmuth.  He put the pen down and sat back in the chair again, his voice quiet yet maintaining a tone of interest, "Mr. Walter is in Mexico?  Do tell."

He waited while there was the sound of paper shuffling at the other end of the line before the woman continued, "It appears he is visiting the port city of Manzanillo, in Colima.  I am sending contact information to your e-mail along with a phone number.  Mr. Wilson hopes you make time to meet with him for, what he hopes will be, an interesting, informative, and mutually beneficial reunion.  Will he be hearing from you soon?"

"Oh my, yes.  Yes indeed! Thank you.”  He feigned an upbeat attitude again. “And, be sure to thank Sam for thinking of me.  I do so appreciate it."  The line went dead and his hand rested in his lap, still holding with the small receiver.  “I do so appreciate it.” 

His eyes focused on nothing as he considered the conversation.  The fact that the Agency contacted him would seem to have bearing on his last memo to the file in 1985.  It concerned one of the SS Wunderwaffe files, a super weapon of the Third Reich, gone missing at war's end.  This one had been his obsession, along with its architects, Hellmuth Walter and Hans Kammler.  His research began the first month of his European assignment, when he came across seemingly unrelated communiques dealing with Nazi weapons research.  The only, seemingly, common thread being some recurring names of which Walter and Kammler topped the list.

Larkin was very good at information analysis.  It wasn't that he consciously remembered much of what he read, his brain collated the information like an itch he couldn't scratch until, slowly but surely, a picture would start to emerge.  It was his ability to see a Mona Lisa where a monkey had thrown paint onto the canvas.  At first he would just be vaguely aware of the information beginning to morph, then, somewhere in the wee hours of the morning - snap!  All of that paint the monkeys had thrown, the reams of seemingly unrelated data that had slowly, and subconsciously, been chewed through his brain would instantly come to clarity and for an obvious story.  

True to federal form, however, his supervisors could only see a canvas covered in reams of confusing shit.  They would slap his back, chuckle and patronize his effort to arrange random pieces of a puzzle that could be formed to look like any number of scenarios, or none.  He always needed the concrete proof; something tangible.  A gut feeling just didn't impress those above him in the chain of command and, meanwhile, people usually died.  They would, eventually, find out he was right in his assumptions.  He hated being right, especially when people died.

So it was with everything he discovered surrounding Projekt Ozeanplatte.  No one could see the forest for all the trees before them.  He had followed the parts requisitions, found shipping documents, vague references to something called the "wasser diskus," and then the trail would grow cold.  Why "diskus" and not just disk?  The questions came and went, and came again to tickle his mind.  He would contemplate the significance of a spinning diskus and water, to the point of bringing a plate with him while he sat in the bathtub.  He would spin it in the water between his knees contemplating possibilities until the plate sank, and come up with nothing to pin an idea upon.  Nothing he thought of seemed to lend itself to vehicles or weaponry.  What else was there?  What was he missing?  Maybe he was wrong?  Maybe.

Several years later, he would come into the office and find a new file in his basket.  The file contained one sheet of paper with the usual official Nazi letterhead and classification stamps.  This particular sheet was only two paragraphs in length and signed by none other than Reichsfuhrer Himmler himself.  The sheet was dated May of 1943.  It was an order to transfer the entirety of Projekt Ozeanplatte to the direct control of the Minister of Armaments, Albert Speer.  Martin Bormann and Herman Goring had just tried a failed takeover of Speer’s responsibilities while he had been preoccupied with a health issue.  Hitler himself had guaranteed Speer that things would remain as they were.  The transfer of this project, and several others, was to help confirm his confidence in the Minister.  This particular order mentioned all parts, equipment, records, and personnel associated with the project and specified one name in particular to be in charge of getting the parts and equipment to the new site at Bunker Finkenwerder, on the River Elbe.  The name, Aloisia Henke, had been mentioned several times, as if in passing, just toward the end of his prior research.  He knew her mind as well as he knew his own.  She, also, never seemed to make mistakes.

