Aunty Kaye. Thank you for making me feel at home.”
“You’re always welcome here, darling,” she said with a smile.
I honestly thought that big SEAL was going to cry. Aunty Kaye always could make even the toughest men turn to butter.
Part III
Bangkok
22
T he long halls of the US Embassy in Bangkok were busy, with clusters of State Department workers moving from, room to room, meeting to meeting. The black and white marble floor magnified the din of conversations being held in English, with a smattering of Thai.
“Here you are, gentlemen,” said our escort from the Military Attaché’s office as she opened the tall door to a conference room.
Sterba and I nodded our thanks and entered.
Seated at the table were Lt. Commander Haley Chen and a man I assumed to be our CIA contact in the hunt for Slater. They rose and came around the table to greet us.
“Commander Chen,” I said, shaking her hand. While she was one step senior in rank, we did not salute, as we were both in civilian clothes.
“Hello, Lieutenant,” she said, and then turned to Sterba. “Chief.”
She wore slacks with a blouse and jacket. And while the jacket was loose, I could see why Joe mentioned that Naval uniforms had been hiding something there.
The CIA man extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Lieutenant. My name is Landon Clark. Station Chief.”
As Station Chief, Clark would be the head spook here. Both Sterba and I regarded him carefully. I put him near sixty, with thinning hair more gray than brown. His suit was well cut, but also well worn. He exuded a level of comfort, or, more accurately, confidence without arrogance.
“Nice to meet you as well. Expected your title to be Agricultural Attaché or something silly like that,” I said with a smile.
He chuckled. “Only on occasion. I’m too old for those games any longer.”
I gestured to Sterba, “Chief Joe Sterba.”
He reached to shake Sterba’s hand, his face turning from a amused to serious instantly. “Chief, please know that I am very sorry to hear about the men you lost on the mission in Afghanistan.”
His sincerity was genuine. You could tell he had lost men in the field before, and understood the burden Sterba carried.
“Thank you, sir. They were good men,” Sterba replied.
“So let’s talk about getting the asshole that killed them,” said Clark.
And with that, the concerns Sterba and I had that we’d get the bureaucratic runaround washed away.
“Let’s do that,” I said, and we all took a seat.
C lark took it upon himself to bring us up to speed.
“Caleb Slater joined the agency about 25 years ago. He worked the Eastern Bloc, and then spent some time handling Central America before moving to the Middle East.”
“Lot of stations,” Sterba observed.
“He’s from the old guard, like me. We went where we were needed,” Clark said.
He folded his hands together and continued. “A lot of the kids the Agency hires now call us dinosaurs. Makes us laugh to a certain degree. But we know that while our actions may have strayed outside the lines somewhat, we always did what was right for the country.
“I say this to make the point that while Slater was older, we don’t consider him one of the dinosaurs. My sense on the guy was that he was always a bit slippery. Like a snake.”
“You worked together?” Sterba asked.
“Not directly, no. But we came across each other here and there. Always gave me the feeling he was up to something.”
“As our present situation has shown,” I said. “What have you both come up with?”
Chen picked up the baton.
“The hit we picked up here was accessing a cloud storage site,” she began.
“Once Slater was identified as the shooter in Afghanistan, his aliases were flagged. This usually means passports and credit cards in cover names. Nothing popped up.
“But over the past year, the Agency has been going back over aliases to add online identities associated with the cover names. Our best guess is
“You’re always welcome here, darling,” she said with a smile.
I honestly thought that big SEAL was going to cry. Aunty Kaye always could make even the toughest men turn to butter.
Part III
Bangkok
22
T he long halls of the US Embassy in Bangkok were busy, with clusters of State Department workers moving from, room to room, meeting to meeting. The black and white marble floor magnified the din of conversations being held in English, with a smattering of Thai.
“Here you are, gentlemen,” said our escort from the Military Attaché’s office as she opened the tall door to a conference room.
Sterba and I nodded our thanks and entered.
Seated at the table were Lt. Commander Haley Chen and a man I assumed to be our CIA contact in the hunt for Slater. They rose and came around the table to greet us.
“Commander Chen,” I said, shaking her hand. While she was one step senior in rank, we did not salute, as we were both in civilian clothes.
“Hello, Lieutenant,” she said, and then turned to Sterba. “Chief.”
She wore slacks with a blouse and jacket. And while the jacket was loose, I could see why Joe mentioned that Naval uniforms had been hiding something there.
The CIA man extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Lieutenant. My name is Landon Clark. Station Chief.”
As Station Chief, Clark would be the head spook here. Both Sterba and I regarded him carefully. I put him near sixty, with thinning hair more gray than brown. His suit was well cut, but also well worn. He exuded a level of comfort, or, more accurately, confidence without arrogance.
“Nice to meet you as well. Expected your title to be Agricultural Attaché or something silly like that,” I said with a smile.
He chuckled. “Only on occasion. I’m too old for those games any longer.”
I gestured to Sterba, “Chief Joe Sterba.”
He reached to shake Sterba’s hand, his face turning from a amused to serious instantly. “Chief, please know that I am very sorry to hear about the men you lost on the mission in Afghanistan.”
His sincerity was genuine. You could tell he had lost men in the field before, and understood the burden Sterba carried.
“Thank you, sir. They were good men,” Sterba replied.
“So let’s talk about getting the asshole that killed them,” said Clark.
And with that, the concerns Sterba and I had that we’d get the bureaucratic runaround washed away.
“Let’s do that,” I said, and we all took a seat.
C lark took it upon himself to bring us up to speed.
“Caleb Slater joined the agency about 25 years ago. He worked the Eastern Bloc, and then spent some time handling Central America before moving to the Middle East.”
“Lot of stations,” Sterba observed.
“He’s from the old guard, like me. We went where we were needed,” Clark said.
He folded his hands together and continued. “A lot of the kids the Agency hires now call us dinosaurs. Makes us laugh to a certain degree. But we know that while our actions may have strayed outside the lines somewhat, we always did what was right for the country.
“I say this to make the point that while Slater was older, we don’t consider him one of the dinosaurs. My sense on the guy was that he was always a bit slippery. Like a snake.”
“You worked together?” Sterba asked.
“Not directly, no. But we came across each other here and there. Always gave me the feeling he was up to something.”
“As our present situation has shown,” I said. “What have you both come up with?”
Chen picked up the baton.
“The hit we picked up here was accessing a cloud storage site,” she began.
“Once Slater was identified as the shooter in Afghanistan, his aliases were flagged. This usually means passports and credit cards in cover names. Nothing popped up.
“But over the past year, the Agency has been going back over aliases to add online identities associated with the cover names. Our best guess is
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