The Gargoyle Trilogy

Chapter 2

CIA Headquarters

CIA HeadquartersLangley, Virginia

Langley, VirginiaTwo Days Later

Two Days LaterCIA Deputy Director of Intelligence, Ronald Bailey, strode through the seventh floor hallway towards his office. Seating his tall, athletic frame behind his desk, which held the day’s newspaper and a file folder next to a picture of his family.

“Jags still finding ways to lose,” the Jacksonville native said to himself as he scanned the sports headlines. He’d played corner back for Austin Peay, and he followed the ups-and-downs, mostly downs, of the Jaguars since the team’s founding.

He opened the file and perused the dossier on an operative that, he hoped, was best-suited for the escalating Mali situation, James Robert Morgan.

The file told story of an officer with extensive background in maritime intelligence, naval operations, and both Navy and Agency special operations. An injury suffered while on mission with the Maritime Branch led to his transfer to the Analysis Branch.

“Hmph, allegedly transferred to the Analysis Branch…” Director Bailey said aloud.

Bailey skimmed the rest of the file. It told him that Morgan, on paper, was the man to handle the current crisis, quirky (Morgan’s psychological profile said he was very introverted almost to the point of misanthropy), but very effective. He’d have to see if reality matched the history. The file contained Morgan’s official CIA photograph, taken after his injury that led to his transfer. It showed a young man with a close-cropped head of brown hair with a hazel colored right eye, a patch over his left eye, and a Van Dyke beard. The right side of his mouth curled into what could only be described as a smirk. It reminded him of the 1970s era comic-book hero, the Green Arrow. The eyepatch also gave him a somewhat piratical look.

The Deputy Director picked up the phone and dialed his secretary.

“Coleen, where is Commander Morgan?”

“Virginia Beach, sir. He’s on his two-week active duty period at the Navy and Marine Corps Intelligence Training Center.”

“Please get me NMITC’s commanding officer on the line.”

“Yes, sir.”

We need Commander Morgan back up here as soon as possible.

We need Commander Morgan back up here as soon as possible.

Morgan sat at his table at his favorite restaurant in Norfolk, Streats. He could have gone to one of the many places on the Virginia Beach oceanfront much closer to where he was staying out at Dam Neck. However, they all had the same problem, too many people. He preferred the smaller, relatively quieter places in Norfolk’s Ghent neighborhood, with Streats being his favorite. After all, they had the James Bond martini on the drink menu. Add in a raisin-free bread pudding du jour, and the results were spectacular.

Streat’s owner, Mr. Neil Boden, handed Morgan the check.

“How was everything this evening?” he asked.

“Great as always, Neil.” Morgan replied as he handed Neil his government issued travel credit card.

As Neil turned away to finish the transaction, Morgan’s phone rang. Looking at the caller ID, he knew he had to answer and not let it go to voice mail, as was his preference.

“Morgan,” he answered.

“Bob! It’s Clint Peters.” the voice on the other end replied. Clint was Morgan’s boss in his new home at the Agency’s Analysis Branch. “How’s the vacation?”

“Wonderful. Anytime I can spend outside the cubicle farm at Langley is great. However, I would not call my annual two-week active duty period a vacation, exactly. Putting in some serious work at NMITC.”

“What are they having you do?”

“I’m revamping their curriculum for the basic intelligence course. It is way out of date, especially concerning what the Agency can bring to the table.”

“Outstanding. We could use all the good word we can get. However, I need to cut your trip short. Deputy Director Bailey wants to see you back up here as soon as possible.”

“I still have a week to go…”

“I know, but the Director has contacted the C.O. there, and you’re cleared to finish up with full credit given for your annual training.”

“I’ll be back tonight.”

“I’ll let the General’s office know to expect you first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Any idea what’s going on?”

“Not a clue.”

Morgan ended the call as Neil handed the check and card back to him.

“You look rather annoyed, sir. Everything alright?” Neil said with a look of concern as Morgan passed him back the signed check with his customary high ‘glad I don’t have to deal with the people you do’ tip.

“Unexpected work-related news. Have to get going a little sooner than I planned.”

Morgan climbed into his 2013 Corvette Grand Sport parked across Twenty First Street from the restaurant and headed back to the beach. The car’s Cyber Gray Metallic paint and red heritage stripes on the front fenders shining brightly in the early evening light.