Larkin leaned forward to replace the handset in the base, he thought aloud, "Doktor Aloisia.  Professor Doktor, that is.  Though, they never gave you that credit, did they my dear?  Seems we have something in common, that."  

He retrieved his glass and, seeing that it was close to empty, added another shot of Jack.  Tilting the bottle to the light he made a mental note to bring his last bottle from the house as he dropped the empty in the waste basket by the desk and sat back in his chair again.  His mind returned to memories of Dr. Henke and the old file.

She looked to have been brought on in a dual role.  His research uncovered an engineering education in several disciplines; aeronautics, electronics, chemistry, metallurgy, and physics.  He found her listed on the class and lecture rolls with the day’s most notable names in science.  Yet, for all his research, she never showed up as a major player.  She bounces around from university to university, making her mark on several instructor’s reports as, “more intelligent that this instructor, himself!”  Another wrote, “Her flights of fancy are worrisome, not in their senselessness, but rather in their advanced scientific thought and process, of which there are no current comparisons.”  And the one which made him laugh, “She is either a genius before her time, or insane.  We must be cautious in how close we allow her.” 

He remembered thinking that she was quite the wunderkind, and had wondered himself why her name had not appeared more frequently and with more flourish than just a side note on the Nazi paperwork.  He finally settled on the same reason her obvious intelligence was stifled by her superiors – male ego.  In this case the Nazi male ego.  This was, after all, the heyday of the Third Reich.  All the senior officers, men, were jockeying for position in the new world order, and they certainly would not allow a mere woman, no matter her curriculum vitae, to stand in their way.

Larkin had sent his final report up the chain, as usual, postulating that this might be more important than just another Nazi “wunderwaffe” being rushed from design to production in order to salvage what was left of the Reich.  He put forth his theory that this documented transfer of the entirety of Projekt Ozeanplatte had been orchestrated by this lesser known engineer who was only referred to, by name, in orders and memos as in passing; probably due to the fact she was a woman.  This was a tough argument to press, without the oft requested proof.  He had also postulated, due to this woman's background and education, that the move was manipulated by her to accommodate her own agenda.  He knew this was truly only a gut feeling, one made worse by his surety that she was playing – everyone!  The problem being, he couldn't back up his theories, much less assumptions, with anything concrete, as usual.  What he knew for certain was that his gut, well, it was rarely wrong.

A sharp ‘ping’ from his laptop brought him back to reality.  He sat forward and placed the glass on the desk as he checked the screen.  The title of the e-mail, ‘Walter,’ confirmed this was the promised information from ‘Sam.’ His fingers played across the keys and it took a few seconds to initiate the encryption program, transfer the attached file, and decrypt the document.  A photo file began to load onto the screen from the top down.  He could see it was satellite imagery of a body of water with a beach appearing in the upper left of the screen.  As the photo progressed along the sand dunes, a hundred or so feet from the water, the leading edge of a circular object began to appear.  It seemed to be half buried in the dune.  The resolution was good enough to make out two people standing next to it with, what appeared to be, an ATV parked behind them.  As this photo reached completion, another photo began to download on the following page.  Although the photo was at a more oblique angle, he saw it was the same bit of beach as in the last image but this time there was a square structure where the object had been.  At the bottom of this photo were a set of numbers he recognized as GPS coordinates.  Larkin smiled.

“Thank you, Uncle Sam.”  He copied the numbers onto the paper, hit several keys to delete the file, close the program and power down the computer.  He considered his scheduled absence from the office for a week or two was prophetic, considering what could unfold in Manzanillo.  The hastily erected structure over the target would indicate someone’s entrepreneurial spirit might be considering the possibility of great monetary reward for their discovery.  The mere fact that no policia, federlales, or military vehicles have been imaged would certainly indicate the Mexican authorities are being kept in the dark, which Larkin considered a very good thing, for him.

