Havana Hell (02)
Joint Base Andrews, Prince George's County, Maryland
Barbara Moore breathed a sigh of relief as she smoothly guided her jet-black Porsche 911 onto the Branch Avenue off-ramp leading to Virginia Avenue and her destination that afternoon, Joint Base Andrews … more commonly known as Andrews Air Force Base. It had been nearly an hour and a half since she had set out from CIA headquarters in Langley on the Capitol Belt Highway. Heavy traffic and a construction slowdown had slowed her progress considerably. She had a reputation for being habitually late, but this was embarrassingly so. The drive ought to have taken no more than forty minutes.
Virginia Avenue took her past a cluster of roadside commercial establishments … Papa John’s Pizza, McDonald’s, a bank, an Econo Lodge, and an auto collision repair center. She had to brake hard and lay on the horn outside the latter in order to avoid a collision with a vehicle that attempted to pull onto the road ahead of her.
But shortly thereafter she rounded the turn north onto the long, straight, heavily-wooded stretch that led to the base’s main gate. The road was flanked on either side by a dazzling display of fall colors, the foliage basking in the late afternoon sunshine. And she found herself presented with the welcome opportunity to absorb the beauty and a moment to reflect on why she was there.
Her errand that afternoon was to pick up a British MI6 agent … a Major Jason Underwood, and bring him back to Langley for a briefing … a briefing on an undercover mission that she had been told he and she were to undertake together. She knew nothing of the specifics of the mission. It’s exact nature would be revealed at their joint briefing later that evening. What she did know was that a mission pairing, like this, was highly unusual. And she wasn’t sure that she was going to like it, as she preferred to work alone, or at least at the head of a detail of hand-picked underlings. She had a reputation as a bit of a ‘control freak’. She didn’t like sharing. She liked to be in charge.
Other than his name and rank, she knew nothing of this Major Jason Underwood. The military rank of ‘major’ suggested that technically he might outrank her, as she herself held the CIA rank of Agent III, an experienced but yet middling level in the CIA scheme of things.
The Firm had supplied her with a photo of Underwood … a simple mug shot only, showing him looking straight into the camera, as though posing for an ordinary passport photo. Not much to go on there … dark hair, dark eyes, high cheek bones, firm jaw … handsome enough … she had to allow him that … anything but a Monty Python style caricature.
Such thoughts vanished as she pulled up to the base’s entry checkpoint, and a blue-uniformed Air Force noncom strolled leisurely over to her vehicle to check her CIA ID. She rolled down the window and produced the ID. He took a casual look as she flashed it. And then a considerably longer look at the way her short denim skirt had ridden up on her thighs far enough to treat him to a rather generous view. But he found himself forced to step back hastily when she abruptly pressed down hard on the accelerator and took off.
Moments later she pulled up at the base’s rather modest, one-story passenger terminal … about as impressive as a bus terminal she reflected as she pulled illegally into a parking spot marked ‘handicapped’, got out of the car and ran for the entrance. Looming over the terminal roof, she could see the tail assembly of a large plane with RAF markings, which elicited a curse as she was hoping his flight might have been delayed. No such luck.
Once inside, she found the place virtually deserted save for one lone individual seated with his back to her on one of the building’s Air Force blue plastic chairs. She headed his way, her heels clicking on the terminal flooring and echoing jarringly off the ceiling of the nearly empty chamber.
He turned in his seat and looked at her. It was him. Of course, it was him! Who else would it be? She was fucking late, and he was more than likely to be quite pissed.
“Major Underwood?” she called, about the time she had covered half the distance to where he was now standing.
But rather than scowling, as she might have expected, his face transformed itself into a boyish, almost flirtatious, grin … as he looked her over appraisingly, quite obviously eying first her legs and then her chest … in the case of the latter, intensely enough to cause her to glance down to make certain that her white cotton shirt was fully buttoned.
“Like what you see?” she said flippantly.
“Uh huh,” he responded, flashing that same grin.
“Look … I’m sorry I’m late … it was the traffic, you see … oh … sorry … I’m Barbara Moore … here to pick you up and take you to Langley …we’re going to be working together, I understand … as to exactly where, what and how, I don’t know, but they’ll be filling us in this evening back at Langley … where are your bags? … have you eaten? … we could stop somewhere on the way? … maybe get acquainted?”
“Do you always carry on like that, Ms Moore?”
“Only when I’m flustered.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Okay …. I guess … I mean … oh, forget it!”
“No … really it’s quite charming. Where from originally, Ms Moore? I gather not from around here?”
