A nearly vanished path is uncovered by three people – Beckelman, an Israeli researcher; Kugler, a manipulative CIA computer ace; and Brinnell, a battle-scarred ‘company’ field veteran. Each move toward a history changing secret – Adolph Hitler didn’t die in April, 1945.
Excerpt
CHAPTER 3
Langley, Virginia ““ Present day
The CIA’s Information Center lay at the east end of the building. Metal detectors covered the entrance arch, and sliding steel doors bore a security warning. The floor area inside was covered by blocks of beige cubicles, occupied by analysts all networked to the CIA main computer database.
A larger windowed cubicle bore the sign: “˜IC: Primary Domain Controller.’ Inside was Robert K. Kugler, a thin-faced young man with blue-gray eyes, shaggy blond hair, wearing jeans and a faded Hawaiian shirt. A pop-up appeared on his monitor screen. The expressionless visage of IC Deputy Director Roger Coleman, Rob’s Division boss, spoke from a twitchy, pixel-painted window.
“Kugler, my office, ten-thirty.”
The pop-up vanished. It was ten twenty-six. Rob grabbed a cane and started down the aisle past lines of identical cubicles.
“Ah, beige in the morning,” he sneered, limping along.
Coleman was scanning Kugler’s folder at his desk when his secretary entered.
“Kugler’s here, sir.”
He nodded. She left and Rob replaced her in the doorway. Coleman was curt.
“Come in, close it.”
Kugler hobbled into a chair with more theatrics than necessary, Coleman smiled.
“You seem abnormally weary for a twenty-seven-year-old, Mister Kugler – finding IC work fatiguing?”
“No, sir.”
“Perhaps you’re bored?”
“No sir, worked late again last night – only had a few hours sleep.”
“Really?”
“Right, sir.”
“I must speak to Marsden about this.”
“Marsden?”
“Security Director Marsden, I had him audit you. He reports you’ve never stayed a minute past eight hours since first gracing us with your presence. “
Rob was an unreadable blank.
“I strive to be regular, sir.”
“I think you’ve rusted on us, Kugler.”
“Rusted, sir?”
“A one-hundred-ninety-six IQ, two ivy-league PHD’s, and you play dumb with me?”
Coleman flips open a folder.
“Apparently, you’ve been using Agency gigabytes to traffic in foreign stocks.”
Rob nods agreement.
“You’ve hit on it, sir – boredom. I do miss field research since my unfortunate accident. Not a lot of stimulus administering a nerd herd, sir.”
“Then luck has arrived.”
“Sir?”
“Your tedium ends – you’re suspended until further notice.”
“Sir, somewhat extreme – everyone here dawdles on a computer.”
“Ah, but your computer is the only one dawdling on a single pursuit.”
“There are others, too.”
“Don’t interrupt. You are kiting two-dozen banks.”
“Factual oversight, sir, my accounts are real.”
“Of course they are ““ ten dollars in each – except the one day a month when you slip in an interest-eligible sum from your merry-go-round list of previous banks – just before that new bank verifies your account and pays the interest. In your battle with boredom, Kugler, you’ve swindled twenty-four banks and seven credit card companies in eight states, by continuously pumping cycled amounts through them ““ and, let us not overlook your associations with various online brokerages too, where you additionally cycle the credit margins they offer new account holders. Define criminal fraud, Mister Kugler ““ presumably, you can further enumerate ways we haven’t yet discovered.”
“You wrong me, sir, it’s all legal”¦ah, in those particular eight states”¦ah, considering their account transaction rules – absolutely no violations involved. I’d stake my reputation on it.”
The Deputy Director gapes at him.
“Wow. “¦Oh, I see. You used state law idiosyncrasies to circumnavigate the intent of those laws?”
Rob confirms with a nod.
“Adverse to risk, sir.”
“So your entire, conniving, miscreant scheme slithers through legal cracks?”
“Can’t make court, sir. In a precise interpretation of relevant law – to paraphrase a highly respected executive branch leader – there’s “˜no controlling legal authority’ there, ah”¦here.”
Coleman twists in his chair and groans ““ then leans forward and stares at Kugler.
“Be assured Internal Enforcement will check every transaction, every sentence, every word, every punctuation of your delivered written explanation, Mister Kugler. Until then, deliver your keys to your Section Head, and get the hell out of the building.”
Rob pauses at the door.
“May I keep my CIA soup mug, sir?”
“Kugler, for you, things could easily become far more unpleasant.”
“Yes, sir. Good-afternoon and thank you, sir.”
Section Head Runyon Brinnell was half-interested in a computer manual when Rob hobbled in and dumped keys on his desk. Recently appointed to his post, Brinnell was a stocky, quiet man with jet-black hair – and a complete mystery to Rob. He showed himself naturally calm and thoughtful, yet it was plain that much greater humor and strength lay within. Rob theorized that he was a field man in hot water who was put behind a desk to become invisible for a while.
Brinnell tossed the manual aside.
“What?”
“Coleman wants you to have these.”
“He suspended you?”
“Yes.”
Brinnell stopped himself from asking more.
“Recommendation?”
“My replacement?”
Brinnell nodded impatiently.
“Yes.”
“I’m pretty much irreplaceable.”
The comment won zero tolerance from Brinnell.
“- But Nady and Vosolev can handle my routine work.
Brinnell scribbled the names.
“Is your contact information current?
“Yes.”
“That’s all.”
Brinnell picked up the manual again, but Rob had more – Rob always had more.
“I must confess, sir, it’s been like working for a father figure.”
Brinnell looked up from his reading. Something like a smile flickered across his eyes, then he waved final dismissal.
Rob emptied his desk. Before leaving, he gave Nady and Vosolev a “˜heads-up’ about their new responsibilities. Vosolev listened, nodded, and offered routine sympathy before returning to work. East Indian Nady peppered him with questions. Halfway through, Rob grew irritated and referred him to Brinnell. After his belongings were screened at the rear exit, Rob hobbled to his car in a reserved handicap slot.
His leg, fractured in an accident skiing with Marie in New Hampshire nine months ago had long since healed, and he could walk quite normally now, but he kept limping at work to keep the parking spot. Maintaining the act also engaged his overbearing curiosity. He should have been challenged long before now, but people simply grew accustomed to his hobble. He decided to test how long it could last.
Marie lathered with pink liquid soap, and noticed the tan lines on her buttocks and breasts were faded. She bowed under the showerhead to rinse shampoo when hairy arms slipped around her waist and squeezed her against a scratchy body.
“Oow!” Dammit, Rob, this is my shower. Get out!”
Rob worked his arms along her soap-slippery torso.
“Dimensions beyond belief – must verify,”
“Out! – Or I’ll alter your dimensions!”
Girl, you already have.”
His erection slapped up between her legs.
“Oh-no! ““ Out!”
Reluctantly, he released her – she turned and pulled him back.
She soaped his lower abdomen, and his erection sprang higher.
“Stopping showed obedience, now, you may do me a favor.”
“What?”
She stroked his member with both hands until it pointed straight up, then brushed her lips on his.
“Put this someplace.”
Later, they lay in bed entwined, Rob’s half-consciousness submerged in the clean scent of her hair.
Read more about Area 217 and Gary Gamage HERE.
Copyright 2008 Gary Gamage. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
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