He stood and crossed the small office to an well-worn, waist high, iron safe from the late 1920’s sitting in the corner.  He spun the large brass combination dial until the black, textured, steel handle dropped.  He opened the heavy door, reached in and brought out a nylon shoulder holster with a double magazine pouch.  He removed the pistol from it and ejected the magazine to ensure what he already knew; the Beretta M9 was loaded.  He replaced the clip and secured the pistol back into the holster.  He felt to ensure the pouch still held two spare mags, then reached back into the safe and retrieved two additional mags from the shelf where the gun had been, placing those in the pocket of his sport coat. 

A bit of white terry cloth was visible under the shelf.  He thought for a moment then braced himself on the safe as he knelt down to retrieve cloth and the item wrapped in it.  He took the five inch Gerber Applegate-Fairbairn folding knife from the cloth and, slightly tightening his grip, flicked his wrist to one side snapping the blade open as the knife had been engineered to do.  He pressed his thumb on the lock release lever and the blade dropped back into the folded position and he repeated the exercise.  Larkin admired the high carbon stainless steel blade with its charcoal grey titanium nitride coating and how the glass-filled nylon handle felt so good in his meaty hand.  The knife had been specifically designed by the late Colonel Rex Applegate, for close-quarters combat. 

Larkin considered not bringing it.  God knows he wasn’t young enough to initiate hand-to-hand combat, and except for army training, long ago and in another life, he had no current instruction on ‘close in’ knife work.  He had always managed to avoid using a knife on the enemy, and he wasn’t sure how he’d fair having to work on friendlies with one. These two, poor dumb bastards, at the target site don’t have clue one what they’ve gotten into.  He thought how much he would hate to find himself in a position requiring their removal.  With any luck the entire plan will consist of tying them up, locking them down, in and out, no muss or fuss.  Snatch the target and back for Easter.  He ended up placing the knife in his other coat pocket, just in case.  Larkin closed the safe and didn’t bother locking it since it was now empty.  He went to the door and turned off the light as he left the back office.

Larkin opened the front door and stepped from the cool, air conditioned agency, into the warm, humid evening.  He knew the Pacific coast would be much cooler when he arrived at the Port of Manzanillo, and was actually looking forward to his escape from the oppressive heat of central Mexico.  He remembered the number for the reservation desk at Las Hatas Golf Resort was on his cell phone, not that he golfed, but he enjoyed sipping drinks at the poolside bar while watching the attractive, wealthy ladies that frequented the exclusive resort as they frolicked around the pool in their scant swimwear.  

He set down his briefcase, full of nine mil pistol, so he could pull the door while he locked the deadbolt, then fished the cell phone from his coat pocket.  Scrolling until he found the number, he pressed dial as he picked up his briefcase and crossed the street to a sun baked 2000 Nissan Altima.  New when he bought it, he had watched the metallic blue paint slowly oxidized under ten years of the relentless Mexican sun.  The line began to ring.

The Nissan pulled away from the curb and accelerated up the street.  Several cars behind where it had been parked, another set of headlights came to life on a silver Opal Corsa hatchback just before it jumped from its own parking space to fall in at a reasonable distance behind Larkin's Nissan.  If Larkin thought his paint had oxidized a bit, this Opal was a mess.

******************************

Feodor Ivanovich Chaliapin sat in his rented Opal and tried to adjust the small card in his hand so it picked up the faint light coming in the window from a dim streetlight located a short distance behind the car.  He fished out reading glasses from his shirt pocket and placed them toward the end of his nose.  The emblem of the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation came into focus on the well-worn, dog-eared, identification card.  The photo opposite the emblem was that of a man twenty years younger than he, without the more-salt-than-pepper hair he possessed.  The narrow face staring back, although still ruggedly handsome, was just as tanned but without the current lines and toughness of age brought on by years in Syria and the northern Afghan desert, as well as harsh winters in Siberia and on the Kamchatka Peninsula.  He gave an involuntary shiver.  He hadn’t been cold since he’d shown the I.D. last, and that was when he left Moscow for Venezuela, over fifteen years ago. 