“Call me Barb. No, I’m from the Midwest … Minnesota to be precise … any idea where that is?”
“Sure. It’s bloody cold there, right?”
“Can be.”
“Where the boyfriends keep their girls warm at night?”
“Ha ha!”
“Alright. Enough for the preliminaries. Let me grab my bag. It’s behind the counter over there. And, yes, I am rather famished.”
“There’s a McDonald’s not far down the road from here.”
“Not exactly the Ritz, but it’ll do,” he said, making a face that made her laugh.
“That laugh,” he exclaimed. “Is that a Minnesotan thing? Sounded like a cross between a giggle and a snort.”
She wound up and punched him playfully on the shoulder.
“I think, we’re going to get along just fine, Agent Moore.”
“Don’t count on it, Major Underwood.”
McDonald’s restaurant, Clinton, Prince George's County, Maryland
“So, tell me about your superior,” said Jason as he dipped a Chicken McNugget in a plastic container of barbecue sauce and popped it in his mouth. “What’s he like? I assume he’s the one who will brief us this evening.”
Barbara regarded him with a quizzical cocking of her head as she slurped Coke through a straw. “You know, Major … that by assuming my superior is male you are being sexist.”
“Right … pardon my insensitivity there.”
“Yeah, no problem. His name is Clark O’Shaughnessy and yes, he flaunts his Irish ancestry. Red hair and beard, makes a big deal of St. Pat’s day, Guinness, and all that.”
“Intimidating?”
“One could say that. He’s old school, earned his position as Head Agent of my Division by working his way up through the ranks. He has an outsized paneled office with an enormous desk, as you’ll see tonight. Rumor has it that he had the legs of the visitor chairs facing his desk shortened to add to his advantage.”
“Charming.”
“Not exactly, but he’s damned good at what he does!”
“Alright. Enough said.”
“My turn to ask a question?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“Are you married?”
“That was bluntly put! No, not at the moment.”
“Is there someone special in your life then?”
“We’ll, yes. Perhaps. Her name is Grace. Why do you ask? None of your business really,”
“It is, in fact. When I go undercover with colleagues, I like to know whether there’s anything in their lives that might hold them back from taking risks.”
“I see. Well, Barb, if you’re finished with that soda, I think we ought to be getting ourselves off to Langley to meet your Mr. O’Shaughnessy.”
To Be Continued
Joint Base Andrews, Prince George's County, Maryland
Barbara Moore breathed a sigh of relief as she smoothly guided her jet-black Porsche 911 onto the Branch Avenue off-ramp leading to Virginia Avenue and her destination that afternoon, Joint Base Andrews … more commonly known as Andrews Air Force Base. It had been nearly an hour and a half since she had set out from CIA headquarters in Langley on the Capitol Belt Highway. Heavy traffic and a construction slowdown had slowed her progress considerably. She had a reputation for being habitually late, but this was embarrassingly so. The drive ought to have taken no more than forty minutes.
Virginia Avenue took her past a cluster of roadside commercial establishments … Papa John’s Pizza, McDonald’s, a bank, an Econo Lodge, and an auto collision repair center. She had to brake hard and lay on the horn outside the latter in order to avoid a collision with a vehicle that attempted to pull onto the road ahead of her.
But shortly thereafter she rounded the turn north onto the long, straight, heavily-wooded stretch that led to the base’s main gate. The road was flanked on either side by a dazzling display of fall colors, the foliage basking in the late afternoon sunshine. And she found herself presented with the welcome opportunity to absorb the beauty and a moment to reflect on why she was there.
Her errand that afternoon was to pick up a British MI6 agent … a Major Jason Underwood, and bring him back to Langley for a briefing … a briefing on an undercover mission that she had been told he and she were to undertake together. She knew nothing of the specifics of the mission. It’s exact nature would be revealed at their joint briefing later that evening. What she did know was that a mission pairing, like this, was highly unusual. And she wasn’t sure that she was going to like it, as she preferred to work alone, or at least at the head of a detail of hand-picked underlings. She had a reputation as a bit of a ‘control freak’. She didn’t like sharing. She liked to be in charge.
Other than his name and rank, she knew nothing of this Major Jason Underwood. The military rank of ‘major’ suggested that technically he might outrank her, as she herself held the CIA rank of Agent III, an experienced but yet middling level in the CIA scheme of things.
The Firm had supplied her with a photo of Underwood … a simple mug shot only, showing him looking straight into the camera, as though posing for an ordinary passport photo. Not much to go on there … dark hair, dark eyes, high cheek bones, firm jaw … handsome enough … she had to allow him that … anything but a Monty Python style caricature.
Such thoughts vanished as she pulled up to the base’s entry checkpoint, and a blue-uniformed Air Force noncom strolled leisurely over to her vehicle to check her CIA ID. She rolled down the window and produced the ID. He took a casual look as she flashed it. And then a considerably longer look at the way her short denim skirt had ridden up on her thighs far enough to treat him to a rather generous view. But he found himself forced to step back hastily when she abruptly pressed down hard on the accelerator and took off.
Moments later she pulled up at the base’s rather modest, one-story passenger terminal … about as impressive as a bus terminal she reflected as she pulled illegally into a parking spot marked ‘handicapped’, got out of the car and ran for the entrance. Looming over the terminal roof, she could see the tail assembly of a large plane with RAF markings, which elicited a curse as she was hoping his flight might have been delayed. No such luck.
Once inside, she found the place virtually deserted save for one lone individual seated with his back to her on one of the building’s Air Force blue plastic chairs. She headed his way, her heels clicking on the terminal flooring and echoing jarringly off the ceiling of the nearly empty chamber.
He turned in his seat and looked at her. It was him. Of course, it was him! Who else would it be? She was fucking late, and he was more than likely to be quite pissed.
“Major Underwood?” she called, about the time she had covered half the distance to where he was now standing.
But rather than scowling, as she might have expected, his face transformed itself into a boyish, almost flirtatious, grin … as he looked her over appraisingly, quite obviously eying first her legs and then her chest … in the case of the latter, intensely enough to cause her to glance down to make certain that her white cotton shirt was fully buttoned.
“Like what you see?” she said flippantly.
“Uh huh,” he responded, flashing that same grin.
“Look … I’m sorry I’m late … it was the traffic, you see … oh … sorry … I’m Barbara Moore … here to pick you up and take you to Langley …we’re going to be working together, I understand … as to exactly where, what and how, I don’t know, but they’ll be filling us in this evening back at Langley … where are your bags? … have you eaten? … we could stop somewhere on the way? … maybe get acquainted?”
“Do you always carry on like that, Ms Moore?”
“Only when I’m flustered.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Okay …. I guess … I mean … oh, forget it!”
“No … really it’s quite charming. Where from originally, Ms Moore? I gather not from around here?”
“Call me Barb. No, I’m from the Midwest … Minnesota to be precise … any idea where that is?”
“Sure. It’s bloody cold there, right?”
“Can be.”
“Where the boyfriends keep their girls warm at night?”
“Ha ha!”
“Alright. Enough for the preliminaries. Let me grab my bag. It’s behind the counter over there. And, yes, I am rather famished.”
“There’s a McDonald’s not far down the road from here.”
“Not exactly the Ritz, but it’ll do,” he said, making a face that made her laugh.
“That laugh,” he exclaimed. “Is that a Minnesotan thing? Sounded like a cross between a giggle and a snort.”
She wound up and punched him playfully on the shoulder.
“I think, we’re going to get along just fine, Agent Moore.”
“Don’t count on it, Major Underwood.”
McDonald’s restaurant, Clinton, Prince George's County, Maryland
“So, tell me about your superior,” said Jason as he dipped a Chicken McNugget in a plastic container of barbecue sauce and popped it in his mouth. “What’s he like? I assume he’s the one who will brief us this evening.”
Barbara regarded him with a quizzical cocking of her head as she slurped Coke through a straw. “You know, Major … that by assuming my superior is male you are being sexist.”
“Right … pardon my insensitivity there.”
“Yeah, no problem. His name is Clark O’Shaughnessy and yes, he flaunts his Irish ancestry. Red hair and beard, makes a big deal of St. Pat’s day, Guinness, and all that.”
“Intimidating?”
“One could say that. He’s old school, earned his position as Head Agent of my Division by working his way up through the ranks. He has an outsized paneled office with an enormous desk, as you’ll see tonight. Rumor has it that he had the legs of the visitor chairs facing his desk shortened to add to his advantage.”
“Charming.”
“Not exactly, but he’s damned good at what he does!”
“Alright. Enough said.”
“My turn to ask a question?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“Are you married?”
“That was bluntly put! No, not at the moment.”
“Is there someone special in your life then?”
“We’ll, yes. Perhaps. Her name is Grace. Why do you ask? None of your business really,”
“It is, in fact. When I go undercover with colleagues, I like to know whether there’s anything in their lives that might hold them back from taking risks.”
“I see. Well, Barb, if you’re finished with that soda, I think we ought to be getting ourselves off to Langley to meet your Mr. O’Shaughnessy.”
To Be Continued