He unconsciously rubbed under his chin and felt the bit of extra flesh he was carrying there.  He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the brown eyes looking back at him.  He ran his fingers through the still thick, wavy hair.  He considered himself a distinguished looking mature man. 

Ivan cracked the window and reached for a newly opened pack of cigarettes with the distinctive red and gold Dunhill brand emblem on the white wrapper.  These were their International Lights which were much gentler than the Mexican Delicados non-filters he had bought earlier and immediately thrown away.  He placed his I.D. card in his shirt pocket and reached to the center console for his cigarette lighter.  The car’s lighter was inop.  His thumb felt and caressed raised emblem of the Order of Lenin that was welded to the stainless steel body of the Zippo knockoff.  It was issued as a token from the Communist Party before his unit left to serve in the Middle-East.  He lit the smoke pulled from the pack, taking a shallow draw.  Much smoother, he thought.

He closed his eyes for a moment as he exhaled the smoke toward window opening and thought back through a life that now found him here.  He was of Tartan heritage, born in Kazan, along the Volga River, in the Republic of Tartistan.  His namesake was a famous Russian opera singer born in the same city in 1873; same last name, no relation.  After Genghis Khan added his ancestor’s genetic material to his imperial cultural melting pot, 800 years ago, the distant Mongol heritage thinned to the point of non-existence.

He joined the Soviet navy and was stationed at Sevastopol, on the Crimean Peninsula.  After several years, his marksmanship ability brought him to the attention of a Spetsnaz commander and he soon found himself transferred to a Special Forces contingent preparing for action somewhere in the southern desert regions.  Ivan soon found himself on an Ilyushin IL-76 heavy transport jet ferrying equipment to the Afghan theater of operations.  He found himself subconsciously rubbing his thumb over the badge on his lighter again as he thought about how much his service there taught him about the resilience of poor guerilla forces when they are fighting against superior weapons of an invading enemy. 

The six month “cake walk” for the Soviet Union turned into a nine year debacle which ultimately ended up tearing the Union apart a short time later. The KGB utilized the Spetsnaz as one source for personnel and, in particular, saw potential in Ivan’s abilities in intelligence analysis and planning, something the Soviets were sorely lacking when they entered the country. 

During his five years in country Ivan continuously warned that this was a conflict that would not turn out well for the military, or for Mother Russia.  Unfortunately, his analysis and predictions were dead on and, as a reward, he soon found himself transferred to the Committee for State Security - the KGB.

The KGB was to be replaced by the Federal Counterintelligence Service, the FSK, in 1991. Then, on December 25, 1991 President Gorbachev resigned and declared his office extinct.  The next day the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics ceased to exist.  In 1995 President Boris Yeltsin reorganized the FSK into the FSB, the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation.  Somewhere in all that shuffling, loyalties were brought into question and the old guard was thinned out.  He found himself assigned to a, soon to be forgotten, post in South America where he languished in relative peace until the phone call several days ago.

He opened his eyes from the memory in time to see the light go out in the small shop, up a bit and across the street.  A heavy set man placed his case down and fished for keys to lock the door.  That done, he crossed to a car parked somewhere ahead of Ivan’s vehicle.  Ivan waited until he saw the headlights go on before he started the old Opal.  As the blue Nissan pulled into the street he turned on his own lights and slowly pulled out to follow.

From a dark alley just two cars behind the now empty space left by Ivan Chaliapin’s small Opal, a figure wearing boots, blue jeans, ball cap, and an untucked, short sleeved shirt, stepped out.  The figure moved just within the glow of a dim street light and brought a cell phone up to an ear.  The bill of the ball cap kept the face in shadow, but it looked to be a young man.  The dark cap sported a black and white roundel with a black eagle in the center and ‘DEUTSCHER FUSSBALL-BUND’ printed around the inner band with a black, red, and yellow bar at the bottom of the outer ring; the emblem of the German Football Association.

“Guten Abend.”  The young man’s German was impeccable as he continued, “The target has left, with a shadow.”   Several seconds went by while the other party spoke, then, “Ja, ich verstehe.  I understand.”  He put the small cell phone in his shirt’s breast pocket and removed his cap to shade his eyes from the dim light and better see the tail lights as they finally made a distant corner.  The sheen of his short blonde hair was evident under the dim light overhead that put his boyish features in soft shadows.  The young man replaced the cap on his head and moved the hand behind him, underneath the shirt tail, to ensure the pistol tucked in his jeans at the small of his back was secure.  He then turned and re-entered the alley.  There was the sharp sound of a motorcycle’s two stroke engine from the dark alley.  The spoke wheel of a dirt bike slowly pulled out and the blonde checked for traffic before pulling into the street and roaring in pursuit of the vehicles.

A dark haired young woman watched the events unfold through a Nikon digital camera with a telephoto lens resting on the steering wheel of her black SUV.  As the dirt bike made the corner at some distance behind the other two vehicles, she took her finger off the shutter release and reached up to turn on the map light.  The illumination showed the olive skin and features of Spanish blood flowed in her veins accounting for much of her beauty.  She made a few more notes on her iPad, adding the license plate number of the bike before turning off the map light

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She had been at the airport several hours earlier in the afternoon, consulting with the Aduana, the Department of Customs, when the German had checked through the overseas arrivals area.  He kept his cap pulled low over his forehead and never removed his sunglasses, although he constantly looked over the tops of them as if he was watching for something, or someone.  His overall manner made her ‘trouble warning light’ start to flicker.  She excused herself from the agents, when the man left, and followed him outside where another Anglo met him with the keys to a dirt bike he’d just dismounted.  He was also handed a cell phone and a folded manila envelope that looked every bit the shape and size of Mexican currency, and a lot of it.  A late model coupe pulled up, the delivery man got in the passenger side, and the coupe sped away.  The man from the airport put the manila package in one side of a saddlebag strapped across the fuel tank, donned the helmet and started the motorbike. 

Her SUV was parked at the curb so it was easy to begin the tail when he jumped on the bike and moved swiftly passed her like a man on a mission. 

Following the bike was no big chore either, though there were times he would pull over and she thought he had made the tail, but he would pull into traffic again and continue on his way.  He did this several times before she realized he was pulling over to periodically check a GPS navigation system.  She thought it odd he seemed to know exactly where he was headed, unless he’d been here before, and was beginning to wonder why she hadn’t seen him consult a map or ask directions. 

He turned a corner and was forced to slow down behind a silver Opal whose driver seemed to be looking for an address.  The Opal finally pulled into one of the few vacant parking spaces on the block and the motorcycle pulled into an alley at the same moment.  Even though she couldn’t see the bike, she saw the red tail light as it flared brighter as the rider applied the brake.  She looked over her shoulder and saw the only other parking spot available, just a car length behind, and she lost little time backing into it.  She turned off the engine and the headlights.

The motorcycle rider hadn’t emerged for the alley and, for that matter, the driver of the Opal never got out of the car.  She removed her hand from her door handle.  As much as she wanted to check the whereabouts of the cycle rider, she couldn’t be certain he wasn’t following the Opal and she just hadn’t noticed.  She decided to give it a few more minutes.  A head and shoulders took up position at the alley entrance, facing down the street, and seemed to be leaning on the wall. 

The woman watch the lack of activity for another fifteen minutes, noting that the rider’s cap looked similar to her bike rider, but it was hard to tell from the dim street light by the alley.  She also noted that when they first arrived he seemed interested in an apartment or business across the street, and then he immediately seemed to switch attention to the Opal, as though he also noted the driver had not gotten out.  The cycle rider continued to stay out of view of the Opal, and the Opal driver stayed in the car.  She pulled out a pad and pen, taking down a few notes with what little light filtered into the SUV.  What were these guys up to?

The woman sat in her SUV biting her lower lip and watching the two strangers.  She kept trying to figure out what they were up to.  She looked down the street as it curve slightly to the left and could just make out signage for a travel agency where the motorcyclist kept glancing.  Travel agency?  Fillmore Travel!  She cocked her head until she was finally able to read the name, and smiled as she recognized where she was and remembered who owned the travel agency just across the street from the Opal.  She had only been here once, during the day. 

She pushed the send button on her iPhone and waited.  When answered she identified herself simply as “Sanchez” and asked to speak to the ‘director adjunto.’  When the director came online she explained recent activities and began giving a concise report to the assistant director of her Intelligence Operation Center, making him aware of what she was doing.  A hand was placed over the instrument on the director’s end for several seconds.  When he returned he agreed that this was well within the edict of the CISEN, especially considering her possible identification of the lead player in this new drama. 

He confirmed approval of her continued surveillance and the call ended.  She quickly removed a Nikon digital camera from the glove box and attached the telephoto lens.  She snapped several photos then settled in for a little stakeout of her own.  Darkness was well upon them, and she was very happy she had used the women’s rest room while at the airport.

Elena Sanchez, Agente Especial for Mexico’s Centro de Investigacion y Seguridad Nacional - Center for Investigation and National Security, looked up from her scribbled notes and spoke in a low voice, “Viejo espia. What are you up to after so many years, you old spy?  And what is of such great interest to bring so many others to your party?”  She added a message at the bottom of the notes to have regional police agencies report sightings of the vehicles but not to follow or interfere with in any way.  She sent the message and started the SUV.  “I will find this party of yours, Senor Larkin, and I will invite myself, old man, if only to save you from yourself.”  She pulled out and accelerated to catch up.

The Center for Research and National Security is the Mexican counterpart to the American CIA and the Russian FSB.  Its main function being one of counter espionage, the current situation certainly seemed to be fitting that edict so far.  The fact that an agent of the American CIA was being followed, at the very least meant that the peace and security of Mexico was probably in jeopardy.

As Elena made the corner onto the main street she finally turned her headlights on.  She could see the other vehicles a short distance ahead in the evening traffic.  She let out a laugh, slapped the steering wheel and began to whistle.  This was a chance for some adventure, she thought.  Nothing ever happens in Mexico except drugs, and that corruption went to places no one could touch, not even the CISEN.

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In his mind Larkin put together the contents of an overnight bag while he drove the short distance to a secured apartment building in a better part of the city.  He knew he probably wouldn’t need much, but he would pack for week, just in case.  As he approached the Pemex gas station on the corner to his street, he noted the little Nissan’s fuel gauge read a quarter of a tank.  He pulled into the station and instructed the attendant to fill it with regular.  

Although the highways connecting the two large cities were multi-lane, fairly modern roads, the trip to Manzanillo would still take what was left of the night and put him there in time for breakfast.  Larkin would take the quiet opportunity of the drive to figure out how he might best move the target out of country, knowing it would require sidestepping inspections and questions at all costs.  Considering the size of the object, as compared to the people standing next to it in the imagery, it would be difficult to bribe it through any checkpoint much less sneak it through.  He fished out his wallet as the attendant approached, removing his last few hundred pesos.  A stop at the cash machine in the Sorianna market would probably be a good idea as well.  The "Walmart" style superstore was on his way out of the city anyway.

An hour later Larkin pulled his fueled Nissan to the on-ramp and began his journey to the Port of Manzanillo.  Several cars behind, the silver Opal strained up the on-ramp with Ivan cursing the old vehicle’s lack of power.  He pulled to the side as he saw a motorcycle accelerating to pass.  He paid the rider little attention as he rocked back and forth as if willing a few more horses from the struggling Chevy engine.  Adding insult to injury a black SUV flew quietly passed just as the Opal coughed a billow of exhaust and seemed to find second wind.  It began to accelerate and Ivan began to relax.  He fished a cigarette out of the pack and lit a match, keeping his eyes on the tail lights ahead of him.  He kept the accelerator floored.

Sanchez checked her passenger side mirror and seemed pleased as this might be a better position to keep an eye on both of these two characters.  She considered the old man up ahead of the motorcycle and decided, “The old spy can watch himself.”